Filth

The Lie Of The Land

Tom Stronach, or Tommy Stronach, as they first called him when he broke through from the Hearts youth set-up in 1984, is my friend of sorts by virtue of his being my next-door neighbour. Tom Stronach: two Scotland caps, the first in 1988 due to several call-offs, which resulted in the largely unheralded through-ball for Coisty or some other west-coast fucker to score the winner in a three-goal thriller in Belgrade, against a fancied Yugoslavian side; well, fancied to beat Scotland at any rate. Then a spell in the wilderness followed by a further cap against Northern Ireland during his swan-song season of 1990-91. That was his last chance to do something, with Everton and Sunderland reputedly making offers which were turned down by the ‘ambitious’ board who, like Tom, spent another few trophyless years in limbo. The spastics ought to have taken the cash: it was to be Stronach’s last season as even a minor force in the game.

Alimony cases and paternity suits have taken their toll on his greengages and Tom’s had to make the socially humiliating climbdown from Colinton Village with wife number three, to this pokey Gumley’s job. He’s a thick cunt whose only attributes is being able to kick a ball badly and he has the nerve to think that he’s slumming it, living next door to a law enforcement professional.

I’d taken the morning off to watch the female gymnastics on telly. There was some pubescent ex-commie Tony Hatch worth forty wanks. I couldn’t really get into it though; when I woke up I wanted to hear something by the Michael Schenker Group but I couldn’t decide between Assault Attack and Rock Will Never Die. After making myself a large fry-up and lighting the fire, I decide to take neither option and go for Built To Destroy. I do a bit of air-guitar work and make a mental list of the women I’d like to reduce to a state of slavery and bondage, Drummond coming in at num-bihr one. I check the post and there’s fuck all from Chelmsford. You’re keeping me waiting Tony. I don’t like waiting. Loneliness and melancholy settle in after this and the breathless strains of the stoat-the-baw gymnastics commentator irritates and I decide to seek company next door. The newspapers are still lying around from the weekend. I can see that face in the newspaper. I rip out the page and crumple it up before tossing it into the fire. I quickly re-read the Sunday Mail’s postscript of Saturday’s nil– three débâcle at Rugby Park. A poor performance by the visitors and one which Tom Stronach, in particular, will want to forget. It was his loose pass-back which gifted Killie that decisive second goal, effectively ending the game as a contest.

I go next door and Tom’s in, still scanning the video action from the weekend’s matches. Not for nothing is he constantly referred to as ‘a keen student of the game’. Tabloidspeak for a lazy twat who sits on his arse watching fitba videos aw day.

Tom’s wearing his tracksuit. He looks worried. He always does, when he doesn’t look stupid, that is. – Awright Bruce, he says. I breeze in, past the spastic.

– Not bad Tom, I say, scanning the house for knock-off. There’s some dodgy cunts on her side of the family. I’d ride it mind you, some dirty wee scanties oan the washing line last summer. That’s the mark of a real hoor, leaving them on the line like an invitation. Decent fanny use a tumble drier for that sort of thing. I clock a nice lamp, on the teak cabinets Tom had got built recently. Blue and white china porcelain. – Nice lamp.

– Aye . . . Julie bought it. John Lewis’s.

Mmm. Seems plausible enough. – What’s the game? I point to the screen. Philips’ newest model, four speaker quadrophonic sound, thirty-inch screen. Not bad. Checked it out in Tandy the other day. The one next to Crawford’s in the centre.

– Belgian League fitba on Eurosport. Taped it likes. Mechelen versus Molenbeck. The Mechelen boy scores a cracker. Watch this!

Tom rewinds the video and this Belgian spastic hits a screaming twenty-five yarder home. They might be boring cunts but they can play fitba.

– Could have done wi some ay that style doon in Ayrshire on Saturday, eh Tom, I gloat, trying, as his face contorts defensively, to force some concern and empathy into my voice, – What went wrong?

Tom shrugs, – Dinnae ask me Bruce, he mumbles, shaking his head.

I consider it prudent to change the subject. – All geared up for the Testimonial?

