I walked to the Post Box this morning. Someone had taped it closed. Is this a protest?
Or just someone being a prick.
I walked home.
She asked “what you got against minor key songs?”
Me?
She started laughing.
“You live a minor key life”
“Thanks”
The sunlight cut through the hall while the radio played. I was half expecting some big red letters to appear:
“You need this”
And then the advert for some clothes, or electronics, or whatever.
I went to the writers group
They said, you are in the right place. We’ve read your blog and we can help you, we can sort you out. You’ve got to start with paragraphs. See, the words just run right over the page in a satisfying manner. This is the way to do it, and then you call tell normal stories. Just like us.This is acceptable.:
With paragraphs, see?
Just like this.
Of course I never went to the writers group. What the fuck do I know about writing. .
You want paragraphs, you can write your own stuff.
This is take from my collection of writing “Shore”.
The rain cleared and the three cats lay sleeping in the sun.
They had found some shelter behind the wall, away from the cool breeze blowing from the Atlantic.
The boy sat amongst them and sneezed.
The ginger cat lifted his head.
Opened his eyes.
And immediately went back to sleep.
While the black cat came over and let the boy pet him.
When the music from the party stopped he could hear the sound of the waves. He felt the warmth of the wooden boards beneath him.
The boy sat with them for another five minutes before he heard his mum calling him.
He sighed.
Ran his hands along the cat’s back.
He heard his mum’s voice louder this time, a little harsher.
“I’m over here!” he shouted and then ran back to the sound of music and drinking.
The black cat lay back down and closed his eyes.
A cloud moved across the sun and for a moment they were all cast in shadows.
He shivered.
Sat.
Waited.
Just like magic, he felt the warmth of the sun again.
He stretched out. His eyes heavy. He fell asleep.
Just sun.
Sea.
And time.
They heard footsteps on the wooden boards.
People coming and going.
The smell of sunscreen.
Alcohol.
Someone lit up a cigarette, smoke drifting over.
But the cats didn’t care.
It was only when they smelt the perfume on the air.
Certain. Specific.
That they stirred.
Maria.
4 p.m.
She brought them out some water and sat down amongst them.
Ginger pressed against her trouser leg and she ran her hand along his back.
The black cat purred and looked at her. She smiled and put the water down.
The two cats started to drink but the third cat kept a distance.
“Oh Andro,” she smiled. “Always here but never quite. It’s okay, it’s okay.”
She pushed another bowl of water out towards Andro.
The cat didn’t move.
She pushed it further and sat back.
Andro approached the bowl, slowly.
Before settling to drink.
Maria smiled as she watched.
She felt the warmth of the sun, but it was much cooler here. She drank from her bottle of water.
She muttered, “You cats are lucky out here. Peace and calm and sun and sea. You should try being in that kitchen for five minutes. It’s hot, it’s sweaty and it’s not much fun.”
She heard the music playing from the party as she lit up a cigarette.
“More customers, less staff.”
She shook her head.
Ginger and the black cat came over to her.
“What a life you cats must have, eh? All the food you can hunt and I’ll bet I’m not the only one bringing you water. You’ll need to watch or you’ll get fat.” She laughed.
“It’s okay. To me you are Fugeo, Sol and little Andro.”
She smiled.
Checked her watch.
“Time to go. Same time tomorrow. Love you all.”
She scooped up the bowls, giving Andro a gentle pet as she left.
They are playing a blues in A. Bobby points to another guitar and to me. I pick up and put the guitar strap over my shoulder. I touch the strings; it’s mic’d up. Through a little distortion pedal.
I’ll be where the music is playing.
This is no game.
No joke.
Fuck that.
Buried beneath the city, Buried beneath the ground. Buried inside us.
The world steals. Dignity. Hope. Life.
Fuck that. Fuck off. Fuck you. Fuck. Fuck.
Bobby nods at me, and I play that guitar with every ounce of life that I ever had.
I run up from the G on the E string, up to the high string… I feel them… the strings… every note.
We’re in a moment.
The world stops.
The noise stops.
And we are alive.
I hit the strings till my fingers bleed.
I remember the little room where I first picked up a guitar. Nights alone. Playing. John Lee Hooker Springsteen Steve Earle Rancid
To here
Life Love Connection.
I nod at Bobby, and I play the chords as he takes a turn, and he can really play. A blizzard of notes and then nothing but soulful, bluesy bends.
Then Rachel comes back in.
We can take a place. A moment. These guitars, And make a place of our own.
The little crowd cheers. Someone shouts from the bar.
“Here, yous can fucking play!”
I thank Bobby and Rachel.
