— Steady on, ya hoor, ah sais, a bit embarrassed by the emotion oan display in the Little Chef. That’s the problem wi we bonnie laddies: cannae trust oorselves around sports. Ah think it wis the great bard Rabbie Burns that once said: ‘Cocaine n fitba mak homosexuals ay us aw.’ Or mibbe it wis this coonty’s ain Ackey Shaw.
Whin we rolls intae the ancient toon ay Perth, the sickenin wealth oan display makes ehs want tae git a squad roond fae Cowden wi a few vans, tae start instigatin oor ain form ay socialist redistribution ay loot. Fuck thon pie-in-the-sky promises the frocked n collared defenders ay the status quo advance (auld Jakey Anstruther excepted): lit’s hae it here and noo. But ah huv tae admit thit ah wis partial tae yon Salutation Hotel; mahogany wid everywhaire, as auld skill as a Kelty hoor that utters thon reassuring words ‘whin ye talk size in oor game, it’s eywis wad rather thin willy’. N ye’d hae tae huv a harder hert thin mine no tae appreciate thon portraits oan the waw ay several recent VIP visitors; Sir Bob Geldof, MPs Boris Johnson and Tommy Sheridan, Clarissa Dickson or whatever ye call thon fat yin that cooks, the yin that didnae die, n Frank Bruno. Nae Jason King yit, bit that yin’s impendin, ya hoor; aye, impendin.
N whin wi gits tae the Moncrieffe Suite, where aw the tables ur set up fir this round ay the contest, thir’s a buzz ay expectancy in the air. Pure sporting theatre! Ah’m stridin around, sizin up ma fellow gladiators whin ma hert twangs as ah sees the disgruntled collaborator Mossman, well in the Clark camp, rootin fir yon Perth cunt, ya hoor. Fuckin Dunfermline: the capital ay Vichy Fife. As ah head tae the toilet ah’m even treated tae Mossy’s wee stage-whisper tae Clarky, intended fir ma ain delicate lugs: — Ah hope ye annihilate that dirty wee jockey.
Ah turn tae Kravy in the bogs as wir sprayin the porcilin wi urine. — Did ye hear that Mossman cunt callin ays a ‘dirty wee jockey’? At least some ay us tried tae make wur mark in the world ay sport!
Kravy shakes it oot n zips up. — Ah thoat eh said ‘dirty wee jakey’, Jase.
— That’s awright then, ah goes, thinking again ay wee Jack ‘Jakey’ Anstruther, n hopin, in spite ay muh Marxist-Leninist leanins, that if thir is a god, then the hoor’s a Fifer rather thin a Perth cunt.
Bit fuck divine assistance: that Mossman’s ungracious behaviour wis aw the motivation ah needed. Ye could breeng in wi the likes ay him but Clark wis a different matter: the laddie hud some talent. Ma tactics wir tae play the passin game, retain possession, jist keep the Clark fellay away fae the table soas eh couldnae establish any momentum, thus frustratin the hoor. Ah kent the boy hud cavalier tendencies and thit eh goat a bit nippy if eh went too long without gittin a flick.
So ah did jist that; keepin the baw, no in situations ay threat at first, but slowly weavin muh men intae place, n waitin till ah wis in a good position afore any goal attempt. Muh first yin came whin ah deflected a shot oaf his defender (meant, by the way) tae take the lead. The second wis a long-range strike fae the midfield whaire the baw wis jist oan the shootin line n the player trundled intae the net eftir it. Ya beauty! The Clark felly showed ehs displeasure in thon second concede, knockin ehs goalposts n net aboot, forcin the ref tae huv a wee word.
Ah kept hud ay the baw n ran the clock doon, and it steyed at two-nil.
The cunt nivir even accepted my gracious offer ay a pint ay black gold at the bar eftir. The drink eftir the contest is the symbolic cup ay friendship; even Sir Alex and thon wee fuckin dago cunt’ll share a bottle ay rid wine eftir a game, win, lose or draw. Nae time fir thon unsportin behaviour.
16.
GYPSY BOYS
I’M PLAYING MARILYN Manson in my room, thinking about how I can get out of ‘supporting’ Lara in this Hawick competition. I’m zoning out to ‘Better of Two Evils’ and I hear a strange whistling then a clearing of a throat, noting that my father has materialised before me. He didn’t knock; he just opened the door and came inside. Now he’s standing at the bottom of my bed. — Can ah have a wee word?
Try stopping him. — Whatever, I shrug.
He turns down the sound on the stereo and lowers his bulk into my big wicker-basket chair. It creaks under him. In the last week or so, he’s talked to me more than he’s done in years. Evidently, he now considers me worth saving. Of course, it’s what he considers me worth saving for that’s the big worry. However, I cross my legs and make a passable stab at being all ears.
— Ah’m hard on you, he concedes, then adds with a surprising degree of conviction, — but it’s only cause ah dinnae want tae see ye waste yir life.
— It’s my life, is all I can think to say in retort.
— Dinnae gie me that, he says gravely, as if he expects more understanding. — I’m hard on you, only because ah ken you’ve got what it takes.
In spite of myself I feel the nauseating elation of his flattery rising up through my frustration. At least in his own inept way he’s trying. — I’m not a showjumper, Dad, I tell him, the words almost choking in my throat. — You can get me the best horse in the world and I’ll never be as good as the likes of Lara.
— Aye ye will, my father retorts with a calm, empathic certainty that annoys me. — Ah’ve been watchin you lately, the way you’ve slimmed doon. The weight’s been fawing off ye!
— I don’t want to talk about it—
— Your mother goes on about anorexia and all that pish. That’s jealousy talking, that’s aw that is. She couldnae pass the confectionary coonter in that newsagent, and ah’ve seen her, at thon supermarket checkoot, he says in a derisory manner, — crammin they chocolates intae her puss, never able tae git enough, like some demented junkie. It’s sickening. That’s somebody that’s no right in the heid, that!
It’s his wife he’s talking about. But he’s right. He is so fucking right. — Dad—
— Ah ken that you’re different, Jenni. Ah know that ye go tae that leisure centre regularly and work oot.
A spark of pique ignites in me. — Is nothing fucking private in this fucking place?
— Hey! Mind the language! He pouts, then says in placating tones, — I’m no criticisin ye. It isnae meant tae be a criticism. Ah think it’s great. N it shows you’ve got discipline and pride. Cause you’ve got me in ye, his weather-beaten, leathery face crinkles. — You’re a Cahill, he boasts proudly. — Yir always welcome tae use my gym, you ken that though, eh?
My stomach is churning. Observing my dad trying to be nice is much more disturbing than watching him being obnoxious. He just isn’t cut out for it.
— You’ve got to think of your future, Jen. If you don’t think you’re gaunnae do it in showjumping, then you could do worse than learn the ropes ay the haulage business.
What a truly fucking sickening thought. — I doubt that it would be my thing, I quickly respond.
He laughs derisively and lights a cigarette, ignoring the No Smoking signs I’ve put around the room. The big pub ashtray is under the bed, where it’ll stay. I’ll not have him smoking filthy minging tobacco in my room. — Too common for ye, is it? Aw they nasty trucks n sweaty drivers? Dinnae forget that it was that business that put food on your plate and fed that useless four-legged parasite in that stable doonstairs. Aw they trips abroad, aw they tourneys, aw that equipment, aw this land. Ah dinnae see ye turning yir beak up at that! Ah blame masel fir spoilin—
He stops mid rant, seeming to see what he’s doing. — Thanks, I say.
— For what?
— For reverting to type. You actually were starting to sound like a decent human being for a second or two there.