SUPERNELLY!

(a daft wee cartoon I made on a daft wee website)

The Friend of Dubham Thomas

(a short story)

Dubham Thomas was a friendly but lonely middle-aged man who spent his days in various pubs talking and laughing with other lonely men, and his evenings drinking alone in his flat. He'd been partial to a good drink his entire adult life but since receiving both redundancy and a broken heart a blurry number of years earlier, his love for pub culture now seemed little more than alcoholism. On this particular occasion he'd been drinking practically non-stop for almost three weeks before he'd found it impossible to go on. 
Having woken up fully clothed on his bedroom floor, Dubham Thomas stripped and got under his covers. He tossed and turned, shuddering, vaguely awake in his sodden, twisted bed sheets as his memory flashed, betraying him with shocks of stupid, inappropriate things that might not even have happened: loud, idiotic, objective statements rung out between his ears as images of spilled drinks, refusal of service, tears and a complete loss of balance stabbed at his weakened mind while he struggled to ignore the dragging moments in his dark, dank room. Through long hours worry chipped away at his conscience until he felt his hands go numb. He began to plead with himself as pins & needles crept up his wrists. A building anxiety took charge of him, with every sensation clouded but jagged, and every thought surrounded by whispers. Sheer frozen terror set in, identical to that of a rabbit in the headlights, only seemingly permanent and consuming him entirely.  
"Deep breaths, deep breaths!" He reminded himself, panting loudly for what seemed like forever, until, eventually, he began to feel his panic dissipate. 
On finally finding his first semi-sober sleep in weeks, Dubham Thomas fell into an altogether different kind of horror as he awoke to discover he'd been abandoned on a sinking ship who's crew had fled as he slept. He waded through his half-submerged quarters towards an awkward looking porthole and peered out to see a storm of fantastic magnitude. He looked on as a single wave rose high above the tall ship, arching over it with a colossal din. 
"No, God! Please, no!" He cried as he shot upright in his bed, soaking wet and shivering. He looked around the blackness of his room, desperately trying to recognise something, but stopped with a fright, seeing the silhouette of a man standing over him. He swung out screaming, hitting something hard, but was assaulted as he fell to the floor and fought his way, kicking and clattering, to the light switch. The light blazed on - he'd punched his clotheshorse then become tangled in it. 
Nursing a sore knee, Dubham Thomas took a moment to gather himself. He was glad the injury had a known history for once as all too often he'd wake up covered in bruises with no inkling of where they'd come from. He picked up his clotheshorse, struggled to flip his sweat-laden mattress, and gulped an almost full pint of water which he always kept at his bedside, swirling it about his mouth as he did. Shivering, he climbed back into his bed and began throwing things at the light switch. First his shoes, then two all-but-forgotten books, then, disheartened, he got up, turned the light off, and carefully returned to bed. 
He began thinking back to happier days before Cathy had left him, but that always led to why she'd left him. He'd long come to realise that his being a hardened drinker had been attractive to her at first as he was always so much fun, but it wasn't long before it had become laborious, and with no shortage of other potential suitors - the charm of whom only enhanced his insecurities - her leaving was inevitable. Still, he hadn't seen it coming and the obligatory drowning of sorrows was all he felt he could do in response, so he flung it at her like a brick, as if his evermore obvious drink problem had somehow been her fault all along. 
Dubham Thomas lay with an incalculable weight of guilt, but only a small portion of it had it's roots in reality. The rest just grew - watered by years of drinking, fertilised by self doubt. His eyes began to swell, encouraging the mammoth lack of respect he had for himself. He tried to shake it off and clear his head but couldn't, until distracted, he began to think there must be something wrong with his hearing - it was as though he'd just been at a very loud concert - a dense hum hung over what he suspected was a conversation next door in his living room. He wondered whether he was being robbed or had just brought people back from the pub, and the more he listened, the more pressing the matter became. He decided to ignore it, but soon realised he was in desperate need of the toilet and would have to get up anyway. 