– Aye! Tom’s face lights up enthusiastically, – It’s difficult wi the festive period coming up, but the boys on the committee have done a cracking job and it looks like Kenny Dalglish is going to come up and play for at least part of the game.

– Sound, I say, – that should add a couple of thousand oantae the gate. I’m looking for any additions to the CD rack, and sure as fuck Stronach’s got the new Phil Collins. I pick it up. – What’s it like?

– Brilliant, he says, – the best yit.

– What? I ask incredulously, – Better than Face Value or No Jacket Required? This spastic doesnae have a clue aboot music.

– Well, concedes Tom, – maybe no No Jacket Required, but it’s definitely at least as good as Face Value and way in front ay Hello I Must Be Going! and But Seriously and that last yin, what was that called?

– Both Sides, I say.

That’s his missus; baith sides . . . dodgy.

– But that widnae be hard, eh?

I suppose Stronach kens his music. I would n aw, if I hud nothing better tae dae than tae sit listening tae shite aw day.

– I see you were in the papers as well though Bruce, Tom grins, picking up the Mail and waving that horrible image at me.

I shudder. – Aye . . .

– Must have been awfay, Stronach shakes his head, – . . . here, watch this! he points at the screen, – comin up now, Bergkamp’s goal for Arsenal . . .

Dennis Bergkamp controls a Ray Parlour cross with a lovely first touch which serves to deceive the first defender, then he skips past the second one before picking his spot, with the on-rushing goalie stranded. One-nil to thee Ar-si-nil . . .

I have a couple of cans with Stronach to take the edge off my hangover, then I go back next door. I am itching and I need to inspect my genitals. This fucking rash is getting worse. Rossi could be right, it might be something to do with the fried food. I scratch and dig at my thighs and scrotum. I’m thinking that some hoor might have infected me. I might have an allergy to fried food, but it’s more likely to be cheese. But I never eat fuckin cheese. I eat all day, but I’m losing weight. Maybe I’ve got something. Aids of a hoor. Naw . . . it can’t be. I’m careful. Only queers and schemies get Aids. Worms, Rossi reckons.

Fuckin worms.

I’m too tired to go in today. Tuesday is a shite day and I’ve been doing too much OT anyway. Never dae on a Monday or Tuesday what ye can dae on a Saturday or Sunday at double time. That’s my philosophy. I take the duvet from the bed and put it over myself on the couch and drift off to sleep watching Stephen Hendry thrash somebody at the snooker. It’s as well at least one jambo can get his hands on some silverware, even if it’s only at a Mickey Mouse glorified pub game rather than a proper sport.

Bunty. I bell Ray Lennox but he’s out. I can’t face the Lodge again the night, but I decide to go out for a drink myself. Might get lucky with some stray fanny in the witching hour. On my way up into town I stop off at the library. I get a hold of a medical book and read about worms. It’s fuckin scary. They picked one that was forty fit long out of a boy’s arse. I reckon. I deserve a drink after reading that.

The pubs are dead as fuck. One Victoria Street bar is like a morgue. It was a popular shop, dead basic, so they spent a fortune modernising it. Then no cunt went, so they spent another wad restoring it, only they restored it to some grand design of what they thought a traditional pub looks like rather than what this one did look like. So still no cunt goes. I’m thinking about Amsterdam and I get a flash of inspiration and phone up Grand Master Frank Crozier at the Lodge and tell him to put the bite into that cunt Toal, explaining that I’m booked up to take my leave in Amsterdam. Frank and I have never really hit it off. He wants to see auld Willie McPhee continue to address the haggis at the Burns supper, and I feel that a change is needed. So there’s a wee bit of frost in his voice. One thing about Crozier though: he hates to see wide cunts like Toal who put little in think that they can use the craft when it suits them.

Not that a great deal of progress has been made. That little fanny-rat Ocky has vanished off the face of the Earth, and Lennox is of zero fucking assistance. He started bleating to me this morning aboot being stretched on this hippy stalk. A fuckin waste of time. Big operators flooding the city with smack and three-quarters of the cunts we bang up are daft schemies or students with a wee bit of hash or a few pills for their pals. Still, it serves its purpose and keeps the cunts in a constant state of terror and alienation and reminds them that this world was not made for them, it was made for us. They’ll have to do better next time, after the débâcle at the flats. But we’ll get the cunts.

