The Mush

We had a big win on the ponies one wild night last September, Gerry Gormley, Dave McKenna, The Mush and me. Straight from work and over to the track, drinking Green Monsters and The Mush on the powders as usual. Gerry had a tip from a guy who knew a guy and before you knew it, we'd talked each other into putting the best part of a weeks wages each on the 3 horse in the 7:45 - I'd tell you it's name but then you'd be as wise as me. The Mush and me we had a tipple going too, emboldened by Jamie's and the odd line of whatever it is The Mush snorts. Before we knew it we had a shit load of money in our hands and a party going with some washed out old whores who hang around the track on pay day. Gerry was up for getting a motel room and driving over with the girls by way of the liquor store, phoning out sick and party, party, party. Sounded good but  I reckoned the wives might miss us and what would we tell the gaffer, we all got sick together? We'd invited the old fucker to the bar with us not two hours ago. Dave wondered how the fuck he was going to explain the bank roll to his Mrs. He'd sworn off the gambling at the same time me and him went to AA, 6 months ago. She'd leave him she said and we all believed her. 

You know what a claiming race is, right? Well by nine that night I owned one 1/4 of a trotting horse. They don't tell you which bit you own but The Mush reckoned I'd got the arse. He might have been right. I suppose it was inevitable that we'd get to this stage. When everyone at the track knows you by your first name you've probably bought a horse or two without realizing it over the years anyway. Such is life. 

It never really sank in that I was a part owner. Sure nobody went to the track, at least not like in the old days and we'd parked in the owners spaces for years, we sat in the grandstand and drank in the owners bar too. Nothing changed until the bills started coming in. The old girl knew something was wrong when I started beating her to the mail everyday. Our nag had run the race of his life that night and looked like he'd never win again. Feed, stables, exercising, grooming, transportation, riders, sulkies they all cost money but the biggest bill of all was the fucking vet bill. Gerry had a few bucks from his old man who'd owned a couple of two family houses in Kearney so he didn't feel it too bad. Dave's wife wised up to what was going on and, true to her word, packed up her bags and left him for the bosom of her clan back in Connemara. The Mush didn't give two fucks. No one really knew what he did for money but he lived way beyond our union pay grade. Both him and wife, no kids thankfully, knew how to party and one or the other but never both usually went to the meetings. 

A lot of people thought The Mush was a fool but I was never one of them. I'd tear the arse with him from time to time but I kept him away from my family. How'd you keep your kids on the straight and narrow when your best mate's got half of Columbia up his nostrils? The Mush wanted to change the horse's name to Second Mortgage but they wouldn't let us. It sure as hell felt like a second mortgage every month. If I had my time again I'd be a vet no doubt about it.

The Mush had a plan. He'd fucked the regular rider off and teamed up with a lad from Ecuador. Fuck knows how, Mush knew no Spanish and The Ecuadorian no English but anyways they worked something out. The Mush invited the gaffer and a few big shots from work out to the track one night, guests of ours. He made a big scene of parking in the owner's spots, he played it like the owners bar was an invite to the Kennedy Compound. As my accountant Jimmy the Jew would say, 'He shmoooooooooooozed them big time.' I didn't have a clue what he was up to but I sure thought he'd lost it when he put a grand on our nag and encouraged our guests to do likewise. I'd long since given up betting on my own pony indeed I used to bet against him. Gerry and Dave weren't there and I don't think they knew what was going on either but fair play to The Mush our nag won though it was close. You could see the other riders holding back and our lad still had to beat the fucker half to death to get it over the line. I'm amazed there wasn't a stewards inquiry. Maybe The Mush had paid them off too. He'd sure as hell nobbled the riders. After much champagne, cigars and a complimentary blow job from a track-side whore in the men's bathroom we no longer owned a second mortgage. The Mush played it beautifully; like he didn't want to sell but by nine o'clock that night, the gaffer and three other big shots from work were the proud owners of a pony with two wins under it's belt out of 12 starts. It would never win again. The Mush and me, we just about broke even. Just about.

