It’s a good crack with the usual loads of jokes about how fitba guys are the salt of the earth and women are only good for cleaning, cooking and shagging. I’m enjoying the fact that Stronach is ill-at-ease because Dolacre’s upstaging him, though Lennox fucks up by saying something sycophantic to our testimonial sportsman. When was the last time Lennox was in Gorgie in a non-working capacity?
The meal is pretty good. I start off with the prawn cocktail, then go for steak, chips, mushrooms and onion rings, followed by Black Forest Gateau. Stronach and Dolacre have some pasta dish while Lennox has Chicken Kiev. There are quite a few hingers-oan at this table, loads of minor football celebs trying to catch Dolacre’s attention as he’s still a pretty big name. Stronach, now bolstered by Lennox’s arse-licking, has stopped trying to compete with Dolacre and is basking in the reflected glory.
I have to give it to that English cunt Dolacre, he’s got us daft Jocks well sussed out. – These arseholes’ll always bring between five and ten thousand down, which at our prices could mean an extra quarter of a million quid in the kitty. All I have to do is play up this old Irish granny routine. Suppose I’d better dig one up from somewhere, he winks at his agent, before elaborating. – See, a couple of the lads, English boys, used to play for the Republic. They’ve been teaching me all those daft Mick songs.
Someone produces an Evening Times. It contains an interview with Rodney: I grew up in a large Irish family in North London and all the folks back home in the old country were mad keen Celts. I would have dearly loved to have been able to pull the hooped jersey over my head.
– I said striped jersey at first, he laughs. – I couldn’t remember that they played in hoops! Thank God the journalist was sympathetic! Bleedin Nora, he snorts, – I mean, one Jock team’s much the same as any other to me. All shit, ain’t they? Still, I’ll take their giros! Another ten thousand on the gate: can’t be sneezed at, can it?
I saw Stronach go red at that point.
Dolacre gives a witty speech, as does a Scottish First Division manager, but the rest are just fucking windbags who like to hear the sound of their own voices. Dolacre leaves early, before the auction takes place. The strip he wore in the England B international versus the Czech Republic a couple of years ago in his last representative game is auctioned and fetches a hundred and fifty quid for Tom’s testimonial fund. It was bought by Alan Beach, the plumber’s merchant, who’s on the testimonial committee.
At the end of the night Lennox departs and I decide I’m too fucked up to drive the Volvo so I share Stronach’s taxi home. – That Rodney Dolacre is a laugh, eh, I smile, – It was great hearing his fitba tales.
– Arrogant English cunt, Stronach spits.
I go into my home and Shirley calls. I let the machine get it. – Broosss . . . I need to talk to you Brooooss, her distressed mechanised tone whines. – It’s very important . . . phone me Broossss . . . please . . .
I put on a Private video, one of Hector’s, which features some good arse-fucking shots. It never fails to amaze me, the purchase those male actors get on the old arse-fucking. Poles must be well-greased. Mind you, these birds but, their arseholes must be stretched like a mother-of-ten’s fanny.
Shirley. Don’t mistake me for somebody who cares my love.
I go to do a shite. I’ve taken some of Rossi’s laxatives but I can’t see any of the worm. It’s no good just getting its body out anyway, you need to get the whole head, otherwise it just keeps growing. I try to turn in, but I feel uneasy and sleep with the light on. These cunts with their OT cutbacks’ll kill me.
the fucking head of those things and I can’t get the bastard out.
I decide that there’s going to be no work done today, so I fill out an OTA 1–7 for the overtime, and sit back watching videos until I drowse. When I wake up, I note that it’s the evening. This is when I come to life. That was a great kip. It’s got me going.
I’ve snorted my last half G and I’m on the mooch for mair posh. I call cold round at Ray Lennox’s gaff. Always the best way tae call anyone. The polis way. One heavy-knuckled rap on the door and I hear that characteristic sound of the occupants scuttling like disturbed rats, their pathetic lives swamped in criminality. Lennox is daein something eh shouldnae be. Then the door opens. He has a bird round, she’s just on her way out.
– Eh, Bruce, Lennox says, – this is Trudi.
– Pleased to meet you my darling, I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss it, an extravagant gesture. Worth forty wanks as well. Mmm hmm. – Pleased to meet you Trudi. Ray’s not mentioned you to me. That’s remiss of him, I smile. I turn to Lennox, who now looks a bit off-white, – I can see why you’d like to keep a treasure like her well away from an old prospector like Bruce Robertson!
She smiles and departs, Ray instantly recovering his cool.
– Tidy piece Mister Lennox, I say approvingly.
– A lovely girl, Lennox replies in fake pomposity. He’s already gone to his stash and started cutting oot the lines. I’ll say one thing for Ray Lennox, he doesnae let the grass grow under his feet as far as the posh goes. Fuck work today, even the backshift.
I snort back one of the lines, – I believe in law and I believe in order. This is a treat, a perk for enforcing . . . Jesus fuck . . . good shit . . . where was I, aye, a perk for enforcing law and order. I mean, we know that there are shite laws, so there’s no point in obeying them ourselves, even if it’s our job to enforce them for others. The problem is, most people are weak, so if you don’t have laws, even shite ones, then you certainly don’t have any order matey. Same rules.
– Agreed, Ray points at me, then bends down to the mirror to fill his hooter full of gear, – Phoah . . . Aye, sometimes I think that the best solution to the whole fuckin mess would be if we could just go around and shoot any cunt we felt like at any time. Most of the time, simply through experience and professionalism, you’d get it right. Then wide bastards wouldnae go around with such an attitude. Imagine, all the fuckin scumbags with big, apologetic stares on their faces . . .
– Niggers doon in London and Abos over in Sydney aw smiling and going ‘Yez baz’ like they did in the fuckin fields . . .
– . . . Birds comin up n giein ye a blow-job in the street for the privilege ay no gittin thir fuckin heids blown oaf . . .
– . . . but maist of all, just fucking well shooting spastics stone dead, I smile, forming a gun out of my hand, putting it to my head and making a loud exploding noise as I violently jerk the hand and head away from each other.
– Good coke, eh Bruce?
– Too good for spastics Ray. Too good for spastics. I kid you not, my sweet, sweet friend.
Ray Lennox. A sound guy and a fuckin good polisman. I don’t care what anybody says.
After another blitz on the posh we hit a few bars, then it’s back to his with a cairry-oot and mair posh. The cunt makes me listen to his shite records aw night. Starts trying tae tell me that The Verve or whatever they’re called are better than U2 and Simply Red! Get a life Lennox! It gets too much and I leave and head downtown. Fucked if I’m paying for a taxi. I think I might have missed the last corpie bus. It’ll have to be a night bus. It’s fucking freezing out there. I head into St Andrew’s Square station to see if there’s a bus for any of the outlying scum towns that can drop me off in Colinton.
My luck might be in as there’s still one or two people hanging around. I see a jakey out of the corner of my eye. He scrapes along the wall, coming to rest against a bus shelter. The jakey seems to have a kind of fear in his eyes, as if it’s just dawned on him that whatever he’s drank it’s just not been quite enough to blank out the hideous reality of his miserable life.