Filth

A Sportsman’s Dinner

Karen Fulton is looking sexy today. She’s put on a bit of weight which doesn’t suit most women but she carries it well. Festive overindulgence perhaps, or maybe the classic sex substitute. That’s the best dieting plan, fuck ’em regularly! Nae time for munchin on fuckin biscuits then! Too much munchin oan carpets wi Drummond, that’s the problem there. Same rules apply. – Looking drop-dead gorgeous Karen, I tell her.

She smiles at me, but there’s a touch of frosty lesbo coating which I expect is Drummond’s doing. All it takes is the probing tongue of one spacedyke for the impressionable to stray from the path of righteousness. But all it takes is some prime Scotch beef to get them back on the fast track, I kid you not. She’s long overdue a length.

Anyway, Bulldyke Drummond comes in with Inglis and Gus Bain. She seems to have warned to Inglis since he’s been all but proven to be a sad buftie-boy. If being befriended by a fucking fag-hag doesnae establish the bastard as a rubberwrist, goodness knows what will. Inglis knows this and obviously hates her following him around.

I’ve summoned the team in early doors today, and I can tell that some of them arenae too chuffed. As if I care: I’ve a very busy day. I’m seeing Bunty later, but first I’ve got an urgent appointment at Hector The Farmer’s oot at Penicuik, the old stomping ground, in a couple of hours’ time. We need all the light we can get.

I give a brief lack-of-progress report on the Wurie case. Then I open up the discussion. – Okay folks, any news from your ends? Gus? I ask.

– I’ve been keeping tabs on Setterington and Gorman. They’re still hanging around that bloody second-hand furniture shop all the time, Gus tells us. The old boy’s looking bitter; lost a bit of pep that yin! Could dae wi some fuckin charlie in him! Chop yirsell oot a line ay posh ya muppet-faced auld cunt!

– Aye, Ray Lennox and some of the boys in D.S. are convinced that Setterington and Francis Begbie are dealing hard drugs from there. I’m chuffed at Gus’s expression of scorn at my mention of Ray Lennox’s name. – Just keep those beady eyes open Gus. Peter?

– This mystery woman’s still no checking out. I’ve shown pictures to just about everybody from Jammy Joe’s, all the stewards and most of the party crowd, but it’s still no checking out.

You are checking out as a sick perverted arse-buggerer of other men. – We still have this mystery woman in our lives . . . how exciting . . . I turn to Drummond: – Mandy my sweet, what news from our friends in the ethnic community?

– I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to refer to female officers in that way, she challenges.

– Absolutely right! I sing. – Apologies for any offence caused my darling, force of habit. Bad habit yes, but habit nonetheless. That’s why I rely on people like your good self who are so much more aware of those issues than I am to keep me informed of my transgressions in this important area . . .

– I’m not your darling either, she says. Karen Fulton nods supportively. Drummond stares at me for a second, then she says, – Look Bruce, you may think that I’m being pedantic, but it’s hard enough getting all the abuse under the sun out there from the public, without being patronised and sneered at by your own colleagues. All I want is equal treatment, that’s all.

Do fuckin equal work then ya wee cunt and stop poncing around with wog groups.

– Point taken. Now, what news from the Forum?

She bleats on for ages about the hopes and fears for wogs in Lothian around this case. After we finish, Peter Inglis sidles up to me. – Needs a good seeing tae, that yin, he says bitterly, trying in vain to establish heterosexual credibility.

Aye Inglis, right ye are. What are you gaunny dae? Strap a fuckin dildo on her and shag her up the arse? – Too right, I tell him. – She wants equal rights, get her tae dae equal work. I’d like tae see her go doon tae Leith and haul in Lexo Setterington or Ghostie Gorman or Franco Begbie. Whae’ll have tae dae it? You or me Peter. She’ll be shuffling papers or counselling some daft slag whose scumbag ay a felly’s tanned her jaw.

It’s expedient to leave Inglis believing I’m his only pal on the force. He stands fomenting his rage as he looks across at Drummond who’s giving it loads with Fulton. Inglis is basically homosexual. I’m no saying that he’s the sort ay guy who would feel your bum in the lavvy or anything like that, but his psychology is homosexual. It makes sense to expose him. The same rules apply.

– Who’s for Crawford’s? Gus asks.

