Filth

A Testimonial

I got in early last night but I couldn’t sleep. I’m back in the office early this morning but I’m totally fucked with that cocaine. I was wired. My sinuses are shrivelled and my nose is running constantly. My nerves are jangling. We’ll have to be stronger. That’s what makes me better than the scum, than the weak Ray Lennoxes of this world. I can laugh at all that shite. But I have to get it together. The phone goes and I jump and shake before lifting the receiver and predictably it’s that spastic Toal. This is all part of his psychological warfare but that imbecile has been desk bound far too long to be able to outmanoeuvre Bruce Robertson. Well, spazwit, we have news for you: the same fucking rules apply.

He tells me that he wants to see me in his office straight away. Never mind our routine, the selfish cunt. Thinks of nothing but his ain fat erse and how to keep it covered. Does fuck all but write that film script. Ah ken what the cunt’s up tae. I put the paper down and head upstairs. I feel nauseous by the time I get up to Toal’s office. The lifts are out of order and I’m out of breath after these two flights. Those fuckin maintenance cunts, they dae fuck all.

– Bruce, we need to have a wee blether. Niddrie’s called a team meeting up at his office this afternoon, this sweetie wife tells me. He’s using a distasteful ‘Niddrie’ rather than a pally ‘Jim’ or a respectful ‘the Super’. He’s obviously had his gangrenous nuts chewed and is looking for pals. Or perhaps not. The cunt could just be fucking me around. Drummond still hasnae been in touch. Playing silly fannies again.

– What time? I ask. I need to spend some time with the paper. That Claudia Schiffer’s in it. A fuckin ride, nae two weys. It says she’s opening a restaurant or something like that. Who gives a fuck about that? Show us your erse and tits doll, that’s what we want!

– Three.

Page Three.

– Could be t-toiling. I said I’d be at a Forum meeting then.

– Oh God . . . Amanda should be handling that side.

– Well, she ain’t been in touch with me to tell me not to go. Are you saying I shouldn’t go?

– God . . . no . . . that’s what Niddrie’s been doing his nut about. The Forum people have been talking to Malcolm St John of STV and Andy Craig of the News. Seems they’ve been very critical of the investigation again, he puffs sourly, as if it’s a personal criticism of Toal himself. Mind you, it fuckin well should be, he’s the cunt in charge of this investigation, or meant to be.

I’ve got a copy of last night’s late final downstairs. The clerical brought one in. I never saw anything about the case. I remember glancing through it, the back page and the leader column, but all I mind of was the piece on Tom Stronach’s testimonial: The Edinburgh footballing public can hang its head in shame at the derisory attendance of under two thousand at the testimonial of one of its favoured sons, Tom Stronach. Granted, the recession has meant that for many fans extra games are now a luxury, particularly just one week before Christmas, and the Edinburgh weather had a lot to answer for. However, this level of support for a such a loyal servant to the capital sporting scene is nothing short of an undeserved snub.

I also read that Tom’s idol Kenny Dalglish had been unable to attend due to other commitments, but he did send his congratulations to Tom on his gala night. Dalglish was probably washing his hair or something. He had the right idea, keep away from all that shite.

I wished I could keep away from all Toal’s shite.

– Nothing’s happening Robbo. This investigation just won’t move forward. We’ve been checking all the stores, but we can’t trace that bloody hammer, he whinges.

As if I give a Luke and Matt Goss aboot that.

– I see. So Niddrie expects Scottish Television and the Evening News to solve the case do they? What spastic journalist has ever solved a fucking crime in his puff? Answer me that?

– I’m as upset as you are Robbo, Toal’s old woman’s mouth twists. That mooth: the gob of a thief who cannae help but gossip about what he’s knocked off, and then is stupid enough to be surprised as the cell door slams behind him. – Anyway, have you got any other news? he asks.

– No, I’d liaise with Amanda as you said.

That will be shinin bright.

– Mmm. Right . . . says Toal. I can already feel his disenchantment with this silly wee tart setting in.

– I’ll rearrange the Forum meeting and come to Niddrie’s at three.

– No . . . I’ll go to Niddrie’s. You go to the Forum meeting.

– Right, I tell him, then as I exit I think: what the fuck is that wee Amanda Drummond daein? I should go back in and tell Toal this, but I can’t be bothered. My arse is itching like fuck. Why is it always me that has to dae this fuckin shite? If I just jacked it in the morn, that would show the cunts. See how they got on then. This whole fuckin place would grind to a halt, simply because it’s stuffed full of the most clueless cunts that ever hid behind a polisman’s uniform. They cunts wouldn’t last ten minutes over in New South Wales or even doon in the Met. Don’t know what real fuckin poliswork is, any of the cunts.