Johnny L

Multiple Sclerosis - Hilarity Central

Cilla was right and little surprises me more than the daily servings of uncertainty offered up by body and frequently mind.

My sister had visited me in London for the weekend to celebrate her birthday. Kisses exchanged she headed north for home and my Sunday afternoon took on the familiar comfort of the local pub with friends. The appearance of my sister aside, all staggeringly normal so far. The date was 5 March 2000 and the happenings of that afternoon and evening have rendered that day somewhat significant.

I was twenty six, in fine fettle with a brilliant mind, breathtakingly handsome, a shade under six feet five and given to the occasional exaggeration (it could be argued that I’ve not reached six feet). I was leading a lifestyle which would have given Shaun Ryder cause for concern but enjoying it immensely. I had a decent job which was becoming a little humdrum as I could do it on autopilot. It was my first job in London and having given me the security to move there and funded the excesses of the last eighteen months had more than served its purpose. I was keen to move on to bigger and better things.

So here I was sat in The Hand & Flower in Kensington and it was my round. The following day would consist of little more than some top quality chair spinning whilst affecting an authoritative demeanour so no reason to take it easy today. On approaching the bar I felt a strange tingling sensation in my foot, no doubt just the way I’d been sat, I returned with drinks. An hour or so passed and I once again got up to honour my booze obligations, this time I was experiencing similar sensations in my hands. Taking extra care carrying the drinks I sat down, chugged on a cigarette and wondered if aspects of my lifestyle might be catching up with me. I quickly tossed that thought to a distant space at the very back of my mind. Later, the two minute walk to my flat took rather more concentration than usual but I’d long lost track of how much had been drunk so wasn’t unduly concerned.

In the office the chair spinning didn’t seem quite as fulfilling as usual, I soon diagnosed myself with an inner ear problem and poor circulation. My newly diagnosed problems worsened so I staggered to the doctor’s surgery only to be told by a locum that I was suffering from stress and a week off work should sort me right out. By Wednesday I knew I was in trouble so arranged to see the head gp honcho; this guy was onto it in a flash, I was flapping around like one of the more inept contestants on Strictly Come Dancing so it may not have been that difficult to spot. Although I wasn’t given a specific diagnosis for quite some time, I was exhibiting classic symptoms of multiple sclerosis.

Many tests followed over a number of weeks and months including spending my birthday in hospital. One such test was a lumbar puncture where you lie on your side in a foetal position while a large needle is jabbed into your spinal chord. I’m not quite sure what it’s meant to achieve but loss of dignity was thrown in for free. The doctor asked if some students could watch, “of course” I said, “they’ve got to learn somehow”. Enter four attractive female medical students gazing upon my lower back, arse and a couple of stray balls.

Eventually I got the diagnosis. “OK, I’ve heard of it, get on with the curing as these chairs won’t spin themselves. What, no cure?! I’ve got it for ever?!!” Not what I was expecting.

And so began a succession of medications; some did nothing, some did something, some were hugely enjoyable, others less so. Painkillers, anti-inflammatories, self-administered subcutaneous injections, Viagra and many others, I’ve done the lot.

These days quite a lot of time is given over to trying to remember things, I wile away hours staring at the toilet bowl convinced I need to urinate only to concede that I must have already done so and forgotten about it. Throw in some pain, fatigue and blindness and it’s like narcotic withdrawal without the high. It’s not all bad though, I enjoy the guessing game I play with my limbs, it can be like having an unruly pet, sometimes they’ll do as requested, sometimes a rough approximation of what’s asked and sometimes something entirely different and unexpected.

Oh and I lost my job as well, those bastards are fooling themselves if they think they’ll find another chair spinner of my calibre.