– Sorry Gus, I have tae nash, I announce, slinging on my overcoat. It gives off a stale, rancid smell, but at least I minded to change into the new C&A’s slacks. The material seems to irritate the rash on my inner thighs though. – Got a wee lead with a mate of Ocky’s. Might be something, might be nothing. Have to check it out but. See youse later.

I hurry upstairs to the audio-visual section to pick up the tripod and video camera that Pete Loburn, the technician, is letting me take out for a few days. A good boy, in the craft. I hurry downstairs and load the gear onto the back seat of the Volvo. I have to pick up Claire at the Fish Factory before heading out to Penicuik for the shoot. Then I have to bomb hame and do some tidying up as I’m fucking Bunty over there this affie. I’m also, in a sense, fucking Bladesey. Fucking the poor wee bastard for good. It’s all go!

Thankfully the roads are still not very busy. I tear down the Walk in the motor and park indiscreetly outside the Fish Factory. Normally I’d keep the Volvo a few streets away, but the clock is ticking. Maisie’s there with Claire, and fortunately she’s all ready.

– Cup ay tea or something stronger Bruce darlin? Maisie asks.

– I’d love to Maisie, but I can’t. Time is of the essence. Claire, my sweet, are you ready?

– Aye, she says. She’s got her knee-length fur coat on, and I hope she’s wearing what I specified underneath it. It looks like it as she’s on heels.

– Gie’s a flash then, I instruct.

She opens her coat, exposing the black bra, split-crotch panties, stockings and sussies. Phoah!

– Magic.

Claire goes to put a tracksuit top, bottom and trainers on, but I tell her to take them with her and come as she is. – The car’s warm, the engine’s running, I urge.

– Look eftir her now Bruce, Maisie half-warns as we depart, – she’s a good yin.

She fuckin well isnae half. I could gie the hoor one now.

– You know me Maisie, I smile. – Call me old-fashioned, but I believe that ladies should be treated with the utmost respect.

It doesnae take long tae hit the bypass. Deep Purple’s ‘Highway Star’, the orignial version off Machine Head, is blaring out the stereo. Ah’ve got the wheels, the hot chick, now aw ah need is a line ay posh! It’s as well that the road isnae too busy as I can hardly keep my eyes on it, with her sitting next to me and her coat sliding over those thighs, exposing the sussies. At one stage I thought, fuck it, I’m going to have to pull on to a slip-road and a country lane and blow some more OT dosh.

Funny, what stops me is having to listen to her whinging. She’s started to have second thoughts about the project. – Ah’m no sae sure aboot this, she says, lighting a cigarette.

– C’mon Claire, yir gittin good dosh for this. Besides, look on it as an education, a new experience beneficial tae yir career development, I reason. I’m sounding like Toal talking to a jug-eared raw recruit of a uniformed spastic before sending him down to Drylaw. – It’s a good dug. A sheepdug. A collie, for fuck sakes. They’re gentle, obedient dugs, known for it. And I guarantee that the video is only going to be for private use. Hector and myself. Two grand Claire. It’s good dosh.

– Aye . . . awright.

It’s just as well that Hector’s wedged up. Farmers always complain about their lot, but you never see a skint one. They tend to be the one profession that gets on well with the polis. They have the property, and we’re in the property protection business. So they have a tendency to be more instinctively well-disposed towards us than most. Like us, they tend to have a high depression and suicide rate. It’s that seasonally adjusted depression wi them. Look at that Ted Moult guy that did the Everest Double Glazing.

We pull off the road and up the gravel track towards the farmhouse. Hector has heard the Volvo tearing up and comes out to greet us in his usual hale and hearty manner. He’s a real fermin vermin archetype awright: stocky, ruddy, white hair and beard, tweed jacket, cords and boots.

– Hello Bruce.

– Hector.

His eyes open like saucers. – And what am I to call this lovely young lady?

– Claire, she says.

His face ignites further. – It’s an absolute pleasure and an honour my darling, he says, taking her arm in his and leading her to the Range Rover. I follow with the camera and tripod. It’s muddy, very fucking muddy and I’m trying to watch those new fawn flannels.

– Is this your farm? Claire asks Hector.

– All mine, my darling, all mine.

Hector’s House.

– From the road into town back there, he stops and sweeps his free arm around to the ugly, desolate brown mounds which tower over us, – right up to the base of them there hills.