What this means is that only that Estelle cow and her mate Sylvia are my means of getting anything on Gorman. I know he

I blast out Foreigner’s Agent Provocateur and anyone who hasn’t got this in their record collection is worthless scum, although Inside Information is actually a better album. It serves its purpose and it blows away some of the cobwebs. In particular the single ‘I Want To Know What Love Is’ is probably the greatest single ever, well, ballad like . . .

. . . you know I need a little time . . .

. . . a little time to think things ov-uh . . .

I head back to the office, or more specifically, to the cannie. Total’s there, and he looks in a good mood. He has the air of the washhoose bully who’s heard a satisfying piece of malicious gossip, but when he sees me he suddenly goes all serious, coming over and giving me a squeeze on the shoulder. I’m hoping that nobody noticed this gesture and I quickly glance around and to my dismay see Gillman’s face set in a pitiless mask of loathing.

– Bad luck on Saturday, Toal says in commiseration.

I didn’t know that Toal followed the fitba and I’m just about to criticise Stronach’s performance, when I realise that he’s talking about the guy I tried to save.

How does it make you feel?

– Thanks Bob, I nod. I think it might be a good time to arrange to see him, so I set up a wee meet in his office after lunch. His easy compliance sets up an expectation that I’ll get a result out of him regarding my holiday leave. Otherwise, going to the cannie was a mistake. The curry looked good, but turned out to be bland and tasteless. I ate it anyway, but then bought a sausage roll which I smothered in broon sauce and pepper.

Amanda Drummond and Karen Fulton spy me and come across with their salad on their trays. Fuckin salad at this time of year. I can see Fulton wanting to lose a few pounds, but Drummond for fuck sakes. That yin would have to move around in the shower tae get wet. Probably does a good gam though, that’s what they say aboot skinny birds. – It must’ve been terrible Bruce, Drummond shakes her head. She looks earnestly at me and asks, – Are you okay?

I nod, and split the sausage roll with a fork. Fulton gives a tentative, sympathetic smile.

– If you need to talk about it, Drummond lisps.

Aye, right. Tae you? That will be shining bright hen. Dinnae even insult me by pretending you gie a Luke and Matt.

– Not a very pleasant experience, it has to be said, I state in clinical tones, – but the show must go on. I have to see our good friend Mister Robert Toal. If you fine ladies will excuse me, I nod, rising and leaving.

I must try to save people more often. It seems to be not a bad device for attracting the fanny.

But it is time to go up to see Toal. He looks furtive as I enter his office unannounced and quickly does a bit of jiggery-pokery on his computer. The cunt’ll have his fuckin screenplay on there, and will have just switched it over on to some organisational chart or something. Chancing fucker. – Bruce, Bruce . . . how goes the case? he asks, regaining his composure.

– Bob, I think it’s basically cut and dried. Gorman and Setterington were in the area. I know that they were in that club that night. I’ve seen Gorman acting very friendly with Estelle Davidson. Gus is on surveillance. It’s really just a matter of hanging fire and hauling them in.

– Aye . . . the political nonsense has died a bit of a death now. The papers are bored and the top brass are a bit less jumpy. It’s as well we didnae panic. A wog’s a fuckin wog, eh, he snorts, shaking his head.

– Yeah, I say non-committally. This could be a test to draw me. I’m not getting into this with him. – Bob, I’ll come to the point mate. I need a break. I know you wanted leave suspended but I’m going to crack up if I don’t get away. The last thing I want to do is to go the way of Busby . . . and that thing at the weekend was the last straw, I almost plead. I hate that light blue paint on the walls in Toal’s room. Always makes the place look cold. There’s the smell as well, that terrible reek of stale tobacco which seems to have impregnated itself into Toal’s skin cells. I mean, I like a fag, but that cunt . . .