T McB

The Silver Surfer

Like most 9 year olds in the 70s in the north of England I lived in hand me down clothes. High waisters, patch pockets, shirts with massive collars I had them all, all slightly to very well worn by my older cousins. I got good clothes for Christmas and Easter. Brand new. God knows I wasn't allowed to do anything mad like play out in them. Truth be told, I didn't really care what I wore then and, as I said earlier, everyone was in the same boat, though it does appear that somebody, somewhere up the food chain was getting brand new clothes bought for them at other times than Christmas and Easter.

I had a zip up cardie from Marks and Spencers that I loved. I had a mop of blonde hair and my best friend had black hair, we used to pretend to be Starsky and Hutch. I always felt the part more when I wore that cardie for some reason though I don't think David Soul ever wore M & S. Mt best mate's  dad was a milkman, we used to take turns sliding across the bonnet of the van he used on his rounds. 

Other than loving that cardie, turquoise(a proper 70s colour if ever), cream and petrol blue stripes - God it sounds awful doesn't it? - I never really had any feelings towards my clothes. We were all scruffy little sods back then. Well that's not strictly true; I had a brown anorak that would have probably been the height of fashion if I were in an indie band in Scotland in 1986 but I wasn't; I was a 9 year old in the north of England in 1976. I didn't even play the recorder. I hated that anorak with a passion. I despised wearing it. I wore it under duress. In those days if your parents told you to do something you did it. Indeed, had my dad told me to wear it and then promptly got himself run over by a bus and killed I think I'd still have it on today.

Like a lot of 9 year old boys I had a bit of a thing for comics; The Avengers, Spiderman, The Fantastic Four and the like. I don't remember where it came from but I had a cloth Silver Surfer patch, about 4 inches square that depicted The Surfer gliding through a galaxy of stars set in a purple sky. I thought it was the coolest thing ever, cooler than my neighbour's air rifle and that was pretty damn cool, I can tell you. I begged my Mam to sew it on the old brown anorak, convinced that anything it touched would instantly become cool too. One Sunday evening she sewed it on on the left side chest area, right where I wanted it. Perfect. I was so happy. I put the jacket on and ran upstairs to the bathroom to stand on the wooden chair up there and look at myself in the only mirror in our house. To my immense surprise and disappointment my anorak hadn't suddenly become cool, the spirit of Stan Lee didn't rub off on the somewhat shapeless brown coat. No, I stood there looking at my reflection and saw myself in a crappy brown coat with a big purple square with a naked silver man stood on a silver surfboard; my heart sank. The eleven year olds were going to eat me alive on the school bus the next morning I knew that for a fact. I told my Mam I loved it.

JL

(No) Head For Heights.

I'm clinging to the upper branches of the highest tree in the woods with my right arm while my left hand is employed in opening the blade of the pen knife I have wedged between my lips. I can taste the bark and soil on the handle, it doesn't bother me, I'm used to it, I'm 11 and my hands are permanently dirty. I can taste the residue of oil left from the chain that slipped off my bike about an hour ago too; normal tastes for a boy of my age in the '70s.

The tree sways in the wind, it's a wild day, it doesn't bother me, I'm 11, fearless when it comes to stuff like this. The  reason I'm up in these high, high branches today is that there's a rumour going around school that Sammy Ford has carved his name on this very tree higher than I had previously carved mine. Me and Sammy they reckon we're the best climbers in school. Sammy's not bad but I'm way better. It was me who showed him how to climb a tree when the trunk offers no limbs. It's easy once you know. You grab a branch at the end, where it's flexible and invariably a long way away from the trunk. You pull the branch down and inch your hands along until you get to the point where it offers resistance then you flip yourself up and you're away.

Sammy has indeed carved his name a good 3 feet above when I'd carved mine. Well done Sammy. Should have gone higher pal. I'm taller than Sammy, 2nd tallest in our year, in the boys. As tall as she is I don't see Sharon Marwood, who's the tallest in our year, carving her name up here anytime soon.She's not a tree climber, at least I don't think she is. I don't think she has a pen knife either. I reach up with my left hand and over the next 15 minutes I carve my name in a branch so fine I fear the bark will just churn up and then I carve out Sammy's, like he was never here.