Claire gives an impressed, evaluating smile. That lassie will go all the way to the top in her profession. She has that premium-range hoor’s instinctive understanding of value.

Hector gives a whistle, and from out of nowhere a collie shoots towards us like a missile. Just as you think it’s going to collide into us, it slows down and circles us a few times, yelping with excitement.

– This is Angus, Hector says proudly, petting the panting, enthusiastic beast.

We get into the Range Rover.

– It’s freezing, Claire says, lighting another fag.

– Angus here’ll warm ye up, I say, getting into the back after her, letting the dog sit on the front passenger seat.

Claire looks dubiously at her leading man.

– Silver medal at the Royal Highland Show in ninety-five, eh boy, Hector says fondly to the dog, starting up the car.

The mutt leans over and starts licking my hand with its sandpaper tongue. – He likes you Bruce, Hector observes, starting up the motor.

The track follows a serpentine route over frozen ground, cutting through a range of ice-encrusted trees into a clearing and down the hill towards the barn. As it dips, the path deteriorates into a patch of muddy swamp which has failed to freeze over.

I turn to Claire. – You should be used tae this sort of gig Claire, coming fae Aberdeen. Ewe’d have tae be good at your trade tae compete wi aw the sheep up thaire. Ewe’d have tae be good! Get it?

Nobody does, and the fucking Range Rover grinds to a halt, sticking in the mud. I look at my watch as the car snarls ineffectively, the wheels spinning, failing to grip.

Hector turns round in the seat. – Sorry Bruce, but we need a bit of your muscle. I’ve got tae dae this, he protests, shaking the wheel in response to my cold stare.

I get out of the vehicle, my feet sinking into the mud which covers my brogues. The bottom of my new slacks are fuckin . . . that useless auld cunt Hector . . .

I push in exasperation as I look at my watch and the motor springs free, sending a shower of mud on to my shins.

When I get back in Hector and Claire are grinning at me. – Sorry Bruce, but you’re no exactly dressed fir the ferm! Mind and no get a mess on Claire now!

I seeth silently as we get to the barn. It’s a huge, ugly, cold place, but it’s pretty isolated. I quickly set up the camera, though not fast enough for Claire.

– It’s freezing Bruce, hurry up!

The light’s still good, but it is cold. The frosted wind whistles around the barn with a clinical, cutting ozone smell of Arctic origins.

– Right Claire, I direct, – off wi the coat and oot ay they panties . . . if ye could jist lean ower that bar and spread those legs . . .

– How’s it lookin Bruce . . .? Hector says through pursed lips.

– Pit that fag oot Claire! A wee bit tae the left. . . . that’s it. Hector, it’s all yours.

Hector pulls the dug ower tae Claire and lets him have a good sniff of her. Then he starts pulling on the dog’s cock; at the same time he’s massaging his own through his troosers while staring at Claire. The dug’s tongue is hanging oot and his pink cock shoots oot like a plastic attachment on a toy, that Darth Vader’s lance in Toys Я Us.

Hector starts the ghetto-blaster which plays The Archers’ theme tune. That was his idea. He points the yelping dug at Claire, restraining it by the collar. Then he lets it go.

The animal ignores her completely, springing at me and attaching itself to my leg, thrusting ferociously. – Get that fuckin thing off me, I shout, trying to push it away, but the bastard’s nostrils flare and a low growl comes from its throat. I stagger backwards, knocking over the tripod and camera. Hector grabs the dug and pulls him off me, by which time my C&A’s troosers are covered in canine spunk.

– Her, no me! I shout at the stupid, panting beast.

We set it up again for another try. Once more, this daft fucking thing flies at me and attaches itself to me. – Jesus Fuck Almighty!

That thin pink cock rips and spurts against my flannels. – Fuckin new troosers!

– Sorry Bruce, Hector shrugs and grabs the yelping, demented beast by the collar. Claire starts laughing, a loud, horsey hee-haw.

– That dug’s a fuckin queer, I curse, pointing at the fucker.

Hector’s got the fucking audacity to look affronted. – That dug’s sired mair championship pups than you’ve had hot dinners son, he grumbles. – He just likes you.

– I like you Hector, but I don’t fuckin well want to shag you. The dug’s a fuckin poof and that’s aw there is tae it!