– Okay Bruce, okay. I can sanction special leave. I’m prepared to do that in your case only. Considering the unique circumstances, Toal looks searchingly at me, as if he expects some kind of reaction. Of course, he gets none. – Just make sure that everyone on the team is briefed to clean up this case in your absence, he continues, now quite snooty and authoritative as if I don’t know what’s changed the fucker’s mind. Eureka. That wee talk with Grand Master Frank Crozier has paid dividends. He must’ve put Toal in the picture. The bigger picture.

– Thanks Bob. Appreciated.

Toal kens the lie of the land alright. And Niddrie had better come through with that promotion. It’s my job. Yo ho ya cunt that ye are: a holiday followed by a promotion. Most importantly, that daft cow Carole should get her act together and get hooked up to the Starship Bruce Robertson, because that vessel is going places. And there might be very few berths available on that particular craft soon, especially seeing as the wey the fanny’s stacking up, I kid you not!

I bell Bladesey to tell him we’re on, then drive to the Lothian Road travel agent’s which specialise in late bookings to get sorted for the Dam, singing along to Curtis Stigers’ self-named debut album which yielded the classic singles ‘I Wonder Why’ and ‘You’re All That Matters To Me’. A tidy bird with a crop of long black ringlets for hair does the business for me, the only cloud on the horizon being that the direct flights are full and we’ll therefore need to change at Brussels. The lassie tells me that she’s never been to Amsterdam before.

– Maybe I’ll take you sometime, I smile, rubbing my five o’clock shadow.

She gives me a strained, cheerless grin back. By the time I’ve got it all booked and confirmed it’s been snowing again. My brogues scrunch the styrofoam beads of snow as I get back into the car and head for the East End. I park in Gayfield Square, near the local nick, then I buy a chicken supper from the Deep Sea which I ferociously gorge in the doorway of Bandparts. After that I hit Mathers for a pint. When I get into my third I decide that there is no way I’m going back to that shitehouse today.

I give Bladesey another bell at his office and confirm that I’ve booked up. I think about calling Bunty from somewhere but I don’t want the daft hoor giein Bladesey it tight because I want that wee cunt out on the pish the night to celebrate our trip to the Dam. He’s reluctant, but I tell him, if he gets his hole from somebody else (some chance) it’ll make him feel better about himself and he might be more attractive to Bunty. If this had any chance of happening and working, no way would I have told him. Actually. I’m starting tae sound like the cunt now. Actually.

So I meet Bladesey in the Guildford and we fling back a few pints followed by a trip to the Indian in Hangover Street. Bladesey has chicken korma, which is par for the course for a wee pansy like him, while I rip through that beef vindaloo like there’s nae tomorrow.

We head up to the Ritz Ballroom, tonight being the night for the divorced and separated, i.e.: slags that are desperate for it. And there they are on the flair strutting together round their handbags as Billy Joel’s ‘Uptown Girl’s belting out: all stretch marks and crow’s-feet and ragged necks and flab, but fuck it, mutton or lamb, it’s aw fuckin meat tae Bruce Robertson, rag week or no, the bloodier the better!

So we take some seats, Bladesey and I, next to these two boilers and they are up for it when we offer to buy them drinks. The dark short one has a nasty look, the look of a cow who’s bitter about men; a pseudo lesbian. Probably been with some fucking criminal type who knocked the dopey slut around and it was her own fault because she had neither the brains nor personality to find somebody better. Slags like that can’t accept home truths so they often turn dykey. This red-heided hoor though, she looks a game bitch.

– So what’s your name then?

– Michelle, she says.

– Where do you hail from Michelle?

– Kirkcaldy.

– So it’s Michelle the Fifer? I ask. The silly cow giggles, burps then puts her hand to her mouth. Fuckin sow’s three sheets. Her mate still has a sour puss on her. Don’t fancy Bladesey’s much. – So you’re Michelle Fifer? What about your pal? Is she Demi Moore?

– Naw, this hoor says, as the red-head still giggles. The women who come here are so close to hoordom, it’s a mere point of detail. Demi Moore. Semi Hoor. I like that, Semi Hoor.

– Well you’re like a semi hoor, I tell her.

– What? she says, struggling to hear over the nigger music that’s replaced Joel.

