Someone messaged me:
“I like your writing, but do you need to swear so much?”
It just comes fucking naturally. We’re Scottish. It's who we are.
I told them:
Two friends talking about a mutual pal, someone you can rely on, says,
“Aye, he’s a good cunt.”
See two folk on the bus, a few beers to the wind. One guy shouts to the other,
“Why are you acting the cunt?”
Police got called to a couple arguing in the street.
“Aye well, she’s a fucking cunt.”
She nearly knocked him out when she heard that. Calling him a
“bastard-fucking-cunt-arsehole.”
There's a woman I know.
Every second word she says is cunt.
Like a full stop.
Or an exclamation mark.
But some others don’t say the word.
They’ll just call you a C U Next Tuesday.
In Scotland, we are fluent in swearing. You've just got to get the fucking context.
It’s been quieter since.
Rain spitting on the window.
Do it or don’t.
Commit or fuck off.
Put on some music.
Funny how you can make a place for yourself with drums, bass, guitars, and something to sing.
Same thing with the page.
I remember when I was younger, walking through Glasgow in the rain, the sun fading, the city lighting up. Going home to my guitar in a bedsit by the river.
“Burn” tumbling out.
Fuck. Time flies.
Sometimes my mind lets itself out into the night, into the city. Sometimes I find it again down by the beach, having a smoke, new tattoo in the sunshine. Looking at me, like, fucking loosen up big man.
Put some fucking songs on and have a smoke.
I’m sharper than I look.
Yeah, I know, that’s not difficult.
But the writing remains.
It keeps me out of trouble, or it gets me into trouble. I can’t remember.
My soul is intact.
Maybe I’ll sharpen up.
But I doubt it.
But who knows?
There’s still time.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 