That was over 30 years ago. Today, now, right this friggin moment, I'm 45 feet up on a free standing scaffold inside a shopping centre changing light bulbs on the over night shift. The platform is about 8 feet long and 2 feet wide, the whole contraption sways when you move. As the new guy I have been volunteered to go 'up top' while the older crew members pass pipping and boards up to me until the tower is full assembled. It's been nerve wracking. I've lost about half my weight in sweat, it seems and, although my brain knows what to do it is unable to make my body function. I believe I'm safe, truly, I do. The scaffold is solid and built to regulation but it still fucking moves. I can't let go of the top guard rail, I'm squeezing it with both hands, knuckles pure white. My feet slide across the boards, I cannot lift them no matter how hard I try. I instruct my left arm to reach out to the fluorescent bulb above me but my arm just responds, 'Fuck you.' I'm am stuck up here paralyzed by fear. I have no idea how I am going to get down never mind how I am going to change any of these lights tonight. I wonder what old Sammy's up to these days?

JL

Lord of the Ring. The bungling smuggler with more luck than should be allowed in one day.

Lord of the Ring.

The bungling smuggler with more luck than should be allowed in one day.

Markus was an immensely likable guy. A cheeky chancer, with a glint in his eye, and a nose for mischief.  He’d been born in Australia, to Anglo-Aussie parents but had come back to the UK at the age of fifteen when his parents had separated.

I had met him some months earlier when he was working as a chef at my local gastro pub, and he could often be seen grabbing a swift pint in the bar on his breaks, resplendent is his chef’s whites, with the words Buddhist Punk spray painted on the back in flouresant pink.

It was coming up to the end of the century, when Markus had gone out for a beer with an old mate from down under. He had a proposition for him. How would he like a free trip to New Zealand for New Years Eve, to be one of the first people on earth to see in the new millennium? His mate explained that he was travelling back down under for a massive party, just outside Auckland, and he wanted Markus to come along. Of course, there was a small catch to this generous offer, but he reckoned Markus was up to the task. Markus had to assist him with ‘importing’ some very profitable merchandise.

On the day of the flight, Markus had rendezvoused with his friend at the airport. 22 hours in the air was not going to be comfortable; not with chronic constipation. However, his bowel discomfort was not due to anything he had eaten.  Upon meeting up, Markus noticed his travelling companion was wearing a new pair of Nike air-wear trainers. However, even from head height, something didn’t look quite right about them. ‘Don’t tell me, you’ve hidden your stash in those shoes?’ His friend assured him it was fine, and they would sail through immigration.

A day later, bleary eyed, they touched down in Auckland. It had been a somewhat uncomfortable journey, but Markus felt much better about his hiding place, than he did about his friends. As they headed for immigration, he decided it was best to hang back from his travelling companion, and not join the same queue.

30 minutes later, Markus was standing on the concourse, having sailed through customs and collected his case. His queue had moved quicker than that of his friend, so maybe he had just got stuck behind someone that customs had taken their time with. As 30 minutes became closer to an hour, Markus spotted an immigration officer exit an interview room, carrying a pair of brand new Nike air-wear trainers.

It was at this point that Markus suddenly had a realisation. He had no idea where they were going. His friend was the one who knew the exact location of the party, and where they we staying, but all Markus knew was that it was just outside the city.

Before he could shake the flight fatigue, and get his head together, customs officers appeared around him, and marched him off to detention.  It was obvious that, having been collared himself, his ‘friend’ had opted to cooperate, in the hope of lessening the impact of his own situation.