– You’re like Demi Moore, I shout.

My flattery fails to cut through her lesbian bitterness. Bladesey’s trying to chat to her, but he’s just making a cunt of himself with his actually this and actually that. I decide to steam the red-heid. – How would you like to go out some time, for a meal maybe?

– Sorry, no, she shakes her head.

– C’mon, we could have a good time, I tell her. – What’s your number?

– Look, we’re just out for a quiet drink, okay?

– Aw aye, I say, looking disdainfully around the meat market, – just the sort ay place that ye’d go for a quiet drink, eh.

She scowls at me, then turns back to Semi Hoor. That wee cunt Bladesey’s talking to the both of them. All I can hear is actually this and actually that.

I go up to the bar to see if there’s any stray minge about. I wink at a brown-haired lassie in a green dress but she just looks away in an expression encroaching on disgust. It makes me feel good, so I throw back a nip at the bar. I could handle a bit of charlie right now.

There’s a guy who looks like Father Jack out of Father Ted and he’s with a young, foreign-looking bird. I wonder how much she cost the dirty auld fucker. It makes me think that Carole had better watch. It’s easy these days to upgrade old models with newer, Eastern ones. I was reading in the Sunday paper about some old cunt who used to work for the Electricity Board who traded in his old banger for some premium fresh minge. We’re no necessarily talking big bucks either; a Ratners’ ring and a plane ticket can do the job in some instances. Of course, she’s off by the time the ring falls apart, but you’ve had your use of her by then. This bird with Father Jack kens the score; grinding up against him, fussing over him, selling illusion as well as sex. For that you pay a lot more. Virtual reality? The rich have had it for fucking years.

I see that Bladesey’s still deep in conversation. I go back over and push in beside him. – Bladesey, wee word mate . . . I say. He shifts over.

– What’s up Bruce? Nice girls eh, he smiles.

– Watch these cunts. I thought I knew them from somewhere. I know their fellas. Scumbags. Bad bastards. They catch you chatting up those slags, they’ll fuckin have you.

– Honestly? But they seem . . .

– Fuckin tellin ye man. Keep away fae that trash.

Bladesey loses a bit of interest after that. The slags go away up to dance together, ambling pedestrianly around their handbags. – Bruce, he slurs, a wee bit drunk, – mind if I ask you a question?

– Fire away, I snap harshly enough for him not to make it too personal.

– What made you join the force?

– Why did I join the force? I repeat, – Oh I’d have to say that it was due to police oppression. I’d witnessed it within my own community and decided that it was something I wanted to be part of, I smile.

I’m certain that Bladesey’s wallet is in his jacket pocket. When he hits the bogs I slip it out, removing the best part of two hundred quid which I saw him take from the cashpoint earlier. I quickly replace the wallet.

Bladesey comes back and we leave to go into the now pissing wet streets. It’s still so cold though. The winds stinging my chafed lips and I think one of my brogues is starting to let in. I nod ahead where a couple of spare fanny are making their way up the road. They look quite young but they might be impressed by the coin. Does nae harm tae fire in.

– Awright girls! I shout.

They turn round. One’s no bad at all. Again, Bladesey’s I don’t fancy. – No bad, the good-looking one says with a cheerfully defiant wariness. I’m instantly well into her: about five-five, dark hair with a fringe, a small turned up nose and lips nicely glossed. It’s always a good sign when the honey acknowledges first, because the dog’ll generally fall into line, few hounds being that choosy about what goes up them.

– Where ye off tae?

– Dunno . . . we were gaunny try tae get intae Jammy’s. She gives me a slow, lascivious scan. This lassie is out on the town with debauched intent and her pussy’s too itchy for her to be cool about it.

– Sounds good tae me. Tell ye what but, ah’m starving. Anybody fancy a curry? You’re welcome to join us, I nod at Bladesey, – On my friend and I.

– Eh Bruce . . . I’m not that hungry . . . we just had a cur . . .

– Dinnae be such a poof Bladesey. Ye kin manage another!

We go to the Balti House and do just that. This is one of the low-life curry gaffs. Everyone in the place is a munchied-up pissheid. The food would be barely edible if you were sober.

