— How come?
Eh coughs n swallays doon what wis comin up, the hoor stickin in ehs gullet like a cat’s furbaw. Once ehs eyes stoap waterin eh goes, — Well, they reckoned it wis aw comin tae an end. Wi aw they Yank bases in Scotland, wi wir in pole position fir a tannin fae they Soviet ICBMs. So every fucker went mental. Strangers jist went hame n shagged each other daft. Lassies banged any cunt they could git thir hands oan.
Aye, it came back tae me that fuckin instant; as soon as they fuckin Twin Tooirs went doon ower New York, ah wis right roond tae Lara’s wi ma new Slipknot album, six tins ay Rid Stripe n a chicken jalfrezi fae the Shimla. N Cat Stevens n aw, jist as backup. She wis oan fuckin hoalidays in the south ay France, nae doot in the airms ay some garlic-smelling Froggy cunt fill ay insincere fears ay impendin apocalypse!
— Apparently that Lara wis even gaun up tae St Andrews tae stalk thon Prince William, ah’m telling the boys, drawin in Neebour Watson n the Duke tae the fold. Eftir whit Jen’s telt ays, it’s open season oan yon hoor. — Aye, ah goes oan — she’s goat a big fancy fir um. That wid be some foursome right enough, though wir talkin aboot outside the duvet here; nowt against the Windsor boy; a sensitive laddie, ay that uv nae doots, jist dinnae like the idea ay other cock sharin ma kip!
Erchie hus a laugh at that yin, n the Neebour gies a peely-wally smile while the Duke signals up a round ay black gold. Fuckin wonders’ll nivir cease!
— Imagine if yon Lara ended up banged up but, Wills takin the responsibility n the ensuin male child becomin heir tae the throne, the Neebour says, — but then an even bigger shock if eh’s a wee cunt thit wants tae ride hoarses, aye, but hus innate skills at table fitbaw as well as as penchant fir the tarry!
The Duke guffaws at that yin, n ah hae tae admit, ah’m no above haein a wee chuckle masel.
— Aye, ya hoor, ah sais, — the Kingdom is right; pump in some Fife DNA tae perk up that stagnant auld aristocratic gene pool. Been done in the past. Perr midwife wid fuckin feint when she saw the bastard hud a chin like Dan Dare! Aye, mibbe ay wis too hasty in rulin oot two-a-sides under the duvet!
They aw huv a giggle at that yin n wi bang the glesses ay black gold thegither like in days gone by. But no quite, cause eftir this scoop ah’m gittin picked up by Jenni n wir gaun through tae Kirkcaldy tae thon poetry slam thit she’s goat ma name doon fir. Showed hur some ay the stuff ah’d been writin whin ah wis tarried up; cathartic originally, helped ays tae git ower the shock aboot Kravy. She takes a wee sketch at it n says ah’ve goat talent. Ah’ll take that, ya hoor.
Even the auld man’s comin roond. Showed um the poems n aw, n eh wis well impressed by some ay the political content in a few ay thum. — Fuck me, eh goes, ehs eyes bulging, — ye do listen tae ays eftir aw!
— Nae fuckin option, huv uh, ah sneers, but it fair made the auld cunt’s day. Mine n aw, hus tae be said.
26.
FIFE POETRY SLAM
THE HALF-FILLED HALL is still implausibly smoky. My feet stick to the worn carpet as I pass several trophy-filled cabinets and settle in my seat at the bar. Jason’s very nervous. — You’ll be fine, I tell him.
His eyes have never left a skinny anaemic-looking guy with black hair, who sits over in the corner. — Aye, but Ackey Shaw’s readin the night n aw. Ma debut, n ah’m oan the same bill as ma mentor, ya hoor.
As the MC announces him, Jason stands up and makes his way past the tables to some cheers as he skips confidently onstage up to the mike and adjusts it down to his height. With his mittened hand, he pulls a pair of reading specs from a case in the inside pocket of his overcoat and puts them on. Then he goes back into a small leather case he’s been carrying and produces a sheath of pages. — This yin’s fir the soccerati, he announces. — It’s called: ‘John Motson on the Death of Sylvia Plath’.
There is respectful silence. Jason starts to read from the first poem, reciting in an exaggerated English accent:
I don’t get it myself as I haven’t a clue as to who John Motson is. But quite a few people in the crowd laugh. I watch the guy he calls Ackey Shaw, who is nodding in quiet endorsement. A studenty couple at the bar I talk to seem to think that Sylvia Plath would see it as a tribute, so that’s good enough for me. Jason’s obviously a talented wordsmith and it’s evident that he loves the applause. Seeming to grow in stature, he looks over to me and smiles. — Thanks tae Jenni ower thaire for encouraging me baith tae write, but also tae perform.
And he gives me a wee wink, which makes me blush.
I now realise that I was so wrong about him. To think I thought that he was just a sleazy wee pervert. He’s not; he’s excellent. Even more forceful on his next poem, Jason clears his throat, letting the chatter of the audience subside into a hush, then states with strident pride: — This yin’s called ‘Eulogy Fir Robin Cook’, whae last year, or wis it the year afore that, anywey, whae tragically passed away.
The crowd really seems to lap that one up, especially Jason’s dad, who is at a front-stage table with some of his friends drinking. He claps in a demented manner, whooping and cheering his son. — You is ma niggah! he shouts, pointing at Jason.
Ackey Shaw gets up and graciously says, — Excellent stuff from Cowdenbeath’s very own Jason King there, before launching into his own set.
After the event, Jason greets me at the bar, ordering drinks for us both. He opts for whiskies, not his usual tipple. He tells Ackey Shaw, who looks a little bit bemused, — One ay your best lines: whisky n freedom gang thegither, then announces, — Slainte!
People are coming over to congratulate him on his performance. His father seems to be holding back, then steps forward. — Ye made me proud up there, son, he says, all watery-eyed. Jason seems bowled over by this. — Well, ah’ve no eywis been a source ay that fir ye, Faither.
His dad’s eyes widen, and for the first time the father and son look very similar. — What d’ye mean?
— The jockeyin wis a failure. The hingin aboot here oan the dole. The lack ay interest in the political struggle.
His dad shakes his head sorrowfully. — Aw, son, ah’m sorry. Dinnae listen tae the likes ay me. These are different times. You always make ays proud, and he looks over at his friends, — me wi aw ma homies here n aw. Now you git oan through tae Bathgate the morn and git in the final ay that cup.