Hector goes to console the animal, as if its feelings are hurt. – He’s just new tae this, that’s aw.

– It’s nae good him liking me, he’s meant tae like her! I point at Claire, who’s back in her fur coat. – There must be something we can dae . . . put something on her . . . like dog food or that.

– No fuckin way, Claire snarls, – Ah’m no gittin eaten alive by that thing!

– It was just a thought, I say. I try to give my flannels a wipe with my hanky, but I’m messing them up more with the snot and the charlie. This is a fuckin mess of a day.

We try the same thing, one more time, and again the dug goes for me. My new fuckin troosers are ruined. It’s totally useless, a complete waste of time. Darkness is creeping in and we’ve lost our chance. I accidentally-on-purpose stand on the collie’s tail and the cunt lets out a loud yelp followed by a series of accusatory gasping whines.

– Mind the dug! Are you okay boy? Hector coos. Claire looks disapprovingly at me.

She’s getting rode and no mistake. I’ve just about time for a quick one in the back of the Volvo. I proposition her but she’s informing me that she’s staying on at Hector’s to earn some more cash from her new sugar daddy. They link arms and smile smugly at each other. Cunts. I head back to mine in the Volvo, stopping at Crawford’s for some takeaway food.

I wanted those new strides for Bunty coming. Now I have to stick the cunts on the laundry mountain and dig out some soiled, but not quite so soiled ones from the stinking pile. The place is a real shithouse. The Dame Judi in here is worse than back at Hector’s barn. I pile everything I can into bin-liners, attack the surfaces with a damp cloth followed by some polish, and drag the hoover across the floor. I’m sweating when the doorbell goes. I switch off the hoover and breathe deeply.

Bunty comes in and I’m leading her straight up to the bedroom, where I’ve changed the sheet and the duvet cover and I get her on top of it. She’s well on, her twat dripping like Niagara Falls and as wide as the city bypass. I’ve banged on my tape deck and Bachman Turner Overdrive’s ‘You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet’ is blaring out. There are noises coming from next door, shagging noises. Stronach is fucking someone, probably that wee tart who works behind the bar at the hotel; I think that was her Mini parked outside. Of course, Julie’s away on some fucking daft course, he did mention it. I waste no time getting into Bunty. She’s game for it as well, the strong silent type. So Stronach’s headboard’s banging off the wall and so is ours, and there’s quite a competition going on. We’ll show that cunt. Thankfully Bunty’s taking a while to get there. But after a bit it starts to become too long, and I can’t hear Stronach next door. It’s taking her ages and in truth, it gets a drag, uncomfortable even, but I stick it out, even though I’m gritting my teeth at the end. When she does come I think we’re going to go crashing through the wall into Tom Stronach’s bedroom. That would show the cunt alright! Same rules!

As we settle into a post-coital snooze, I’m satisfied to note the silence coming from Stronach’s next door. No fucking staying power, either on the field or in the scratcher.

When we get up, I prepare a light lunch with the stuff I’d got from Crawford’s on the way hame, then absent-mindedly check the messages, playing the one Bladesey had stupidly left.

I casually observe as Bunty’s blood runs cold with Bladesey going into his spiel just after my daughter wishes me a Happy Christmas. Then I witness her going off again. It’s like a second orgasm, but this time the hoor freaks on outrage rather than sex.

– It’s him! On your machine! she raves.

– Bunty, that’s Cliff, I tell her. He’s just mucking about.

– But it’s him! It’s exactly like him!

– Anybody can do that! Manchistih! I say badly.

– It’s him! It’s him! I’m calling the police! That sad little bastard! I should have known! Living with a pervert! The things he wanted to do! I should have known! I’ve been such a fool!

She bursts into tears, her mascara running. – I’m going to make him suffer!

That word again.

– Bunty . . . we don’t want to be jumping to conclusions . . . there may be a perfectly good reason as to why Cliff . . .

– No! Don’t defend him! she shrieks.

– I’m not defending him, I’m just saying that we cool our jets, I snap. – If Cliff is guilty of humiliating the both of us then believe me, no power, no fucking power on Earth will stop me from tearing him apart with my bare hands. Believe that, I say, staring at her with resolve and almost feeling sorry for Bladesey as the hatred glazes over in her eyes. – But we need to be sure.

