The Bar is Sinking

Miserable Bastards (Part 3)

You can read part one here: https://paulandrewsneddon.com/2025/07/12/wake-up-juice/

And Part Two here: https://paulandrewsneddon.com/2025/07/23/the-price-of-books/

The bar is dark; neon lights flicker. Someone leaves, and a shaft of late summer natural light breaks in.

Ugh, someone shut that door. 

I take a sip of my drink, house whisky, some kind of liquid. Fuck knows what this is. I’ve worked my way down from the Macallan 21 uptown to the no-label gold-speckled whatever the fuck this is.
    
If ever there was a bar that seemed like it had given up, this is it. I’ve heard people talk about dive bars, but this is more like a died bar. Somehow it suits me. Like a ghost in the neon, the jukebox plays classics from 1992. 
    
    
Christ.
    
    
Frank's looking over at me. The old bastard, if the bar looks rough, then he somehow looks like the ultimate survivor, carved from the rock, the handsome bastard.
    
    
"Another?" he asks.
    
    
"Yeah, pal, keep them coming."
    
    
He pours me another whisky and slides this over to me. He picks up his glass. “Cheers, Al.”
    
    
We clink glasses, and I take a sip.
    
    
He looks like he’s got something to say.
    
    
“Listen, man, what do you think? I’ve got a guy coming over this afternoon, going to look at upgrading this place a little bit. New bar, new fittings, gold like one of those West End bathrooms.”
    
    
I start laughing.
    
    
“Sounds fucking horrific, man.”
    
    
He smiles.
    
    
I look around at the torn seats, the bar, the wet patches, and dust on the walls. He’s got a picture of a beautiful woman sitting on a beach on the wall. Her body looks like it was sculpted by the gods; her beauty is undeniable.
    
    
“Mind you, it might be nice to get some actual women in here, instead of just a picture.” I laugh.
    
    
“The ladies love the picture.” he replies.
    
    
“Sure, they do.”
    
    
“Well, I don’t know if they come here for the men to be fair. Have you seen the state of you and old Pat?” he nods to Patty at the end of the bar.
    
    
“Fuck off, I’m in prime physical condition,” I laugh as I pat my belly.
    
    
“Careful mate, you’re going from Buddha to barrel.”
    
    
“Ha, I do alright.”
    
    
“Sure you do. Listen, check this out.” He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a picture. It’s a Triumph motorcycle.
    
    
The picture looks a bit frayed like it’s been in a jacket pocket for a while.
    
    
“Going to look at this later today. Wee guy is selling it down Partick way. What do you think?” He raises an eyebrow.
    
    
“A Triumph? Fuck man, it’s been a while. You still got the Steve McQueen’s?”
    
    
He laughs.
    
    
“You can’t beat it, man’ he laughs.
    
    
"What about your gold fittings?"
    
    
"Ah fuck man, this place is like the Titanic." he looks glumly round the place.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon

The Price of Books

Miserable Bastards (Part 2)

You can read part one here: https://paulandrewsneddon.com/2025/07/12/wake-up-juice/

I look at the two suits I’ve got hanging on the rack, wrapped in plastic.

I pull on my jeans, t-shirt, hoodie. Trainers.
Standard operating procedure.

And I’m out on the street.

Bright Glasgow sunshine. What gives?
Could get used to this.

I’m not wearing sunglasses, just going for a general scowl when I walk in the sun.

It seems kind of fitting.

What is it with folks that say "to be honest," making a big deal? What were you doing for the other 90% of the conversation?

I’m cutting past the subway and down into the town.
A business woman running past gives me a dirty look. Her heels clipping on the ground.

Streets are busy. 
The streets are always busy, but I’ve missed most of the suits and morning rush. 

I should be just in time for opening.

Past the corner shop, the library. I stop outside, look in the window. Shelves and shelves full of books.

Fuck.

I walk past the man collecting for the Salvation Army. He gives me a nod.

Inside it's busy. People diving around, a man in a suit bustles past me to a photocopier. 

I thought libraries were meant to be quiet. I can see Ami working at the desk, a queue of people in front. 

She looks up at me surprised and gives me a quick wave.

I look at my phone and look around. Back to the phone.
I drift from the queue and head to a display table. 

New Fiction. 
Fiction of the year.
Classics.
Local Writers.

Fuck, there it is.

‘Miserable Bastards’

With the new cover the publisher insisted on.

The room shrinks down around me.
I try to breathe deep.

I try to think of 3 things, I can hear, I can smell.

I feel a cold sweat coming on and then I'm gone.

Back outside.

Standing to the side of the door. Breathing in deep.

I can see the bar from here. The worn wood of the door and into the darkness.

Heart

Photo by freestocks on Unsplash
The clouds clear above our little quiet streets.
There’s songs in the bricks,
Stories in the air,
In the cracked pavement,
The number 11 bus.

In the silence, the air holds you differently,
it holds you close, but not too close,
lets you be you.

As I look into your summer eyes,
alive with sunshine and laughter and love,
the sweetest,
toughest love,
yours and mine together.

Front step vape.
I love this song; sing it with me.
Let it run on.
Holding hands.

Kiss me quick, kiss me slow.
Life won’t wait, and then it’s time to go:
to work,
to chores,
responsibilities.

But tomorrow we’ll be back,
you and me.

Maybe a disposable BBQ by the front step,
a couple of songs we haven’t found yet,
and the world rolls by,
fast and slow.

I’ll close my eyes and let it go.

I’ll close my eyes and let it go.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon

Wake Up Juice

Miserable Bastards (Part One): A writer wakes up with a hangover, no plan and a ceiling that’s due to collapse.

One second,
Two seconds,
Three seconds,
Four seconds.

Time slips away.

I open my eyes.

The morning is bright.
Too bright.

Am I alive?

My mouth is dry.
My head hurts.

I can see the patch on the ceiling where the water has spread.
It used to be about the size of a 50p piece.

Now it’s more like the bottom of a bucket.

I rented this place from Jon Phillips with the last of the money from my book.
I flick through my phone, text messages to him.

No reply at all.

No reply from anyone.

I wonder if they can fix it before the roof comes in.

I run my hand through my shaggy beard and check the time.

8.50.

Ah, fuck it.

Why is it that you wake up early when you’ve got nothing to do?

No appointments.
No calls.
No agent.
No girl.

Nothing.

Ah, fuck, I’m awake now. I sit up in the bed.

The little computer by the side of the bed can barely run a word processor, but that’s all I need.

Well, I don’t really need that at the moment.
I look over last night’s files.

Nothing.

Coffee at 3am is not a great idea.

What’s worse than bad writing?
No writing.

Are you a writer if you don’t write?

I look in the mirror.
Used to be a writer.

Now I’m a,
Well now,

Now I’m nothing.

I stretch and yawn, feel the ache in my bones.
I feel the chill in the room.

Shit.

Did I fall asleep with the window open last night?

I pull back the curtain.
The window is shut, but I can feel the draft sweeping through.

Fuck’s sake.

To business.

I stand and stretch, walking across the worn carpet, past the little kitchen alcove. I put some songs on the little speaker.

Then to the shower.
And then.

Inevitably.
To the bar.

Thanks for reading. Part 2 to follow next week.

© Paul Andrew Sneddon