Feigning confidence and armed with his empty glass and the pretence of filling it, he brazened through his hall and into his living room, hoping to see familiar faces. But there was nobody there. Relieved, he quickly nipped to the toilet, used the facilities, eyed himself over in the mirror, splashed water on his face, refilled his glass, grabbed some toilet paper and returned to bed where, thinking of times he'd shared with Cathy, he attempted masturbation, but achieved nothing other than a clammy hand and another layer of slimy sweat. He lay listening to his puffed-out heartbeat attempting to catch it's breath, wondering where it found the energy, but when it had settled, the non-existent conversation next door returned. He picked out the odd muddled word here and there until he was close to nodding off, then with a start he heard a single word, so distinct it was as if came from within the room.
"Wanker!"
"Who's there... a know someone's there, a can hear you!" He said as he lifted his head. Totally still, he stared out from over the top of his covers, the dark not so dark now with his sight adjusted. Then in the corner of his eye he something move, the shadow of someone ducking behind the end of his bed.
"Here, a just bloody saw you! What you doin' in ma room, man, crash on the couch, am tryin' t' sleep!" He said, frightened but hopeful it was only someone from the pub, maybe someone who'd just woken up not knowing where they were, who'd perhaps been muttering in their sleep. Gingerly, he got up and crept around the wall and flicked the light back on but could see no one. 
"What you doin' under ma bed, man, what's goin' on, a know you're there!" He checked all around and under the bed, then with the light still on he hid under his covers and pulled them up to his nose.
"Must be goin' mad. About time, right enough."
"Madness would be a fine thing. A welcome distraction, if nothing else." A disembodied voice came from exactly where Dubham Thomas had seen the shadow move.
"Man, you're scarin' the shit out me, where are you?"
"Please forgive me, it was not my intention to cause you distress." The shadow reappeared. Then, slowly, it seemed to come out of itself, became freestanding, three dimensional, until a man stood there at the foot of Dubham Thomas' bed. "And I am afraid I am none the wiser as to how our current predicament came to be. Nobody has ever seen me before. Here I have been all these long, long years and nobody has ever, until now, noticed. Although I do think this somewhat splendid! You can see me! You can actually see me!"
"I've finally lost it." Dubham Thomas said matter-of-factly.
"No, that was the conclusion I myself initially met but after many years of boredom, watching people come and go, getting on with their lives, growing old and moving on, I realised I was not mad at all. Bored, yes. Invisible, yes. Unable to touch anything properly or be heard by anyone, yes. But not mad. Although you might think this would be enough to drive a man to madness, but I came to thinking that it simply is not possible for a ghost to go mad. However, this is fantastic news! Finally, after all this time I have someone with whom I may talk!"
"What?"
"Oh, I do apologise. This must be, well, somewhat perturbing for you. Mind if I have a seat?" The man sat down on the end of the bed and as he did Dubham Thomas had to strain his eyes to stay focused on him as the man seemed to strobe and leave a trace of himself behind as he moved. "You see, some many years ago I met my end in this very room, and I am of the opinion that the manner in which I did, and subsequently how I reacted, has seen me trapped hereafter, unable to move on as I can only assume others do."
"You're a ghost?"
"I believe so, yes."
"So what are you doin' in ma room?"
"Haunting it, of course."
"Of course."
"Allow me to introduce myself: My name is Jeremy, Herbert Jeremy. But my friends used to call me Herbie."
"Ma name's Dubham Thomas. Ma friends used to call me Dubham Thomas."
"It is my sincere pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr. Dubham Thomas. Your friends used to call you? Past tense?"
"Don't really have any friends. No really, anyway."
"I see. Perhaps this is an area in which I may be of assistance. Perhaps we may be able to assist one another. I welcome it, in fact. Not having been in the position to converse in so long, I would be delighted to call myself your friend. That is, of course, if you will have me as your friend?"
"You're a ghost."
"I was, as it happens, a happily married man, living, no less, in this very residence. That is, of course, until I was stabbed in the back by a man whom I used to consider my closest friend, who then preceded to carry out relations of a carnal nature with my beloved wife, who seemed all too comfortable with the circumstances, against that very wall as I lay, face down, helplessly dying right here on the floor, watching. The pain I endured was... I believe my determination to exact revenge was what saw me stationed here, although I can not be sure of this as I have since never left this building, so there is a chance, however small, that this, my perpetual intermediate state, is what happens to every living creature on earth after the final curtain on the stage of life is drawn, doubtful as it may be." 
"You talk funny." 
"Quite. I was, however, unfortunately unable to obtain said revenge as providence had offered me no such opportunity. My wife, along with her associate conspirator, fled this place in possession of the deeds to various properties I had owned, along with other papers concerning business ventures I was at the time involved with, never to return. I remained here indefinitely."
