— You’re mad, you are, she goes, aw encouraging girly-giggles, the sort that fizz n bubble in yir guts like champagne. Then she clocks ma hand and asks, — What happened t’ yer finger?
— Industrial accident. Ah gie her a wink.
The gig ends in total euphoria as the DJ lays doon that old Wigan Casino signature climax track, Dean Parrish’s ‘I’m On My Way’. Then, sadly, we are. We stand ootside the club and it’s nippy, as we’re faffin aboot for too long as Tommy’s still worried about Second Prize, n tae be honest, ah kind ay am n aw. Nicksy and Roberta suggest a party back in Manchester, at somewhere called Eccles, and ah’m as keen as Colman’s finest, though trying tae play it cool. — What aboot Rab?
— He’ll have headed back tae the motor, Mr Mark, Keezbo says, — he’ll no get a drink at this time.
Ah realise it’s actually a still, mild summer night and it’s the Lou Reed that’s spreadin the chills. Ah catch Roberta’s teeth chattering n she gies me a cheeky smile, pushing her hair back. There’s nae sign ay Second Prize at the car. — He’ll have gone tae Manchester, ah say unconvincingly, — he’s still goat mates thaire fae the fitba.
— Too right, Mr Mark, says Keezbo, who’s been firing intae Angie, this big tall bird wi long, dark hair, and he doesnae want the night cut short. Aye, for a Fat Ginger Specky Cunt, Keezbo’s pretty outstanding at getting his hole. He makes lassies laugh, comin ower as a cheerful, cuddly teddy bear, whae’s nae real sexual threat. There’s probably been a few who’ve asked, durin a moment ay clarity, ‘What am I daein wi an obese sweaty cunt oan top ay us, his fat ginger knob pistoning away intae ma fanny?’
So we pile intae the motors; ah’m in Nicksy’s car, a messy rust-bucket full ay auld newspapers, takeaway cartons and empty beer cans, in the back wi Roberta and this other lassie, no Angie, n ah’m in nae big hurry tae get tae our destination as Nicksy’s goat a good Northern tape oan and the Tomangoes are giein it loads wi ‘I Really Love You’ and me n Roberta and this other lassie, whae ah think’s called Hannah, are singing along and gently shoodir-chargin each other in the back. A lassie wi collar-length, straight blonde hair sits in front wi Nicksy. When we get tae the Eccles gaff it’s stowed wi people fae the Blackpool gig. Ah’m suddenly overwhelmed by the realisation that it feels great tae be me; a young, smart, working-class boy fae these beautiful islands. How blessed could a human being possibly be?
Roberta and me sit oan this battered couch, and talk aboot travelling. Ah reckon that eftir Europe ah’m gaunny dae the States next summer, get on that BUNAC thing fir the visa, teach fitba tae American bairns, then just fuck off and tour aroond till the poppy runs oot. The others are in this kitchen and spillin oot intae the wee backgreen, dancin tae they Northern Soul records, aw proper waxins like the International GTO’s ‘I Love My Baby’, and we’ve sat doon, sharing this room wi these dirty-looking cunts, who’re smokin smack offay some tinfoil. Ah’m watchin them and one gadge, he’s goat lank hair n big dark circles under his eyes, looks at us wi a grim smile n cauld eyes. — Wawn summer dis? he slurs in a Scouse accent.
Mingin cunts daein that fuckin crap at a Northern perty …
— Naw … yir awright, ah say, waving the pipe and foil away. Roberta looks a bit cross and does the same. The minging gadge shrugs and giggles n passes it tae his mate who burns the underside ay the foil wi a lighter and sucks up a load ay smoke through the pipe intae his lungs, gaun aw stunned and heavy-eyed as it hits him.
Stupid cunt, turning intae a fuckin zombie oan that shite when thaire’s aw this fun tae be hud …
— I wanna get out of here, Roberta says. — Let’s go and find t’others.
