POOKOW go the nail guns, attached tae long tubes oan a circuit that blows continuous compressed air, smashing the six-inch nails intae the wid like bullets.
POOKOW.
POOKOW.
Monday morning; cunting, evil, degrading, spunk-guzzling Monday morning. Aroond thirty staff oan duty and ah cannae talk tae one single fucker. Not one. Gillsland is the one cunt tae dae well oot ay the recession, moving oot ay high-end shopfitting wi six men, tae low-end house-panel construction and thirty employees. The labour costs are aboot the same, mind you, the tight cunt.
Bank accounts don’t grow on trees, you gotta picka pocket or two …
POOKOW.
POOKOW.
But ah didnae care how monotonous n de-skilled the job wis, ah just wanted tae keep my heid doon, hide in some solid graft, build a few panels, sweat oaf the toxins fae the weekend’s drink and speed, and work through this mashed vertebrae and mean depression till brek time.
Then at the silent brek, three cups ay black coffee go doon. Ah see Les looking at us. Ye ken what’s coming next. — Right, lads …
Ah could’ve done withoot performing in the bogs and ah hudnae really expected victory. It was Les’s ritual though, n tae be fair tae the cunt, it certainly kick-started the week.
The six ay us assemble: Me, Davie Mitch, Sean Harrigan, Barry McKechnie, Russ Wood and Seb (that’s Johnny Jackson’s nickname — he once went oot wi this ride called Sonia, so we call him Sonia’s Ex Boyfriend, that being the cunt’s only claim tae fame). We go tae the lavvy, hittin an aluminium cubicle each. Les issues each ay us the last week’s Daily Records, Monday tae Friday, and one Sunday Mail fae yesterday, which he eywis brings in tae make up the numbers. This is where Les is in his element. A frustrated comedian, he compères at the Tartan Club and the Dockers’ Club. It’s an obvious tears-ay-a-clown job; his wife left him years ago n his daughter, whae he nivir sees, lives in England. Life has its disappointments, but Les grabs his crapulent fun where he can. He’s also a man tortured by piles tae the extent that he creams his erse before he goes oot drinking.
We each spread oor papers oantay the flair in front ay the toilet pans; ye can hear the rustling fae the other traps. Then ah lower ma keks n boxers, squattin ower the papers.
Stey relaxed …
The key is tae make sure that the shite comes out in a oner, wi nae breaks. That means you have tae get close tae the flair and be deft enough tae move forward so that it disnae coil in a pile but straightens oot in a line oan the newspaper.
Smooth action …
Ah’m daein nicely here, ye can feel it comin oot at an even pace, in a solid flow, and ah feel it touch the flair so ah start tae slide forward in a slow, steady movement while maintaining the excretion … the fuckin back … giein us gyp … keep gaun …
Ya beauty …
Splat … ah hears it fawin oantae the paper like a darted ape oot ay a tree. Then ah arch myself back oantae the pan, grateful tae take the pressure off the lower back, and shite oot the dregs before wiping ma erse. This is the trickiest part ay the shitein operation, disposin ay the afterbirth, as Les calls it. As ye generally eat before ye peeve, the afterbirth is usually mair sloppy and drink n drugs toxic n burny than the broon bairn, but it’s mission accomplished, n ah clean masel off, n admire ma work. The log sits steamin oan the flair in front ay us, a thing ay beauty; solid, broon, unbroken, wi that lovely smooth coat where it slid oot wi nae cling-on at aw. This baby hus tae be a contender. Real Scots shite ower the Record.
Ah exit and wash my hands, swallayin another two paracetamol. Sean Harrigan, a Weedgie exile dumped in Livvy, is already oot, a sure sign that he’s done the business. Barry McKechnie is next, followed by Mitch. Then Seb; ah cannae see his yin being unbroken. Finally Russ Wood shows, with an unhappy shake ay the heid.
So we slide the fruits ay oor labour out oantae the flair in a neat row while Les goes tae work wi his measuring tape. He commentates as he judges aw the shites: — Barry McKechnie: a poor effort, son. What sort ay a weekend did you huv? At hame in front ay the telly?
— Win some, lose some, Barry says wi a shrug. He’s a new boy, didnae work here back when ah wis full-time, but he seems sound enough.
— Seb: no bad, mate. That’s coiled a bit but, Les observes. Poor Seb’s destined tae be perennial bridesmaid; a bit too fat tae balance right n git the proper technique gaun. It requires a certain athleticism. — Davie Mitchelclass="underline" excellent.
— Aye, ah hud a curry oan Saturday and an all-day session eftir the Hibs game at Falkirk.
Livvy Sean slides his paper out. There’s a big, ugly, steaming, black-and-tan tortoise on that Record. — Sean Harrigan: a beauty! Les declares, — as tarbrushed as the Princess Royal’s first bastard. The yin ye never hear aboot.
— Ah wis oan the Guinness at Baird’s in the Gallowgate.
— Be mastered by nae Orange bastard, ma soapy chum, Les smiles. — Worked a treat for ye, Sean. Russ Wood … He looks at Russ’s skittery wee effort.
— … C’mon, Russ … that’s a poor show.
— It’s the wife wi this diet and veggie nonsense. Shite like a trooper. Ah hud tae go earlier, it was a cracker n aw.
— Aye, right, Sean says.
— Honest, Sean, Russ protests, — it’s this high-fibre diet. First thing every morning a drop a log the size ay big Morag in the canteen’s thighs.
— Ye need tae change the diet if you’re serious about playing wi the big boys, Russ, Les dismisses. — Right, Marky. He looks at me, then at ma offering which lies steamin oan top ay Aberdeen’s Gordon Strachan. — Excellent result, coming in at fourteen and a quarter inches n the undisputed winner. No a weak link in it, nice and compacted but sliding oot intae a nice straight line.
— That boyfriend ay yours packin the fudge nice n tight again, Rents? Sean laughs, jealousy in his mean, tight eyes.
Ah wink at him. — Ah’m ewyis the postman rather than the letter box, Sean, you should ken that mair than maist.
Sean’s aboot tae say something back, but Les beats him tae the punch. — Ye’d want a condom before ye’d go near a mingin Weedgie’s hole!
— Ya cunt, ah’d want a fuckin diver’s suit!
— Shoatie, Young Bobby hisses, his gangly frame bent roond the door, — Gillsland n Bannerman!
We pick up the papers, open the windaes and fling oor bombs oot oantae the flat roof as Barry heads back oot wi Bobby tae stall the gaffer. They didnae hud them back for too long, cause we’re just shuttin the windaes n makin fir the wash handbasins, when ye hear that nasal mewl. — What’s aw this then? Gillsland moans. — Thaire’s a joab needs daein! What yis hingin roond here like a bunch ay queers fir?
— We wir waitin oan you comin in n showin us how tae gie a proper gam, Ralphy. Les pushes out his cheek with his tongue, making a cock-sucking motion. — Blew the whole Jubilee Gang ootside the Granton chippy one night, eh, Ralph? Swallayed ivray time, they tell us. Went hame n licked the missus oot tae prove thit eh swung baith weys, then retched up aw ower her muff. Nine months later she hud a bairn that looked like every cunt in Granton, eh, Ralphy?