"You talk a lot."
"I have been without an ear to bend in some time and have never been in the position to articulate the details of the events leading thereto my demise, other than to myself."
"Did you no call me a wanker?"
"Regrettably, I have found myself existing, passing the time if you will, only through the lives of others, committed to an endless commentary of their actions, no matter how inane those actions may be. Both that and watching television, not that there is a great deal of difference between the two. Please forgive me for saying so, but you look a little peeky. Or if I may be so bold as to elaborate, having had a window on your life these last years, the manner in which you choose to live your life does not seem to be one of self preservation."
"A feel like burgled shite through a blender. What's it like bein' a ghost?"
"Dull, to say the least. The pleasures of touch, taste, smell, to skim but the surface, are out with the reach of a lost soul such as myself, and until now, the stimulating art of conversation, underrated as it is among the living, is something I have very much longed for."
"You've no had to wipe your arse in years, though. That must be pretty cool." 
Dubham Thomas and his new friend Herbert Jeremy talked for hours until Dubham Thomas fell asleep. He came to that evening but there was no ghost. Dubham Thomas just assumed it had all been a dream. Business as usual, he popped to the off sales and stalked up, returned home and drank through the remainder of his hangover as he cooked spaghetti bolognese, pondering how life-like his dream had been. He ate and made his way to the pub for a few before last orders, came home and continued to drink, talking aloud as if the ghost had been real, right through to opening hours the next morning, when he made his way back to the pub. This went on for days until again he found himself in the grip of a crippling hangover, unable to carry on.
"God help me." Dubham Thomas pleaded.
"Really, Dubham. I think it highly unlikely that our omnibenevolent deity might consider coming out from under his incorporeal rock at this point, if he does indeed exist."
"Herbie, you're back! Where've you been, man?"
"Well I never, you can see me again! I was here the whole while, my good man. Answering your every question. It soon became apparent, however, that you could no longer see nor hear me."
"A'd have a drink to celebrate but honestly, a couldn't face it the now."
"Yes, that might not be such a good idea. I defer to consideration that your current disposition could be held accountable for our being able to engage in the finer points of colloquy in first place."
"What?" 
"Twice only have we been able to talk and on both occasions you have been altogether incapacitated by the aftermath of all too much alcohol. It may be such that your present mindset is integral to our situation."
"What?"
"You need to be incredibly hung over in order to see and hear me."
Dubham Thomas could find no problem with this, seeing as how he was always either drunk, getting drunk, or hung over, and Herbert Jeremy more than took the edge off the latter. They talked and talked, and the more they did, the easier it became for Dubham Thomas to understand his new friends fancy brogue. Herbert Jeremy was an interesting ghost, and full of stories which Dubham Thomas could see no reason to doubt, given that Herbert Jeremy still had the dagger he was killed with sticking out his back. Their friendship blossomed and as it did, so did Dubham Thomas' outlook on life. Everyone who knew him noticed, even the women that worked in the off sales, as well as the locals in all his favorite pubs, all of whom commented on the change in him. He was obviously happier, despite drinking even harder than before. He became able to tell exactly when he'd see Herbie, how many days it would take and how long for, and, with his approval and tutoring, he began writing all Herbie's stories down as works of fiction, soon planning a compiled collection entitled 'The Gallant Misadventures of Herbert Jeremy'. The works saw Herbie as one of the main character in every story, even though in life lots had belonged to other people that Herbie just happened to know.
Almost two years had past and Dubham Thomas was set to become a published author, having written both a novel and two books of short stories, and with the launch of the first of their projects in sight, he drank in preparation of his celebration with Herbie the following day.
Dubham Thomas passed out wearing his best suit, but on opening his eyes he felt something was wrong - he didn't feel terrible. In fact, he didn't feel anything at all other than a thick crust over his mouth and down either side of his face. He sat up, finding no difficulty or discomfort in doing so, and looked at his friend.
"I am so very, very sorry, Dubham." Said Herby.
"Sorry?"
"It seems you have finally succeeded in drinking yourself to death... and you appear to be covered in vomit."