Ah gets up wi her, and we head taewards the kitchen, tae see if Salford Chris has showed up. Ah’m making for the back gairden when Roberta intercepts us n says, — Ah were kinda thinking that we maht go back t’mine.
— Sound, ah go, in cool delight, tippin Keezbo the nod as the do-do-do-do-do-dos announce the start ay that Invitations classic ‘What’s Wrong With Me Baby?’. And ah’m thinkin, this Roberta better be some ride, pullin us away fae this, as ah shout ma buddy the rendezvous instructions, — The Swinging Sporran in toon, Sackville Street at the Arndale, the morn at twelve bells.
Keezbo’s wi this Angie bird, n he nods ower tae Tommy, whae’s talkin fitba battles wi some Man City lads. — Two — nil tae the Fort Ginger Rhythm Section, Mr Mark, and he smiles a grin as long and oily as the River Forth.
— Go on, the Section, ah gies him the thumbs up back, — toughest skiers aroond!
As we depart, the sun’s comin up ower west Manchester’s red-brick buildings, but we’re still speed-chilly as Roberta takes my airm. Ah decide tae stick it roond her shoodirs and she curls satisfyingly intae ma side. — It ruins yer lahf, she says, talkin about they heroin junky cunts, as we head back tae hers, — ya get addicted after joost woon go, lahk. Glad ya got more sense.
— Too right, ah tell her, all sniffy and virtuous, but now ah’m thinking, ah really have tae try that shit. In fact ah’m cursin ma cowardice n the shabby pretence it was some sort ay coolness or intelligence or experience.
Ah fuckin bottled it like a pansy, pot-smoking student wanker, and those boys saw that and fuckin well knew it. Is that what ah’m becoming? A smug, fucking insipid student cunt?
But ah can never huv a bad thought too long oan speed, n ah’m ootay my box ranting about the brilliance ay the Minds’ Sons and Fascination album, how it’s much better than New Gold Dream (no tae say NGD is a bad album) and aw ah can think aboot is removing Roberta’s clathes, and ma ain of course, n the world is a pretty fuckin okay place.
Monday Morning
My heid’s nippin eftir that weekend, n see this fuckin Fleetwood … At least yon Roberta lassie was a dark horse; ah’ve never been gammed like that before, n she didnae seem tae bother aboot the ginger pubes. We had a good laugh n aw. She goes: ‘I don’t normally sleep with somebody I’ve only just met, you know.’ ‘Neither do I,’ ah said, ‘naebody usually lets us.’ She looked angry for a second, then laughed and hit us with a pillay. Ah fucking love Manchester! We spent maist ay Sunday eftirnoon in the pub; first the Sporran, then oantae the Cyprus Tavern wi Roberta n her mate Celia, and Keezbo, Angie, Nicksy — Chris Armitage (whae finally showed), till Tommy swung by wi some Man City Kool Kats, and issued the Fort Ginger Rhythm Section an ultimatum: lift hame now or make yir ain wey back. So ah reluctantly left ma new and auld pals, lookin forward tae hooking up wi them again. As we’d staggered oot the boozer, pished n stoned, n went tae find the motor, we saw some sacked miners handin oot leaflets in Piccadilly. Ah couldnae look at them; ah steered every cunt ower the road oan some crap pretext.
Roberta and me exchanged numbers. Whether we never see each other again or end up star-crossed lovers is totally irrelevant. The key was that we had a barry time n neither ay us regretted a single minute.
But regrets are for Monday mornings and now ah’m back under the harsh strip lights ay the workshop, sweatin like a blind dyke in a fishmonger’s. Our insubordination oan Saturday, up at the cushy number in the pub, has been punished and we’ve been taken oaf that job n pit back tae the two-slice: the monotony ay factory work. So it’s knocking house panels thegither then nailing ties onto them, so they can throw up mair cheapo Barratt slums-tae-be oan the last toxic fields in between Edinburgh n Glesgay.