Fuck’ em. I head downstairs, stopping off at the bogs where I give my hole a good clawing. The flannels are damp with my sweat and I have to take some toilet paper and place it between my skin and the saturated material in order to try and dry the fuckers out. Then it’s back to the grind.

I study the papers on my desk, then look around at my clueless colleagues. I’ve never, ever seen such a motley crew of useless spastics gathered under one roof.

– Aye, it’s a strange one awright Peter, I say to Peter Inglis.

– What dae ye mean?

I feel like saying, You, ya poofy cunt, you’re the fuckin strange one, but instead I scrutinise the documentation on my desk. – Sometimes I look at this and think, the clues are staring us straight in the face but we just can’t fucking crack it.

– Just one breakthrough and it would all fall into place, Gus shrugs.

– That’s it though Robbo, Peter says, – always the same story. Ninety per cent perspiration and ten per cent inspiration. We’ll just have to keep at it.

– Too true Peter, I nod, lifting up the paper.

ACROSS DOWN 1Speed (8) 1Stand-in for monarch (7) 7Lowest of the low (4) 2Sharp citrus fruit (5) 8Twentles short hairstyle (4,4) 3Work playspace (6) 9From France (6) 4Group of players (6) 10Sheen, lustre (6) 5Falls, plummets (5) 11Sight organ (3) 6Spotted jungle cat (6) 12Telling fibs (5) 13Strait (6) 14Dark beer (5) 15Incompetent (7) 16Grieve loudly (3) 16Himalayan guide (6) 18Bespatter (6) 17Nob, dignitary (6) 20Divisions of foot or yard (6) 19Flat-antlered deer (5) 22Day after today (8) 21Bay of Naples isle (5) 23Orange-skin (4) 24Buyers’ snips (8)

– C’mon guys, let’s see some fuckin action. Gus, I shout over at him, – Twenty-one doon. Bay of Naples isle, five letters. C’mon! Crime: together we’ll crack it.

Gus screws his face up. – We wir in that part ay the world, Edith n me. Sorrento. We took the hovercraft over tae Naples for the day. Ah didnae see any islands Bruce, n we were right acroas Naples bay, comin fae Sorrento likes.

– Well, they’ve obviously got them Gus, according tae the fuckin paper anyway. Mind you, it’s a plebs’ paper, I only buy it for the tits, the telly and the fitba . . . what about one doon: Stand-in for monarch? Seven letters.

– Regent.

– That’s one . . . two . . . six. Naw.

– Jeanette Charles.

– Eh?

– That Jeanette Charles. The Queen’s double. Stands in for the Queen.

– I’m just no gettin this at all the day. Here’s one though: Lowest of the low. Four letters. Toal. No, we should get this one awright: SCUM. We deal with them every day. Mind you, Toal: the same fuckin thing, eh.

Later on I see Lennox in the cannie. He’s still on the trail of those hippies. The cunt’s been avoiding us a wee bit. We run him into town. We pass one of those posh girls’ schools.– Mary Erskine’s . . . James Gillespie’s . . . the sound ay they posh schooly citadels, Ray. It sets up the horn in ye. Erse. Skin. Lesbians. It was some dirty cunt that named they schools. Some fuckin pervert.

Lennox laughs and shakes his head. – You’re some man Robbo.

– Tell ye Ray, I say, – they wee lassies: like wee angels. Then they grow up, that’s the problem. They grow up intae cows and fuckin hoors. And a cow’s worse than a hoor. A least you ken where you stand with a hoor. A cow? You never fucking well ken.

Lennox is looking uncomfortable. – Well, aye . . .

Doesnae understand a thing, that’s his problem. Thinks he kens the fuckin lot. But what does he know?

He knows nothing.

Absolutely sweet fuck all. Too fuckin big for his boots, that cunt.

We stop in for a bite to eat at the pie shop on the South Bridge. Eddie Moncur from the South Side office is there with a uniformed spastic. I nod at them. There’s a slow, lazy, overweight cunt serving us, or who should be serving us, but he’s taking his time. – Who ate all the pies . . . I start up a slow chant, but Mister Cool Wanker Lennox refuses to join in. Above and beyond it all is he? I think not.

– A couple ay pints later but, eh Ray? No way am I gaun back intae that place this affie, that’s for sure.

Ray looks at me as if I’m mental. – You’re forgetting something. Gus’s surprise do.

Of course. How could I forget that. I get to thinking that there might be a surpise for Mister Ray Cunty-Baws Lennox as well.