The End.

 Copyright Roddy Smith 2015.

Wee Tam Knows the Score

(my first ever short story)

 

     The young team have no respect these days. I mean, when I was a wee guy, we didn't give big guys any hassle, and if we did, we'd run afterwards. Not square up to them.

 

     I've been getting trouble off the local neds. Not just the young team, they're nothing to worry about. No, I've been getting shit off the proper neds. Not even neds so much anymore, just pure jakies. They live in a squat down by the railway. Proper scummy bastards. It's not actually me, but my girlfriend, Molly, she’s the one getting it tight. She acts like its nothing, but I can tell she's scared. She's something else though, proper confident and quick witted. She makes me laugh, not to mention perfect body, posture, and hair. She's just gorgeous, but at the moment I can’t even let her walk down the street alone because of these scumbags. They've been threatening rape and all sorts, and there's no way I'm letting them ever get their filthy paws on her. No way.

 

     They haven't said anything when I've been there but every time I’m there, there's only a couple of them. There's only a few them I'm even worried about, and that's only because they'll all jump in. Especially these two arseholes Minty and Hunter. They're the ones proper starting it. They should know better because I'll fuck them up one-on-one. But the top boy, Tibby, he's the one I'm really worried about. Proper handy, and older than the rest. Older than me. He used to run with my old boy. Apparently my Da' saved his life once back in the day when all the gangs were heavy killing each other. I've always got on well with him, but now he’s jumping about with these dafties.

 

     It's hard to take my mind off it when we're out. It's like I've always got to have one eye open. She's relaxed when I'm there which, of course, that’s good, but I can't relax. I just have to play it cool because I don't want her seeing I'm worried. I mean, take now for instance, we're just lying in the park, chatting and soaking up the sun. If she thought I was giving this a second thought she'd freak, and my pulse is going just thinking about it. I need to take my mind off this:

“Molly, would you think less of me if I told you I once pushed a puppy off a table?”

“Ha! What?” She looks at me, smiling.

“What if I told you I really enjoyed it?” I ask, giggling. Then I hear it, that horrible nasal laugh and the crass noise up.

"C'moan git a swatch it this, lads, pure fuckin' dafties!" It's Hunters voice. Molly stops smiling. I ignore them and try to think of more idiotic patter to take the worry from the otherwise perfect face looking at me.

"Am fur gettin' a ride it that, though, mate."

"Aye, me an aw, mate, me an aw."

"Aye, no' before me, but. You'll be gettin' sloppies." They boast. Molly looks really worried.

"Fine piece o' pussy." Hunter says. I lift my head and look straight at them. There's four of them: Hunter, Minty, big Tibby and some wee tool I don't know. The wee guy looks right up for it, thinks he's the ticket. Probably because he has no idea what he’s getting himself into, or that his baw-bag mates wouldn't be saying fuck all if they were on their own. I hold the stare.

"Just ignore them, Tommy. They're not worth the hassle." Molly says intentionally loud enough for them to hear.