They invite me down to the open mic and I of course say I will be there. I get back to my seat and for a moment I just breathe.
This is Chapter 8 of my story. This is where the narrator goes for a pint with his brother in law. This book deals with some heavy themes, but is chapter is lighter.
Mac was back from Germany. “You should’ve seen it, pal. Honestly, Stevie. This street in Dusseldorf, the Kon… the King… hold on.” He checked his phone. “The Königsallee. It’s fucking beautiful, man. A canal, shops, restaurants. It puts this wee place to shame, let me tell you.”
I took a sip of my beer. “Well, there’s a bit of difference in circumstances between this wee toon and a city in Germany, mate.”
“Aye, you’re damn right there is.”
There was a moment of silence between us, but it seemed he was warming to his subject.
“I tell you what, mate, the clubs out there… they call the area the Kö. It’s beautiful cobbled streets, and then you’ve got all these folk partying. A German guy I was working with over there took me ’round all the sites. I just called him Hans, eh, after Die Hard.”
“What the fuck? What did he call you?”
He turned a little red. “Well, he called me ‘Highland Charge’ after we got in a little bit of trouble.”
“Oh, Maccy-boy, what happened?” I asked. He looked uncomfortable.
“This is just between me and you, alright?”
“Alright, pal.” He looked around. I raised my eyebrows.
“So, we are in this club, right? Music pumping. The Germans are mad for their techno and that. Anyway, it’s me, Hans, and this fella he knows. He called himself BMW… Big Mother Humper or something. Anyway, we all just called him Beemer. We’re in this club at the bar, and this lassie walks up to us. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen… erm, your sister excluded, of course… you know what I mean.”
I chuckled.
“Anyway, she’s all glammed up—tight dress, hair tumbling down—and she says something. Haud on. I can remember this: ‘Sterbe ich jetzt vor Durst?’ ‘Am I gonna die thirsty, or are yous going to buy me a drink?'”
“So, Big Beemer is straight in there. Hans is running a translation for me.” It was back and forth, quick.
“I’ll buy you a drink, doll.” “You couldn’t afford one.” “They call me BMW.” “I prefer Volkswagen.” “Playing hard to get, eh?” “I’m something you’ll never get.” “Alright, well fuck off then.”
“At this point, this guy, the size of a hoose, appears behind the lassie. Turns out this is the girl’s boyfriend. The guy’s got forearms the size of your heid, pal, and your heid is a jumbo.”
He chuckled. “Alright, fannybaws. Need that for all my brains.”
“Anyway,” he continued, “this guy’s got a couple of pals, too. They all start in on BMW. Hans goes over, and mate, one of them just picks him up and throws him out on the dance floor. Like he’s nothing, you know?”
“Christ, what are you doing?”
“I’m just kind of watching this. The lassie has got a look on her face like pure spite as the three of them are laying into Beemer. I keep expecting security to show up, but nothing happens. It looks like Beemer’s getting it pretty bad.”
“So?” I asked.
“So? Well, you know how it is. I pick up a bottle of beer from the bar, run over, and wrap it off one of these guys’ fat heads, and down he goes. The other two don’t notice. I’m half-expecting one of them to throw a punch or security to grab me. I’m kind of hoping security are going to grab me… but… a moment passes and I stand behind this big guy. He’s baldy, see, just like one big solid piece of rock. And I kick him as hard as fucking possible in the nuts.”
I was laughing.
“Thing is, right, nothing happens. He just keeps going. So I try again. Full force, in the nuts. The guy doesn’t even flinch. I feel a hand on my shoulder. I’m thinking, ‘Oh, fuck.’ I’m bracing for a punch or a kick. It’s Hans. We look at each other, and as we turn to help Beemer, these fucking crazies appear, barking something. It’s all foreign, all German,” he said.
“Well, aye, it would be. You’re in fucking Dusseldorf, pal,” I laughed, and he flinched.
“Anyway, a couple of minutes later, we’re out on the street. Beemer’s a little the worse for wear, but now I’m Highland Charge.”
“Fuck’s sake, mate, I’d keep that quiet fae Jeanie,” I laughed.
He showed me a picture: the three of them together, bruises showing under a streetlight on the streets of Dusseldorf.
You can read the full book here. This is a lighter chapter and the rest of the book deals with heavy themes, please read with care.
This is Chapter 8 from my story “Burn”, one of my favourites.
I walk back towards the ground. Under the bridge and there is the waste ground where The Craigie used to be. It was up there with Eddie’s as the best bar in town. Now it’s one of those modern flat blocks and some waste ground. There’s basically a big bush growing up against the fence.