– I’m sure! I’m fucking well sure . . . Oh Bruce . . . she moans softly, her face twisted and traumatised. She focuses on me suddenly. – What did he mean about tapes? He said something about tapes! What was it!

I make a show of swallowing some air. – Look Bunty . . . it’s . . . God, this is so difficult.

– Tell me!

– Cliff was . . . Cliff and a few of the lads at the Lodge . . . they . . .

She’s looking manically at me.

– They used to get video tapes from some guy at the Lodge. A farmer guy. It’s not really my scene. I obviously knew what they were but I just thought, well, that’s up to them. Cliff wanted to watch them here, he didn’t want you to know anything about them. He obviously thought you’d object.

– What sort of tapes . . .

I go to the cupboard behind the telly, and pull out a couple of Hector’s choicest. – They’re pornographic. I’ve never looked at them myself, but I can imagine what’s in them.

– I knew it! I want to see them. Put one in!

– Bunty, I don’t think it would be wise.

– Oh yes, I want to know everything! I want to know all about him. The real him! she sobs.

I acted reluctant, but Bunty was insistent. We watch a bit of Vibrator Massacre, and she runs to the toilet puking, just as I was getting into it. She’s seen enough.

I calm her down a little and eventually call her a taxi home. I was certain she’d phone the police and make a formal complaint against Bladesey. I kept half-heartedly trying to talk her out of it, gently urging her to call Cliff at his mum’s, give him a chance to put his side of things and all the insincere bullshit under the sun, but I knew that her mind was made up. I get a bell from Gus at the Lodge after tea, telling me that they are planning to haul Bladesey in for questioning. Good news travels fast. Later on Bunty leaves a message telling me that she’s gone to her mother’s with Craig. She didn’t want to be there when he got back from Newmarket.

This sets me up in fine fettle for the do tonight, with the earlier débâcle with that stupid dug now last Tuesday’s Daily Record. I’ve given Ray Lennox my spare ticket and after meeting for a pint in the Antiquary, we head to the Sheraton for Stronach’s Sportsman’s Dinner. I’m a wee bit concerned as I haven’t spoken to Stronach since our little neighbourly tiff over noise levels on Christmas Day.

I’ll be three sheets but I take the motor; I’ll pick it up later if I’m too wasted. I switch on the car radio. It’s that Celine Dion bird singing that horrible song, the one she was just made to sing. Lennox is blabbing on about some departmental shite and Dion goes off, only to be replaced by the Eurythmics. Lennox is going on about how Gus has got it in for him.

I’ve got Annie Lennox on the radio whinging in one ear and Fanny Lennox next tae me daein the same in the other yin.

To my surprise, Stronach greets me heartily. It seems as if he wants to let bygones be bygones, or perhaps it’s because he senses my potential to wreck his big night if fucked with. I brazenly install myself and Lennox at his table which he’s not too pleased about as he’s in the company of the former England forward Rodney Dolacre. Wonder of wonders: Dolacre has actually come up for the do. Dalglish and Souness couldn’t make it; both rise further in my estimation. I’m astonished that Dolacre has, until I learn that the real reason he’s in Scotland, with his agent by his side, is to arrange his own testimonial match with Celtic.

It’s a good crack with the usual loads of jokes about how fitba guys are the salt of the earth and women are only good for cleaning, cooking and shagging. I’m enjoying the fact that Stronach is ill-at-ease because Dolacre’s upstaging him, though Lennox fucks up by saying something sycophantic to our testimonial sportsman. When was the last time Lennox was in Gorgie in a non-working capacity?

The meal is pretty good. I start off with the prawn cocktail, then go for steak, chips, mushrooms and onion rings, followed by Black Forest Gateau. Stronach and Dolacre have some pasta dish while Lennox has Chicken Kiev. There are quite a few hingers-oan at this table, loads of minor football celebs trying to catch Dolacre’s attention as he’s still a pretty big name. Stronach, now bolstered by Lennox’s arse-licking, has stopped trying to compete with Dolacre and is basking in the reflected glory.

I have to give it to that English cunt Dolacre, he’s got us daft Jocks well sussed out. – These arseholes’ll always bring between five and ten thousand down, which at our prices could mean an extra quarter of a million quid in the kitty. All I have to do is play up this old Irish granny routine. Suppose I’d better dig one up from somewhere, he winks at his agent, before elaborating. – See, a couple of the lads, English boys, used to play for the Republic. They’ve been teaching me all those daft Mick songs.