Over the next six hours, Markus played dumb. He refused everything but a search of his baggage, and stuck to the story that he knew nothing of his friend’s concealment. The cops had just smiled and said they would wait until he needed the toilet. At 10.30pm on millennium eve, banged up in a Kiwi immigration holding cell, an officer walked in and sat down across the table. He informed Markus that, due to it being millennium eve, and they were reduced to the minimum of a skeleton staff on this particular night, they had no option but to let him go.

Markus headed over the airport to the Holiday Inn, and booked himself a room. What the hell was he going to do? He was in New Zealand, with no contacts, no idea where they had been heading to, and a weight of pills groaning to be released. He decided to relieve himself of the discomfort, before anything else. However, once recovered; and due to the stress of the previous 36 hours, an indulgence felt like a necessity, rather than a reward.

At 5.30 am on the first day of the new century, Markus had formulated a plan in his grinning, spinning, head. He would head back to the terminal and get a flight to Melbourne, whereupon he would turn up at his father’s house, and make out he had flown 12000 miles to surprise him for the New Year. He would have a place to stay, he’d be a brilliant loving son; come all this way to see the ol’ man, and he could probably off load all the pills and turn a profit.

30 minutes later, he was standing at the Quantas desk of a deserted Auckland airport, and buying a ticket for the 9.10 am flight to Melbourne. The desk girl looked him up and down, before retaining his card, and asking him to wait a few minutes. The reality suddenly dawned. He must have been mad to think this was a good idea. Only 8 hours ago he had only just escaped being busted due to lack of staff, and now he had returned to the very same airport, pilled up, and still packing. Within a minute, two burley Quantas staff appeared by his shoulder and asked if he would accompany them to an office. Markus began to sober up very quickly, and rued the logic of making plans when you were buzzed off your face. What the hell had he been thinking? He resigned himself to his fate and wandered in to the office like a man condemned.

The smartly dressed guy from Quantas sat down on the other side of the desk and looked him dead in the eye. This was the end.

‘Sir, I would like to inform you that you are the first person to buy a ticket on Quantas in the new century, and as such, I am here by authorised, on behalf of the airline, to give you a cheque for $20’000, and your flight to Melbourne is courtesy of Quantas. Happy New year.’

Ian Hunter

Strangers In The Night

Strangers In The Night

I was on the dole and signed up for all the free courses I could get. A few weeks into an an A level English Lit course that I was about to give up for something else and I’m walking home from the evening class. It’s unseasonably cold and damp. The forecasted squally showers, whatever that means, grow into heavy rain. I still have a fair distance to walk and despite the weather and lack of employment I’m reasonably content if a little sodden.

Turning into a side street I come across an old bloke sat in an electric wheelchair – he‘s going nowhere fast.  He’s just sat there, miserable, wet and very stationary. ‘You ok?’ I offer. Of course he’s not ok you plank. No-one chooses to sit in the rain, in the dark, in the street, in a wheelchair.

‘One two’

‘Sorry?’

‘One two, one two’, and he points to the underside of the clunky great device, ‘one two’.

A few more questions are greeted with this stock answer, ‘one two, one two’ and accompanying hand gestures. It’s like having a conversation with a roadie at a stadium gig. I glean, through this semi binary dialogue, thumbs up/down, nods and smiles, that the wheelchair battery is flat and he’s been sat in the pissing rain for twenty minutes for help to come along. And now here I am, the help, unsuitably dressed in a flimsy sweatshirt that was more drip drip than drip dry and trainers where flippers would have been more appropriate. The Tesco bag I’m clinging to offers little protection to a tatty copy of Macbeth, a few scribbled on A4s and a biro so are given a home in a nearby bin. Following a pointing finger I set about pushing him home.