The tidy wee bird’s well up for a shag. She laughs at everything I say, and the racier I get the more brazen her response. I could sit here aw night and watch her lift the forkfuls of curry to those red lips. Almost. She’s going on about some catering course she’s doing and how she wants to open a bar-restaurant one day. The hound’s saying nothing although she seems keen enough, even with Bladesey making a cunt of himself with all his ums aahs and actuallys. My one though: she’s getting rode the night. No danger. Same rules apply.

After the meal I signal for the bill. When it arrives Brother Blades gets a little shock.

– I . . . I . . . don’t believe it . . . my wallet . . . it’s empty . . . I . . . I . . .

– C’mon Cliff, you don’t expect the ladies to pay!

– No . . . I . . .

The dog looks disapproving, but the other, the ride, Annalise her name is, says, – I’ve got money . . .

– I won’t hear of it! I insist, pulling out Bladesey’s wad and making a big show of paying.

– I’m ever so sorry . . . I . . . Bladesey stammers.

As the fanny are getting their coats I whisper to Bladesey, who’s in some distress, – I telt you about these hoors at the Ritz. Criminals can have vaginas as well as penises Bladesey. Right now they’re probably in some shitehoose of a pad in Leith with a cairry-oot of Tennents Super, Babycham and fags, provided by the generosity of one Brother Clifford Blades. I point at him, then put my extended hands on the top of my head to simulate donkey’s ears. – Hee-haw! Hee-haw! I bray at him.

I run the dog hame, then Bladesey, who is too distressed to realise that she was gantin on it. I’m on the bypass with Annalise. I come off a slip-road and turn on to a country lane. – Where are we going? she asks. She’s a bit concerned but far more intrigued because she’s still smiling. Having flirted all night she won’t want to go home dickless.

– A short cut, I say, pulling up in a deserted lay-by. – Ken how they call them lay-bys? I ask her, – Cause ye git laid when ye pill up in one.

– What? she looks worried as the control has been wrested from her.

– Right doll, stop fuckin aboot, c’ moan: cock it or walk it. That’s the options, I wink.

– No here . . . she says morosely, – Have you no got a place?

– You’re no listening Annalise, I tap my lugs. – The cock or the walk are the choices.

– You mairried? she asks, looking straight at me.

I ignore her. – What’s it tae be? I insist. There’s a lot of nutters prowling around at night.

She wisely chooses the first option, although with a bit of reluctance. – Awright then . . . she says, looking intently at me, as if she expects me to say anything else. I pull her to me and push my whisky-saturated tongue into her mouth. As soon as she starts to respond and I feel the lump in my trousers, I gesture at her to get into the back seat.

We get in and she takes off one of her boots and pulls both her thick tights and knickers down, pulling one leg out of them. I consider trying to get her tits out but she doesn’t look as if she’s got much up there so I decide to head straight for the main course. My finger goes to her fanny, and as I suspected she’s so juiced up I could have gone up to the elbow.

My flannels and pants are sliding down my thighs, the trapped warm air from the car heater giving the sharp fumes coming from them an extra dig. My cock’s sweaty and my thighs sting, and at one point I think I’m not going to get it in after the distraction of fitting that fuckin condom. I shouldnae have fuckin well bothered. After a couple of duff attempts caused by the lager and the constricted space, I eventually manage to get it up and blow my load after a few strokes. My thighs chaffed badly on her tights and the car upholstery. A long fuck was out of the question in such circumstances. I got a little alcohol-anxious and was just chuffed to get a result.

Annalise pulls a kleenex from her bag and tensely wipes herself, even though I was wearing a spunk-bag. Mind you, the juice she produced, she’d want to. As I pull off the bag and throw it out the window, I see her quickly pulling on her pants, tights and boots. I’m up with the keks and flannels and we silently move back into the front seats.

I scarcely look at her again, although I can sense her mood of bitter lamentation as I drive her hame. Bruce Robertson, a gentleman to the last.

– See you later doll, I wave a fond adieu at her long-coated back as her heels click over the Pilrig paving slabs. She doesn’t look back though.