Someone produces an Evening Times. It contains an interview with Rodney: I grew up in a large Irish family in North London and all the folks back home in the old country were mad keen Celts. I would have dearly loved to have been able to pull the hooped jersey over my head.

– I said striped jersey at first, he laughs. – I couldn’t remember that they played in hoops! Thank God the journalist was sympathetic! Bleedin Nora, he snorts, – I mean, one Jock team’s much the same as any other to me. All shit, ain’t they? Still, I’ll take their giros! Another ten thousand on the gate: can’t be sneezed at, can it?

I saw Stronach go red at that point.

Dolacre gives a witty speech, as does a Scottish First Division manager, but the rest are just fucking windbags who like to hear the sound of their own voices. Dolacre leaves early, before the auction takes place. The strip he wore in the England B international versus the Czech Republic a couple of years ago in his last representative game is auctioned and fetches a hundred and fifty quid for Tom’s testimonial fund. It was bought by Alan Beach, the plumber’s merchant, who’s on the testimonial committee.

At the end of the night Lennox departs and I decide I’m too fucked up to drive the Volvo so I share Stronach’s taxi home. – That Rodney Dolacre is a laugh, eh, I smile, – It was great hearing his fitba tales.

– Arrogant English cunt, Stronach spits.

I go into my home and Shirley calls. I let the machine get it. – Broosss . . . I need to talk to you Brooooss, her distressed mechanised tone whines. – It’s very important . . . phone me Broossss . . . please . . .

I put on a Private video, one of Hector’s, which features some good arse-fucking shots. It never fails to amaze me, the purchase those male actors get on the old arse-fucking. Poles must be well-greased. Mind you, these birds but, their arseholes must be stretched like a mother-of-ten’s fanny.

Shirley. Don’t mistake me for somebody who cares my love.

I go to do a shite. I’ve taken some of Rossi’s laxatives but I can’t see any of the worm. It’s no good just getting its body out anyway, you need to get the whole head, otherwise it just keeps growing. I try to turn in, but I feel uneasy and sleep with the light on. These cunts with their OT cutbacks’ll kill me.

the fucking head of those things and I can’t get the bastard out.

I decide that there’s going to be no work done today, so I fill out an OTA 1–7 for the overtime, and sit back watching videos until I drowse. When I wake up, I note that it’s the evening. This is when I come to life. That was a great kip. It’s got me going.

I’ve snorted my last half G and I’m on the mooch for mair posh. I call cold round at Ray Lennox’s gaff. Always the best way tae call anyone. The polis way. One heavy-knuckled rap on the door and I hear that characteristic sound of the occupants scuttling like disturbed rats, their pathetic lives swamped in criminality. Lennox is daein something eh shouldnae be. Then the door opens. He has a bird round, she’s just on her way out.

– Eh, Bruce, Lennox says, – this is Trudi.

– Pleased to meet you my darling, I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss it, an extravagant gesture. Worth forty wanks as well. Mmm hmm. – Pleased to meet you Trudi. Ray’s not mentioned you to me. That’s remiss of him, I smile. I turn to Lennox, who now looks a bit off-white, – I can see why you’d like to keep a treasure like her well away from an old prospector like Bruce Robertson!

She smiles and departs, Ray instantly recovering his cool.

– Tidy piece Mister Lennox, I say approvingly.

– A lovely girl, Lennox replies in fake pomposity. He’s already gone to his stash and started cutting oot the lines. I’ll say one thing for Ray Lennox, he doesnae let the grass grow under his feet as far as the posh goes. Fuck work today, even the backshift.

I snort back one of the lines, – I believe in law and I believe in order. This is a treat, a perk for enforcing . . . Jesus fuck . . . good shit . . . where was I, aye, a perk for enforcing law and order. I mean, we know that there are shite laws, so there’s no point in obeying them ourselves, even if it’s our job to enforce them for others. The problem is, most people are weak, so if you don’t have laws, even shite ones, then you certainly don’t have any order matey. Same rules.

– Agreed, Ray points at me, then bends down to the mirror to fill his hooter full of gear, – Phoah . . . Aye, sometimes I think that the best solution to the whole fuckin mess would be if we could just go around and shoot any cunt we felt like at any time. Most of the time, simply through experience and professionalism, you’d get it right. Then wide bastards wouldnae go around with such an attitude. Imagine, all the fuckin scumbags with big, apologetic stares on their faces . . .