I realise pretty quickly that the wheels are locked at an angle which means we have to travel in little three yard semi circles and then drag it round a bit to continue. This could take a while. He’s a big fella and the wheelchair’s not exactly featherlight. So we’re one twoing along, uphill with locked wheels, pissing rain lashing our faces -  him bored and frustrated, me shattered and sick of making all the conversation. Arriving eventually at his bungalow I start to reflect on this curious road trip. I’ve been a good Samaritan but it’s no more than any normal decent person would have done. Poor old bastard must have hated every minute of this – stuck in his little numerical world reliant on a stranger to get him home. Our little one way chats have soon ground to a halt much like his transport. Once or twice he nods off, not surprising really judging by the time. It’s taken us four hours to finally arrive at his bungalow and we enter it like battle weary soldiers returning home from the front. I haul him in and collapse on the sofa, soaked and sore. I regain some sort of normality to my bursting lungs and ask if he needs anything or could I ring anyone. He points to a drawer and there’s a tin in it which I hand to him. He opens it and it’s full of folded notes and he offers me a few. 'Don't be daft mate, I don't want your money' I say. He bursts into tears and 'one two, one two, one twos’' a bit. I say I'd better go and he offers his hand and then gives me a thumbs up. I leave him sniffling in his living room and jog home in 10 minutes despite the fatigue that engulfs me.

I mean to go back the next day to check on the bloke but never do, nor the next day or any day in fact. And I regret that.

I enrolled on a computer course soon after. It was only a few streets away from where I was living and it finished at one. Or two. One or two anyway.

Chris C

 

I’m not really a dress person

“I’m not really a dress person” She’d told them before being pushed into the rather too grand changing room before the pink silk curtains were closed around her and three of the dreaded things were put in with her.

The changing room had three large mirrors decorated in gold frames; one in fount of her, and two at the sides. On the gold bar stretching across one of the mirrors hung the dresses she was being forced into. A tight fitting navy blue one, a ghastly pink one with frills and bows and a simpler peach one. There was no way on God’s earth she was going to let them where the pink one so she picked the navy one off the gold bar and began undressing her grubby clothes onto the cream carpet.

 

Outside the changing room, the men were talking. They were dressed in dark suites, clearly the other end of the class system to the girl in the changing room and knew it. The first man looked bored and slightly doubtful as he picked up the end’s of random dresses that hung in the huge department store.

"Do you honestly believe you can do this?” This first man asked the second, his disbelieve and spite in his voice.

"The second man paused before answering,

“She’s not pretty. Her skin’s too tanned, her hair doesn't curl and she’s too thin. The girl constantly looks unimpressed, she swears too much and has an uncanny habit of speaking what’s on her mind. She can’t dance, ride, play an instrument, sing, paint or sew.” He smiled “She’s not a lady”

"You’re going to lose Briggs” the first man laughed, “ you admitted it, you can’t make a girl from the streets into a lady, the idea’s preposterous!”

“So the girls got a bit of spirit! I like a tough challenge, but don’t worry” He flashed his white prefect teeth “I’ll pull through.”

The first man shook his head and tipped his hat at the lady running the store before leaving, his black coat sweeping through after the bell that rang as he left. When he had gone the poor girl in the changing room stepped out slightly nervously from behind the engulfing heavy pink curtains.

The dress clung to her body in the right places and showed off her tall slender figure. Her flat white blonde hair hung at her grubby shoulders and she bit her caked with dirt fingernails as the rich man cocked his head to the side. He smiled suddenly.

“We’ll take this one” He told the woman. She nodded and went to help her out of it back into the changing room.  

“I’ll make a lady out of you yet sunshine” He muttered and smiled taking a seat next to the room.

 

Eleanor 

The Silicone Index

Parking's the worst part about this job. Manhattan's a total nightmare, tickets are just a fact of life, an additional expense to be factored into the price of any job. We're circling around in the mid seventies on Park Avenue in the vain hope that a spot becomes available soon. I could park on Lex but the meters are for an hour; by the time I've gotten to the job site given it the once over it's time to rush back and feed the friggin meter some more. All the parking garages have a sign 'No Trucks,' and it's a pain in the balls anyways; you always forget some tool or fitting and have to go back to the truck then you get hassle from the prick attendant who'd already parked two BMWs and a frigging Range Rover in front of you, even though you told him you'll be two hours tops.