I look over and just take the view in. Fuck sake, I remember nights in here. Power shandies, pool and fucking daft laughs. Faces been and gone. Real friends. That’s the way of the world I guess.
I’m looking over and hear a voice. “Ho you, ho Tam.”
I’m looking around. There’s a few groups of fans walking down to the crowd. Families. You get three generations of family coming to the games. It means a lot. I look around but no one is shouting at me.
“Tam. Tam.”
There it is again. I look down at the bush.
“Tam. It’s me. It’s the big man. It’s me.”
“What the fuck.”
“Listen, what the fuck is going on down there? I gave Moses clear and simple instructions.”
“What, what do you mean?” I laugh. I rub my hand across my face. Am I still high?
“Listen Tam, don’t pretend there is nothing going on between those lugs. I know you went to all those school assemblies where they banged on about all this stuff.”
I stifle a laugh. “What? You know when they used to bang on about thou shall not covet thy neighbour’s wife’s ass?”
The voice laughs a little bit. “You don’t sound much like God mate. In the movies, was it not usually James Earl Jones or Charlton Heston? You know, big booming voice.”
“Ach away man, that’s just Hollywood shit. Everyone knows that God is a Scotsman. No doubt.”
“That’s interesting,” I say, “but shouldn’t this be a burning bush? You know, like in the Bible?”
“Oh… er… aye you are right, but health and safety these days. Even the big fella has got to follow the rules.”
I laugh. “That’s fucking well you, Col.”
“No, no, no one here but the Lord your Saviour.”
“It fucking is you, eh mate? Come out.”
There’s a pause, a silence, then the bush starts to shake and a hand appears.
Col stands up, he’s laughing. Got a Kirkentoun FC scarf round his neck.
“You fucking arsehole,” I say.
“Sorry Tam, I seen you coming along the way.”
He climbs over the fence and walks over.
“The Lord says we will pump them today 5-0.”
We both crack up laughing. We get near the ground, there’s crowds of folk, someone has lit up a flare. But there’s a good vibe. We get in through the gates and take a spot up by the halfway line. Across the other side are the Kirkentoun Thistle fans. They are singing:
“This is a shitehole, I want to go home.”
“Aye well, away and fuck yourselves,” I shout across.
Then I spot him.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. It’s Shug. Standing right at the sideline across the pitch from me. Looking straight at me.
For a moment it seems like it’s only me and him there.
He’s looking at me. I’m looking at him.
I raise a fist and then give him a one-fingered salute.
He looks raging and he starts to walk across the pitch before he’s pulled back by a mix of fans and stewards.
I feel an arm go around my shoulder.
It’s Col.
He’s singing.
“Forever in our shadow, forever in our shadow.”
I join in and soon there’s a group of us singing.
The Thistle fans look raging.
There’s lots of pointing and shouting but we just laugh and then start to cheer as the teams come out.
I look over my shoulder and everyone is standing, singing, clapping and making some interesting “gestures” to the Thistle fans.
The first half goes by in a blur of two-footed challenges, yellow cards and…
Then in the 41st minute Big Steggy, or Peter Stegalopolous to his mum, rising above the Thistle defence and powers a header into the bottom corner.
Our side of the ground and the stand behind the goal goes mental.
Someone lights up a flare behind the goal.
The Thistle fans are on the pitch.
Oh, here we fucking go.
They are at halfway and running right towards us.
A couple of folk slink back. I look at Col and he looks at me.
Not on our fucking pitch.
We run and a few follow us. The players are diving out of the way. First person I run into I hit with a shoulder barge and they go flying, I’ve still got momentum and I throw a right at the next guy and catch him right on the chin.
I yell out something, I’m not sure what, and then I just catch a glance of something out of the corner of my eye, it’s like a flash, it’s heading towards me and before I have time to think I’m already falling backwards and land hard on the ground. The air escapes my lungs.
I look up.
I just see Shug’s snarling face as he lands on top of me. He sits back and I instinctively throw a punch and he barely moves. His arms come to my throat and I’m trying to pull them away when he disappears. I sit up. Col is on top of him. Throws a quick punch and then he’s up. “Come on, we need to get back, the polis are coming.”
There are people all over the pitch. Half the stand must be out here.
I stand up. Breathe in. Look around at the chaos. Look down at my body. I’m still alive. I’m still here.
I see Col disappearing into the crowd and follow him.
A voice comes over the Tannoy.
“Would supporters please return to their seats.”
We duck down and cut through the chain fence. I rub my neck. Col’s laughing.
“Game’s going to be called off. Fancy a pint?”
“Aye, go on.”
As we walk down the street we see two police cars speeding up the street towards the ground.
Paul Andrew Sneddon 