– Niggers doon in London and Abos over in Sydney aw smiling and going ‘Yez baz’ like they did in the fuckin fields . . .

– . . . Birds comin up n giein ye a blow-job in the street for the privilege ay no gittin thir fuckin heids blown oaf . . .

– . . . but maist of all, just fucking well shooting spastics stone dead, I smile, forming a gun out of my hand, putting it to my head and making a loud exploding noise as I violently jerk the hand and head away from each other.

– Good coke, eh Bruce?

– Too good for spastics Ray. Too good for spastics. I kid you not, my sweet, sweet friend.

Ray Lennox. A sound guy and a fuckin good polisman. I don’t care what anybody says.

After another blitz on the posh we hit a few bars, then it’s back to his with a cairry-oot and mair posh. The cunt makes me listen to his shite records aw night. Starts trying tae tell me that The Verve or whatever they’re called are better than U2 and Simply Red! Get a life Lennox! It gets too much and I leave and head downtown. Fucked if I’m paying for a taxi. I think I might have missed the last corpie bus. It’ll have to be a night bus. It’s fucking freezing out there. I head into St Andrew’s Square station to see if there’s a bus for any of the outlying scum towns that can drop me off in Colinton.

My luck might be in as there’s still one or two people hanging around. I see a jakey out of the corner of my eye. He scrapes along the wall, coming to rest against a bus shelter. The jakey seems to have a kind of fear in his eyes, as if it’s just dawned on him that whatever he’s drank it’s just not been quite enough to blank out the hideous reality of his miserable life.

And I know him.

Alan. Alan Loughton. Used to be a member of the strike committee, back in the day. How’s it goin A1 buddy? How’s it going now that the pits been shut down for over ten years? How is it going now that you’re no longer seen as a socialist hero back in the village, but as a boring auld pissheid and

– Awright! Alan isn’t it! What’s this? I nod at his gold tin of Carlsberg Special. – Nae old purple tin? Going bourgeois on us? Cleaning up our act are we?

He’s looking at me now, trying to get me into focus.

– Bruce! Bruce Robertson, I tell him. – Mind ay me? I joined the polis just before the strike! If you cannae beat them, join them, I always did say. What aboot yourself? What are you up to these days? Politics no doubt. Always did have a way with public speaking!

Loughton groans an incomprehensible recognition.

– Seem tae have lost it but mate, eh? That silver-tongued oratory. Anyway, I must fly, see you, I turn and stroll across the concourse. Behind me I can hear a pained growl of sheer anguish.

There’s two words though, that I, we, I, we can make out.

Filth.

The other one is bea

No fuckin way a jakey, a purple-tinned cunt is fucking with my head. It’s me, Bruce. There are no others. I’m not the one he’s on about. Loughton. A nothing. A nobody. A set of fucking dormant social problems waiting to be cleaned up. That’s the real filth, that’s the real garbage.

At the other end of the bus park, two uniformed spastics are talking to an Eastern Scottish Transport inspector. I approach them.

– Alright officers, I flash my ID.

– Aye, one says nervously.

– How auld’s yir granny? I ask.

– Three hundred and sixty-two, he replies.

– Good lodge. Dougie Millar still grand-master?

– Aye . . .

– Well, officer . . .?

– Cameron sir.

– Well P.C. Cameron, I suggest you and your colleague here get your fingers out of your arseholes. Are you aware of the policy of zero tolerance of crimes and misdemeanours in public areas?

– Yes . . . we . . . he stutters. A fledgling spazwit.

– I’m assuming that you are beat officers here?

– Yes sir.

– Glad to hear it. There’s a fuckin jakey over the concourse, I point in Loughton’s direction. – He’s been abusing passengers, including me. You get that cunt or you’re getting it baith weys, through the service and through the craft. Savvy?

– Right, one says nervously, turning to the other one, – Let’s go.

The two uniformed spastics race across the tarmac and grab a hold of the bemused Loughton.

I always liked Loughton but it seems to me that he’s been going nowhere since his salad days of the miners’ strike. The best I could do is to help the cunt relive old memories and it was almost like auld times watching the poor fucker get huckled away into the back of a police vehicle by the boys in blue.