"Aye, Tam, better dae whit yer wee slag says." That Hunter's pushing his luck. "Whit? Whit ye fuckin' lukin' it, cunt? Wantin' a fuckin' doin'?" Hunter’s swaggering over. I stand up quick, staring straight at him. We're toe to toe squaring up and Minty and the other wee guy are heading over. We've all got our backs up except Tibby, he's still sat down.

"Fuckin' do the snobby cunt, Hunter!" Minty shrieks. We're both totally still. He's right in my face; his breath stinks. My pulse is going mental. I can’t lose face here or they'll walk all over me then Molly's fucked. Just fuck off, you smelly wee cunt. How long is this going to take? He must know I'm not going to back down. Something hits me in the face; I flinch. Filthy bastard's just spat in my face. Don't move, just stare him right in the eye. He's going to go for me, he thinks I'm scared, he thinks he can sense it. Fuck it:

SLAP!

I've hit him. He's hit me. We're going to town, proper going ahead. Fuck! He's cut me! Cunt's always tooled up but so am I. Come a-fucking-head! I rip right into him, through his ear, his lip, right through his eye. He’s cut bad, I’m just tearing lumps out him like it’s easy. He's on the back foot, screaming, I've got him. Fuck, what? This wee baw-bag's jumped in, who the fuck does this wee arsehole think he is? Cut him up, fuck him. Fuck the both of them, cut them both up! The wee pricks down. Hunters falling back again, screaming. What? Minty's jumped in, no! Getting tired. Fuck, Hunters back up, I can’t fucking see! What? Where's Minty? Yes! Big Tibby's stepped in, pulled Minty off, I fucking knew Tibby was a good cunt. Here we fucking go! Hunters down again, I've got him. I'm on top of him. I'm cutting him to shreds. He's screaming. I stop, poised over him. He's terrified, I can see it in is eyes, I can smell it. I'm breathing hard and bleeding but can’t feel a thing. He's a mess, blood everywhere. I don't move, don't say a word, just let him take it in. I step off him, still staring him down. He drags himself backwards and climbs up, limp, totally humiliated, scared to take his eyes off me. I stand back and look at Tibby. He's just grinning. Minty and the other wee dick with their tails between their legs. As they leave, I hear Tibby:

"I tried tae tell yeez, ya pair ah numpties, wee Tam knows the score."

    

     I don't move until they're gone. I turn to Molly, she's never looked so proud. She takes my weight a little by just standing shoulder to shoulder with me, but so’s not to look obvious. Not that I need her to with all this adrenalin. She's got a 'he's with me' look on her face. She's happy and more importantly, she's safe. We head down the road. I've got the swagger on now but she lets me have my moment. I love her so much. I walk her to her door just to make sure, but also because I know she's enjoying it. She's proud to be with me and I'm proud to be with her.

 

     As I walk back to mine I'm thinking about how long Hunter's going to be licking his wounds for. He lives rough, this’ll affect him for a long time, maybe the rest of his life. I walk into my garden just in time to see my owner coming out the house.

"Jesus, Tom, what the hell? I hope you won!"

I think he can tell by the way I'm walking that I did. He picks me up, takes me in, puts me straight in my travel box, takes me back out, puts me in the car and we're off to the vets. I'll be patched up in no time. I've got a big bag of nip stashed away for a special occasion. Molly and I are in for a good time tonight.

 

The End

Good Boozers

(a short story)

     As I wipe the crust from my eye's, I look over at the clock and see it's just before half-four in the afternoon. I climb out of bed and take my jacket off. My heads burst. My phone goes off and as it does I realise Im supposed to be down the pub. Sure enough, it's wee Tommy asking where I am. I put my jacket back on, brush my teeth and head round to 'The Captains Rest'. It's a good wee boozer with all the features any good boozer should have: drunk auld folks, a barman that knows your name and a venue down stairs that puts on mad nights that don't suit the place; mad brake-core and the likes.

     As I walk in, wee Tommy smiles over and holds up a whisky. He hands it to us as the barman tilts his head back.

