‘Aye, ah huv!’ she says belligerently, then looks at us in disdain before storming off.
Day 40
Today in the junky transfer market: OUT: Seeker, IN: old smelly Leith hippy Dennis Ross and a rodent-faced radgeworks fae Sighthill who goes by the name ay Alan Venters.
I’ll certainly miss Seeker (again, it’s a club of one I’m in), basically cause I know it’ll be harder to motivate myself tae exercise every morning and afternoon.
Day 41
It’s a lovely morning, and I’m up early to do the weights and the rope. To my surprise, Audrey comes through, tapping on the patio doors. I think of her as Bowie’s little girl with grey eyes, say something, say something … as she joins me in her customary silence, doing some weights and skipping. But afterwards, we sit and chat in the garden. Audrey doesnae say, but it’s clear she didnae care fir Seeker. Perhaps understandable. After a bit we go in for breakfast, as the others rise in a cacophony of groans and yawns.
On the menu: scrambled eggs and surprisingly good vegetarian sausages, with tons ay broon HP Sauce. The downside: that Venters gadge sitting on his tod, shaking, but giving out a malevolent vibe. Audrey and Molly are both visibly creeped out by him. That cunt is trouble. Not my problem, though.
Having cracked Joyce, I’ve finally moved on to Carl Rogers. More interesting than I thought: I want to finish it before I go, for Tom’s sake.
Day 42
It pishes heavily half an hour at a time, before the rain seems tae vanish back up intae a silvery sky ay nippy, ragged-ersed clouds.
Audrey has replaced Seeker as my fitness partner. After a session we sit and chat about music and life. She tells me she worked as a nurse with terminally ill people but got seriously depressed and started raiding the morphine in the controlled-drugs cupboard.
So she’s become a friend, which instantly knocks her off my J. Arturoing jukebox. Ye cannae wank aboot mates, even ones with tits and fannies: it just disnae work for me.
Molly and Ted leave us. Their time here is up. Ted comes up to me and goes, ‘Ah didnae like you at first cause ah thoat ye wir aw snidey n superior, eywis sneakin away oan yir ain n no mixin. Then ah realised that ye jist wanted a bit ay peace n tae git through it yir ain wey.’ I give him a surprisingly heartfelt hug. I’m even more shocked when Molly embraces me and kisses me on the cheek, and says, ‘I’ll miss arguing wi you, ya radge.’ I return the kiss and wish her well. Ted and Molly are the two I like least from the original crew, but I’ll miss them, as I’m singularly unimpressed by the new intake. Thank fuck I’m offski on Thursday. Can’t wait.
I sit up alternating between reading Rogers and writing mair aboot Orgreave.
Day 43
Keezbo graduates with honours fae our drug users/substance abusers project, but doesnae seem too excited about it all. ‘Chin up, buddy,’ I tell him, ‘the Fort Rhythm Section’ll be back in action soon. Toughest skiers.’
‘Toughest skiers …’ he sadly responds.
What’s up wi that fat Jambo cunt? The fuckin coupon on him! He’s breaking my heart! Before he walks out he hugs me, and it’s like being mauled by a fat, shaved, sweating bear. ‘Ah’ll miss ye,’ he says, as if we’ll never see each other again! Then the fat cunt hands us this envelope. When he’s gone I open it up; inside is the team photae ay us aw in the Wolves strips.
Day 44
Brian Clough spent forty-four days at Leeds United. I’d rather have been him than me. No a great deal ay time tae turn roond a club. No a great deal ay time tae turn roond a life.
I mind of that superb John Cooper Clarke number, ‘Beasley Street’ and the lyrics: ‘Hot beneath the collar, an inspector calls …’ Well, fucked if we dinnae have three ay them today, fae the NHS, Social Work Department and Scottish Office respectively. The Daily Express ran a piece on Skreel’s ‘escape’ and did a feature on the ‘junky five-star hotel’, with a helpful editorial saying that the place should be shut doon. Len tells me that a sleazy paedophile-type with a press pass was hanging around outside, harassing the staff for quotes.
It’s amazing how seedy scumbags (the press) can write shite, and demented retards (the public) suddenly go up in arms and then opportunistic slime (the politicians) jump right on the bandwagon. Such is British life. So now there is to be a ‘comprehensive review of the facility’.
It actually brings us all together. We feel like celebs and are very complimentary about the unit. As the veteran, I do most of the talking, though Audrey’s now saying her piece and Dennis Ross as the oldest, most mature and articulate member of the new breed is making a sterling contribution. (In the gairdin ay eunuchs, even the gadgie wi the two-inch cock cannae help but swagger.) We’re stressing tae the po-faced bureaucrats that it’s no easy ride. This is no piece of cake.
Tom, Amelia and Len and the other staff are obviously edgy. The unit might shut down. I refuse tae attend the ‘emergency house meeting’ as I’m hame the morn, preferring instead to watch the news. There’s a big heroin bust and the polis and politicians are lining up tae suck each other’s knobs and lick each other’s fannies, trumpeting on that they’re winning the ‘war against drugs’.
Aye, right. Of course ye are. Clueless cunts.
Day 45
And the next contestant in the Rehab Game is: none other than my old pal Mikey Forrester! Again, he’ll be creaking and sweating in his room for the next week, keeping out of everybody’s road and feart ay his ain shadow.
I caught the anxiety and confusion in his eyes and regarded his skeletal frame. It couldnae happen tae a nicer cunt, I thought.
Then, as he saw me, his eyes lit up, and he shuffled ower tae us and went, ‘Mark … awright, mate?’ He looked roond aw shifty and worried. ‘What’s the story here?’
I realised that I looked just like him, only a few weeks back, and was just as scared. So I took him tae ma room, where he sat shivering, skin pitted like plucked chicken, and gied the cunt ma honest view ay the situ. Apparently, the nondy fucker tried to brek intae a chemist’s at Liberton. ‘Ah hud seen that Christiane F oan video, ken?’
The fuckin bam slavered on, and I tried tae listen, but kept anticipating Mater n Pater’s arrival in the motor tae take me away fae aw this. Sure enough, Len came in and Mikey let oot a groan, as I handed him the psychic-rehab baton, and the doss cunt was led oaf tae his room and the long days ay detox that stretched ahead.
But I was oot ay here, packing up the last ay ma shite. The final item ah put in my bag wis ma diary and journal. He’s been a good friend, but I doubt ah’ll be seeing him again. Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.
I say goodbye tae Audrey, who still has a week to go, and tell her that her strategy ay saying fuck all and keeping her heid doon is exactly the right yin. A kiss, cuddle and exchange ay numbers, and I’m roond tae the office tae get discharged.