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
Tag: guitar
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Photo by Paul Andrew Sneddon Doug tore at the guitar string. His fingers were shredded, the guitar fed back. Louder and louder till it was ringing in his ears.
He looked at the notebook.
Big Empty.He grabbed a glass and knocked back the drink. He was nearly sick as he picked up the bottle and threw it against the wall. He watched it smash and cheap whisky burst all over the wall.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.He sat down at the edge of the bed and slid to the floor. The light was off, the place was silent. He looked out the big window, the sky above was alive. Colours breaking over the darkness. The moon looking on.
The room was cold. He pulled his coat twice against the chill. His eyes felt heavy as he felt himself sinking down. Lower and lower into the earth. Pages of words and ideas falling around him like rain. He felt the darkness envelop him.
He shouldered the guitar and hit an A chord.
He was flying.Looking back down at himself, sitting in that room as he soared above the city. The lights, the traffic, the people. Fading. He was free. Soaring faster, the stars above, but he didn’t care. He cut through the still night air, felt it rushing past him.
He took a deep breath and yelled with delight.
“Fuck yessss.”He swooped down over the dark river, under the bridge, and back up to the sky. Higher and higher. Gravity pulling at him but he felt the rush in his blood. Gravity trying to hold him. He smiled, but he could feel himself slowing.
“Fuck you,” he yelled.
For a moment there was just life.
He just was.
Feeling the pulse of the universe.
Whole.
And then. He was falling. Faster and faster. He kicked his arms and legs, he shouted and yelled. But it was all in vain. As he gained speed he laughed like a child. What else could he do?The city was getting closer. The lights brighter. He was spinning through the sky.
He heard the traffic.
Somewhere there was music playing, he heard a lonely piano. He smelt the food cooking over the stove, saw the chefs in the back alleys having their smokes, the party girls out for the night, and an old guy stumbling out the bar.
And then he landed with a crash on top of a pile of rubbish below his window.
As he lay there he felt the grey flood into his veins, his eyes, his bones. He lay there for a moment, looking up at an empty sky as the stars faded.He pulled himself to his feet and stumbled out to the road. He felt something rise up inside of him and vomited on the pavement as the number 11 bus rolled by.
It was playing music.
One of his songs.
What the fuck.
He felt pain shoot up from his chest and there was a ringing in his ear. He wiped the sick from his mouth and half walked, half stumbled down the pavement. His laces were loose and they spun as he walked.
He stumbled left.
Stumbled right.
Stopped and tried to steady himself.
People saw him coming and moved out the way.He sat down on the church steps. His breathing heavy. He watched the crowds, and felt the world spinning. The minister came out and had a look of concern when he spotted him. He said,
“You can’t sit here pal, this is a church.”
“Aye I just need a minute. I was flying a moment ago.”
“Sure you were, sonny,” he laughed.
“No, I really was.” He looked at him.
“Listen I’m showing a few youtubers around and everything has got to be just right. They have got a big follower count..”
He turned and walked away.
“Well go fuck yourself.”
The minister didn’t look back.Doug slipped away, down a side alley and away from the people. He heard a conversation and there was an old man drinking from a bottle, muttering to himself.
The old man had a big pile of papers and notebooks. He scored through a line and threw it on the fire. Then a whole notebook. He took a swig from a bottle of cheap booze. Talking to no one in particular. He was dressed up in a suit and tie.
He offered Doug the bottle and he took a swig, as the old man laughed. The world turned and stretched and leaked like paint waiting to dry.
“What was in that?” he asked.
“Life and death, my friend,” the man smiled a toothless grin.
Doug shuddered. Fuck. The man’s face blurring, melting.
“Who are you? What the fuck are you?”
“Don’t you know?” laughed the old man. “I’m the writer, all my life, words, tumbling like rain, caught in the storm, finding my way. Fighting the emptiness, big empty.”
“Well, how did you end up here?”
“Life my friend, life. We don’t get to write the ending ourselves.”
Doug just looked at him. “We’ll see”
“Got a couple of quid?” The old man asked.