"Boab?" He says.

I nod. I cant remember his name. Folk just call me Boab because Im some size. Two polis come in, throwing us a growl as they walk past, heading towards the kitchen. They're wearing pushbike helmets. I clock wee Tommy's fizzer with don't-growl-at-us mischief written all over it. 'Here we go' I think to myself. Wee Tommy sees my look of despair and just laughs. He knows I know exactly what he's thinking. I reach into my pocket, fumble through some money, then hand him a score.

"That should be about halfers?" I half ask, half demand. I've just got here, my head still hurts from last night and he's already up to no good. He hasn't even said hello. The first words out his mouth are 'Outside in two?'

I laugh and shake my head in mock disappointed agreement. Two minutes later, I've necked my drink and I walk outside. I spark a fag and look up to see wee Tommy running back across Great Western Road holding a big plastic bag. I stand in the way of the CCTV and keep edgy while wee Tommy picks up the polis bikes, which someone else has already kicked over, then pulls a massive motorbike padlock out the bag, chains the two bikes to each other and the nearby lamppost, then we just walk across the road into The Winter Gills where we wait for our coppers to look like tubes, knowing they're being watched.

"What d'ye think then?" I ask.

"They'll call it in as they walk over to the bike shop, lookin' fuckin' stupid as they do."

Sure enough, wee Tam, as usual, knows the score. Exactly as he said. We piss ourselves laughing, having a quick whisky as we watch them scunner over to the bike shop, then we head off to Oscar Slater's before they get back.

     Oscar Slater's is a cracking boozer, but it's a bit hairy. Tommy gets in a couple more whisky's then it's on to pints and it's my round again. Wee Tommy's sat down talking to some auld boy and Im standing at the bar with my back to the side door, when suddenly somebody crashes into me, screeming, gives me the fright of my life, burying a fucking axe in the bar, demanding all the cash, wereing a balaclava. The barman's shiting it. So am I if am perfectly honest but the barman's fumbeling about all over the shop, bricking it. This nutter starts going pure Radio Rental, threating to chop folk up, reaching over to grab the barman, but when he goes to grab his axe out the bar, the fucking thing's stuck! I just take one step forward and crack him with my left and he goes flying back into the doorframe, totally sparked. Immediately all these Old-Grey-Whistle-Test types are on him. They've all got their belts off, tying him up, belting his hands up behind his back, his feet together, then another belt holding the two belts together. These auld boys must've done this before, it's impressive. Everyone starts singing my praises and offering to buy me and wee Tommy drinks but we explain we're not wanting to deal with any pigs so we can only stay for one.

     We have our drink, laughing at this clown on the ground who now, with his balaclava off, shiting himself, just looks like some harmless dirty, dying, junkie fuck. Wee Tommy's making me out a hero but we both know he'd have cracked the guy before the axe was even out the game. Tommy's a tiny guy but he doesn't fuck about.

     We head round to Nice 'n' Sleazy after that. It's not a proper boozer, there's never any jakes cutting about, everyone's got a hair-do like they're all at art school and plan to just hand themselves in at the end a term. A pub full of Ziggy Stardust's. It's an OK boozer, but. The staff are mostly sound, even the fucking bouncers are alright, and that's saying something. As we're walking in I tell Tommy I hope this wee birds working.

"Who, fuckin' Zebidee?"

"Naw man, no Zebidee. The wee gypsy girl."

"You still obsessed wi' her man? Why don't ye just ask her out?"

"Fuck off, Tam. Then we'd no' be fuckin' back again. This is a guid boozer but it's no' the place ye fall about steemin', askin' out the staff. Behave yersell. Fuckin' Zebidee, but?"

"Aye, but she's a nice lassie, man. She's always got a smile."
"Aye, she has, hasn't she? Always says hello when we see her out jumpin' about like a broken pogo stick, right out her gums, wired to a fuckin' dynamo. Pure wham bar, man. Lovely girl, but."