Fuck it, I'll double park and leave the apprentice in the truck. What an apprentice, he could come to work in a Brooks Brother's suit, spends more time sat in the fuckin truck making sure I don't gt hit with a ticket than he does plumbing.  What can you do? I tell him to keep his friggin eyes open for the Brownies never mind the babes. Some hope eh? Park Ave in July, hot as hell all the trophy wives passing by. Jesus don't these guys know they're only in it for the money? They have to. Guy last week, wife's a straight 10, no question, he's a little fat fuck, baldie headed sweaty mess stuffed into some ill fitting Armani suit and Gucci loafers. Sad bastard would look over dressed in a pair of LLBean chinos. I seen her looking at me. You ain't telling me she don't fuck around?

So here we are, plastic surgeon's office, the John's backed up. It stinks like fuck, there's a turd the size of a friggin baseball bat curled up in there and half a fuckin roll of  Cottenelle (The Softest & Most Gentle Toilet Tissue For Extra Sensitive Skin) and they're surprised it won't go down! Funny thing is, the receptionist, the nurse, the doc, the babe who puts you under, they're all looking at me like I did it. I think it's the receptionist, she looks guilty but what you gonna do, there's money in shit.

I put on my rubber gloves, don't laugh, I wear a pair of yellow friggin Marigolds,  get the auger, drop the head in and begin to snake away. The shit mashes up with the toilet tissue in the bowl and the dirty brown water splashes up against the sides, the stench increases exponentially. I purposely leave the door open so the receptionist can catch a whiff of it too. There's nobody in the waiting room. I'd close the door if there were. I turn the handle and bear down with my weight. Turning, turning, the shit, the tissue, the water, it all goes around and around then burps up at me the sound I've been waiting for. We're 5 feet through the bend and whatever the blockage was is in the stack now. We're good. I retrieve the auger snake and drop it in a large PVC bag, snap off my gloves and write up the bill.

He's a dick this doc, a real wise arse. I hand him the bill.

'Whoa, $250s for five minutes work? I'm in the wrong game.'
'Things are not too hot in the plastic surgery field at the moment then doc?'
'Not too good? This economy sucks, I haven't done a boob job in 3 weeks.'

JL

Milk

I'm sat here playing tunes by The Bunnymen, The Teardrop Explodes, Dexys, The Clash, The Undertones, The Specials and a whole host of bands from my formative years. My kids are in the kitchen doing their homework while their mother makes tea. This isn't how I thought it would be.

I've been home from work an hour now, I received the news slightly over two hours ago. My gaffer's secretary called me, "Tom said to tell you someone called Thatcher died." I always imagined I'd drop whatever I was doing and head for the nearest bar. I envisioned doing irreparable damage to my liver and taking a few days off to drink, to celebrate, to have the last laugh. I saw myself dedicating pints and shots to the miners, the print workers, the hunger strikers, the 1 in 10, the unemployed, those dependent on the National Health Service, those killed on The Belgrano ( I won't berate her for the Falkland's War. If the people living there wished to be British they deserved the full protections of the British military in my opinion), those who had their full time jobs replaced by two part time jobs, anyone ever subjected to a YOP or YTS scheme, those priced out of further education and all those children who had their school milk taken away. I imagined it getting nasty. I saw myself getting silly and going and celebrating outside the British Consulate - 845 Third Ave NY NY.

 Instead I'm killing time until tea and then I'm heading out to night school. I'm not even happy she's dead, I've felt no satisfaction. That doesn't mean I'm not sad she was ever born. There is a difference. They say the best revenge is to live a good life, I think they're right. So I'll raise a glass of milk tonight to all those who suffered under her government and I'll be content with the knowledge that the bastard never managed to grind me down. You're dead; I have a good life.

JL

Day trip to Glasgow Central – Part 1.

