That guy eh — what d’ye call him, I can never remember his name. He was giving her a row right in the middle of the floor. Ranting and raving. Her sitting there with the head bowed, maybe embarrassed or what, I dont know, ashamed maybe. She knew folk there and they were hearing it all. How come they were letting it happen, all just standing there? No just the barstaff. Everybody. Me too, I was one of them, what I mean, cowards, we were just I suppose well cowards really, we were cowards. So yeh, ashamed, she must have been.
But I felt like getting a grip of him, know what I mean, dirty bastard. But the best one to do it was another woman. See if she had done it! That really would have been the best. But there was nay other woman there.
There were women but no for that, taking on a guy like him I mean, fucking hell, ye wouldnay want to take on him. No even the likes of — well, no me anyway. Naw, I wouldnay.
Unless just batter him with something, that is what ye would have to do. Dont wait. Pick up something. Fucking heavy ashtray or what. A chair man know what I mean, a solid effort, fucking hit him with it.
On and on he went jesus christ and my hand started shaking. I was holding my pint, and so tight man gripping it, I had to let go. Breaking the glass, know what I mean, we’re stronger than we think.
Dont tell me he is gony hit her, dont tell me. That is what I was thinking. Because if he hit her man see if he hit her …
I shut my eyes.
Then guys near me, I heard them talking, about the Celtic and Hearts game. What was it a draw or some fucking thing, a disputed penalty? They were talking loud, loud. No just to drown out the angry guy’s ranting. It wasnay just that.
What it was, to make it seem like it didnay mean nothing, no anything special. It was normal behaviour.
I noticed that before about guys, how when something awful was happening they started talking. Even just the telly, Ulster or Palestine or what, Iraq. Away they go about the football. Oh aye Celtic’s got a hard game on Saturday, Rangers have it easy, what about the Liverpool game. Meanwhile it is carnage. No everybody. Some watch or else dont watch. Maybe they listen.
And it all goes on roundabout. Ye cannay shut up yer ears.
Dreams and hallucinations. I even get them when I’m sitting myself. Other folk will be the same although I havenay asked anybody, no even the wife. If I said it to her she would tell me to stop talking shite — well, rubbish; she doesnay swear, no that shite is swearing.
But fair enough, ye dont want to end up a babbler. Ye see these poor auld sods. In the pub they sit out the road. People leave them alone. They babble away to themself like somebody else is there and taking part in the conversation.
Well in a way there is somebody else. Them. They talk to themself as if they are another person, an actual other person. So there they are. So fair enough, one equals two; two parts make a whole and ye cant have the one and not the other. So then they give the answers to their own questions.
We all do that. But inside wur own head. That is the difference. Imagine we done it out loud! The guys in the white coats would come and take us away ha ha. Senile, an advanced case. Or just plain ordinary mad.
Human beings are near the surface. Just scratch and that is us.
Ranting and raving. It was excruciating, it really was. Ye felt like stuffing up the ears. I was gripping that pint of mine, so tight, jesus, needing to quell the thoughts quell the thoughts and all that racket going on it drove ye fucking nuts man it drove ye fucking nuts, that male-female fandango.
All kinds of mental stuff happens when ye are in for a pint. Couples! Hoh, fuck. I swallowed a mouthful of beer, keeping my face fixed. But no for long no for long and I was like Aw for fuck sake, landing my pint on the bar and pushing clear to the fresh air.
Ohhh man yeh.
That dampness in the air. I was so glad of that. I breathed deep, really deep. I imagined it all misty and ye were out in the country. Farms and fields. Aw aye. Even the way mist comes down ower the Clyde.
It does. The Clyde is country too, ye forget that.
And what about when ye look up and it is all grey patches of mist and through them ye see the night sky, maybe even the stars? I like that too.
Now was the sound of boys, teenage little cunts, that hee-haw voice they have, gon up and down. But cheery. Probably they were scouting about for lassies. Little did they know the lassies would be scouting about for them. Great to be young! Hoh! and I dont think, I was glad to be gon hame.