It's still my round so I try and work it so the wee gypsy serves me. Perfect timing. Every time she serves me I try and talk proper so she doesn't think Im a pure mad hairy.

"Hiya, what can i get you?" 

"Hello there, can I just have two pints of Guinness please?"

"Regular or extra cold?"

"Just regular, thanks." She's fucking lovely man, pure wee darling. She just skulks about behind the bar looking dead self conscious, not realising how lovely she is. Long black hair with curls in, and sometimes she wears specks. She's got a tooth missing at the front left of her smile and pure lovely big lips.

     We get our pints then turn to the pool table and stick our names down. We're not waiting long before we win the table. More pints and plenty of pool. We're both pretty handy with a cue so we get rid of any challengers with ease. Daft students, man, can't play the game at all. At least that's what I thought til this wee darling dressed up in a rainbow comes along and gubbs us both. Nice girl, dressed like a clown the same as wee Zebidee but not quite as mental. We get her and her mate a drink and have a laugh with them for a while then we politely leave them to it and head off to The Variety.

     The Variety's kind of an unofficial Celtic pub, it's full a auld yin's during the day and a similar crowd as Sleazies at night. Our mate Mark's got a thing for one a the barmaids in here so we think we might see him but we don't.

"I'll phone him before we head out, see what he's up to." I say.

"There was football on the day, man. He'll be out the east end, steamin', then off to one of his wee sisters pals for his hole, later. Fuckin' tart, man!"

"Wind it in Tommy man, he's no that bad."

"Aye he is, man. He's all doom, gloom an' broken heart one minute, then flingin' it up anythin' it'll fit in the next. Fuckin' chancer." Tommy says, laughing.

"Right enough." I have to agree.

Im back up at the bar when I get a tap on the shoulder. I turn around and it's the wee bird from the pool table, the one wearing the rainbow. I cant remember her name, but.

"I'll get these, what are you having?" She asks.

"Guinness, cheers."

"The same for Tommy?"

"Aye, cheers."

We're all getting chatting again; both myself and wee Tommy are on form as usual. The girls are laughing thier tits off and somewhere amongst the drunken stories - which are so fucked they must seem made up - we realise we're all heading to The Admiral after for Kaput! We all relax and just enjoy each others company, until it occurs to me that this cute wee thing might fancy us. Why the fuck would she be into me? I haven't eaten anything today and we were shit-faced last night so maybe it's just me being steaming. Im not sure, but now everytime I open my mouth another problem seems to fall out. No-one notices, least of all her. Why the fuck do I get so nervous when I think I might pull? Wee Tommy's here to keep them laughing, thank fuck, then we're off out. The girls jump into the shop next door for fags, so me and Tommy are just waiting. I chin him about there names but he just laughs, shrugs and says to keep our ears open.

We're just watching the madness of Sauchihall Street fall all over its self, when Tommy's phone goes off. He walks out into the depth of the pavement as he answers, looking at his feet. I just space out for a wee bit until I notice some dick in Tommy's face. This should be a laugh.

"What mate? Hold on a wee second, I'll phone you back… alright, cool, I'll see you in there." Then he looks this headbanger straight in the eye and starts laughing. "Naw, you give me money."

I notice the wee tadger's got a lock-back in his hand, so I step out behind him as Tommy walks forward, kind of ushering him back.

"I said, you give me money." Tommy repeats.

The wee prick accidently steps back onto my toes, and as he does I reach round and take the blade out his hand.

"Your fuckin' tee's oot, wee man." I say down into the top of his head, thouroghly enjoying my 'Jake McQuillan' moment. Tommy grabs him by the throat.

"Empty yer fuckin' pockets ya fuckin' heeder! Right fuckin' now!"

The wee prick pulls an old phone and a clatty wee Velcro wallet out his pockets and hands them over, then Tommy rags him off down the street the other way from where we're going, kicking him up the arse as he does. The wee prick looks back to check the size of me and gets a fright for his trouble. Me and Tommy turn and laugh.