Back in the mid 90’s one of our more socially inept friends surprised us all by announcing that he wanted a career change.  He’d been a dry-liner since the age of 16 making really good money while the rest of us were either on income support or at college doing our best to drink our student loans and funding as many nights out as possible to the local pubs and clubs.

Snakes decided that the dry-lining business wasn’t for him anymore, so he retreated to his bedroom at his mams house armed only with an Amiga and a copy of Deluxe Paint II and taught himself how to be a graphic artist. 

At the end of his self-imposed exile he had produced as show reel which was impressive and creepy in equal measures being as its centre point was building from the local graveyard in which we’d spent an inordinate amount of time doing “research”.  The research of consisted of taking us taking LSD after nights out and sitting in the dark cemetery to see what we could see.  The answer being all sorts of things most of which to this day I couldn’t tell you if they were real or not. 

The giant bowl of cereal from The Big Breakfasts “Get Your Knobbly Nuts Out” was definitely not real.  Nor was the fact that the building turned into a giant Kerplunk but after that the jury is still out.

Off the back of his show reel and some coaching from his friends on how to appear normal in an interview he landed a job with a bona fide gaming software house in Glasgow.  At the time they were working on some big time games and won a few awards.  Buoyed by their success the company decided to reward their staff be taking over a city centre bar for an evening and providing free drinks for all staff and their guests.

This is where we came in.  Snakes obviously having a mad rush of blood to the head invited me and a couple of pals to the do and the attendant free entry into the next door club where Jeremy Healy was playing that night.

Now I’m not a lad’s night out, stag do, jolly boys outing kind of bloke.  Mostly because I’m wildly anti-social and mixing with people makes my knuckles itch.  I was however prepared to make an exception as the booze would be free and Snakes is an old time mate and we’ve got a lot of (nefarious) history together.

We rounded up the required “supplies”, booked the train tickets and a hotel through our mate’s missus and departed on the 13:30 to Glasgow.

There were three of us in our little train crew.  Me, Yorkshire Rick and Bryn.  Peado Paul was making his own way up in his car and was to meet us at the hotel.  Snakes was primed to meet us at the train station so nothing could go wrong.  The organisation had been conducted with military precision so nothing could go wrong.

The first thing that went wrong was that we thought the journey would be en-livened by some amphetamines before hopping on the train and then cans of LCL as we talked a load of bollocks through to our destination. 

Three blokes all talking at 100 miles an hour boarded the packed train.  No matter that we didn’t have seats we simply sat outside the toilets on our bags and cracked the cans open waiting for the conductor to come round.  He duly appeared and after looking at our tickets pointed out that we were on the Edinburgh train not the one to Glasgow Central.  This caused some heated speed fuelled debate amongst out little group accompanied by much swearing and gesticulation of lager cans.

Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour he told us we could get off at Edinburgh and hop a train across to Glasgow only needing to pay for a ticket for that part of the journey which we could get from the machines at the station.  “Happy Lads?” he said backing away as quickly as possible.  “Mint, cheers mate” came back the reply as we cracked on with talking shite.

The journey carried on in this manner enlivened by the odd dab here or there and more cans.  A polite older asian guy stepped over Rick who at this point had forsaken sitting on his bag for lying sprawled on the ground and went into the toilet.

After a few minutes he stuck his head round the door and asked if we know the sink worked so he could wash his hands.  This was an older style train and to get the water out of taps you had to pump it with your foot so Rick hops up, explains to the guy how it all hangs together, tells him to cup his hands and operates the foot pump for him.

What you don’t want in this situation is a speed fuelled Yorkshireman operating your foot pump.  He went at it as if someone had told him he’d get a pound for every pump.  The bloke was soaked.  He had chinos on and by the time Rick stopped pumping he looked like he’d thoroughly pissed himself.

“Fuck’s sake Rick, you can stop now”.  The Asian guy sloped off back to his seat as we cried with laughter and decided that the situation called for a celebration in the form of an E each just to take the edge off........

TBC.

Brian T