"That was Mark on the phone, he'll get us in there." Tommy says, as I give him the wee guys blade. He sticks everything in his pocket just as the girls spill out the shop.

"We off then?" The rainbow girl asks, unwrapping her fags.

"Aye, taxi down here." Tommy points.

We cross the road and just as we get to the other side Tommy bends down, pretending to do his laces and drops everything the wee prick had down a stank.

"Did ye even check that?" I ask, stupidly.

"Did I fuck, man, sort it out." We jump into a taxi and sit down. The cute wee rainbow girl sits on my knee. I put my hand on her hip and suddenly go quite quiet. Thank fuck for Tommy's patter.

     We get to The Admiral which is another unofficial Celtic pub, and have a few drinks upstairs before the downstairs doors open. I drink harder at first, trying to get my nerves sorted. She catches me, I think, because she gives me look I translate as 'relax, I wont bite'. Maybe Im just para. Either way it's daft, Im massive and Im scared of a wee lassie.

     By the time we get down stairs Im doing better. We're all fucked, up doin' some dreadful dancing. All the Sleazies staff are in except the wee gypsy. Zebidees jumping about like a loon. She says hello to us, nice lassie. Tommy tells me Mark's just sent him a text, he's not coming out, he's off to his wee sister's mate's gaffs for his hole, right enough.

     Tommy and the wee rainbow's pal are up at the bar and we're sat down talking about tunes and gigs when she plants one on me. I can't believe my luck as she's whispering in my ear.

"So will you keep me warm tonight, then?"

Fuck me sideways! Don't panic! Keep it together, man. I smile and give her a wee kiss and ask her if she'd like that. She nods and cuddles in.

     It doesn't seem like long before we're in the taxi again and Im asking her where Tommy and her mate are, but she tells me not to worry about them and how they're doing OK. We head for hers, thank fuck because mine's a fucking health hazard this weather. We're listening to tunes and having a wee kiss and a cuddle when she asks if I'd mind jumping in a quick shower. My heart fucking stops. She can probably hear my paranoia buzzing from there.

"Eh... no, yeah, sure." I say, my voice trembling.

"And is it OK if I come with you?"

Fucking trout! I smile and she bursts out laughing. Next thing I know we're in the shower and Im just worried Im going to hurt her because she's half my size. I don't hurt her. It's just amazing. How did I get this lucky? She's fucking perfect, her tits are fucking perfect. This image would be one a the most beautiful in the history of the world if I wasn't in it. She's up on the balls of her feet with her back arched, her hands on the tiles and she's screaming her lungs out. After fuck-knows how long we're just standing under the shower and she's cuddling in with her face buried into my chest, or at least the top of my belly. My cock's hanging down and knocking inbetween her thighs. Im still a bit raging about how the cheeky cow asked me to come for a shower so I piss on her legs.

     About ten minutes later she tells me she's got to be up in a few hours. So much for keeping her warm, what was that about? I get dressed and she watches, fuck knows why. She gets me to the door and asks me if Im going to ask her for her number.

"Oh, aye, of coarse." I take my phone out and she takes it off me and sticks her number in then rings herself.

"I've got yours now. So, will I meet you before the Errors gig or shall I just get you there?"

"Aw, right, well I guess I'll phone you and then we'll sort something out." I'd totally forgotten we'd talked about that.

"I'll look forward to it." She tells me. Maybe I shouldn't have pissed on her legs. "I had a really good time tonight, Boab, thanks."

"Me too, I'll eh, I'll phone you... well, when's the best time?" I ask, nervously.

"When ever you like, the sooner the better, though." She says smiling. I give her a kiss and leave. I check my dialled numbers straight away, she must've typed it in herself just to save me the brasser of asking her name again. Jane, how did I forget that? I head home and on the way I text wee Tommy to see if he got home safe. He replies straight away. He's shocked, too. Jane's mate he pulled, Molly, she had him tied up. I honestly cant fucking wait til next weekend.

The End

 Copyright Roddy Smith 2015.

Victory

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