Doug dug into his pocket and gave the man £5. The old guy put a hand on his shoulder.
“Thanks friend, now kindly fuck off.”
Doug looked at him as the old man started burning more paper.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” said Doug.
The old man just stared into the flames as they built higher and higher.Doug stepped back, not wanting to get caught in the flames. He turned and stumbled on, back to the street where the bus warped and flashed like it wasn’t even there.
He saw people walking past. He couldn’t see their faces. One of them bumped into him. Then another. Someone swore at him.
Aye well fuck off.
He held his hands up to his face. He felt an arm on his shoulder.
“You alright Doug? You’re late, you’re due on in 5 minutes.”
He looked at a man’s body with a cat’s head talking like an old friend.
“Ok, I’ll play big pussy cat, where do I go? Ya big puss”
“Why you got to be such an arsehole, man?”
“I’m sorry, Catman, where do I go?”He led Doug through a door and up a flight of stairs. The old wooden stairs creaked below his feet. The place smelled like sweat and beer and the definite smell of perfume lingering in the air.
An old wooden stage stretched out.
The Catman thrust a guitar into his hand and Doug looked at him like what? He just looked at Doug.
“You been on the fucking bin juice or something? Get out there.”
And he pushed Doug out onto the stage.
The crowd stood and applauded. Doug gave them a wave. They sat down and there was silence. He lifted the guitar and felt the weight of the strap on his shoulder.
Doug shouted,
“What do I do, Catman?”
Cat came back,
“Throw us a rope, bring us back from the big empty.”
He looked at the crowd and looked down at the ground. He looked at the guitar.He remembered.
The broken glass.
The ambulance lights.
His blood on his guitar.
Strings.
Electricity.
He closed his eyes.
Hit the chord.
The notes filled the stage.
The light was blinding.
The roof tore open.
Music ripped the sky.
And he was soaring again.
Alive.(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
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‘Two Doors Down’ is a song I wrote a few years ago now. I was thinking about the song when I wrote this story the other day.
Content note: This story includes mild violence, crime themes, and adult references.
I check the street behind me. So many faces, but none I recognise. The city has its own rhythm. People are spilling out of the bars onto the streets. The restaurants are packed. On the street, there’s an easy vibe, but there is something bubbling beneath the surface. Always is.
I cross the alley and duck into the side door of the hotel. Someone has used a fire extinguisher to jam the door open. I duck through the door and along a dusty corridor past the kitchen, where someone is listening to the radio. Weather Report. No end to the hot spell.
I climb the stairs and into my room. Room 135.
It’s not the same room I had before, but I bet they are all the same. It hasn’t changed much. Same furniture. Same places we stashed the cash. Still in need of a paint job and some new carpet.
I didn’t pay a lot, but it still feels like too much. I lay the guitar case down on the bed and place the bottle of whisky and my wallet on the table. I walk over to the window. It’s open, but you would never guess. The hot air stands.
Eight p.m., but the mercury must be pushing 30. It’s the same heat out there as it is here. I can hear the hotel’s neon light hum.
Looking out the window, the streets are still busy. Groups of people on a night out. Couples, hand in hand, arm in arm, kissing in the corner in the headlights. Some people scatter as a police car tears up the road, sirens loud and lights flashing.
I remember her.
She waited in the car, usually with some takeaway while I went in. Grab the money and we’re out of there. She could drive. Fast.
She didn’t say much apart from, “Shut up and let me drive.” Talking about her brother. Or: “When’s the next job?” “Let’s go steal a car.”
I can see her there by the bed, sleeping in that old Rancid t-shirt. Said she always had a thing for Tim Armstrong. Bundle of cash like a pillow. Irritable in the summer heat, drawing on a cigarette.
I pour a drink. Cheap whisky. Burns on the way down. Just what I need. I can almost hear her voice. “Christ, you pour whisky like my grandmother. Just drink the damn thing.”
I remember she whispered, “I’ve got the truth,” as she had poured it over her chest.
The locks click as I open the guitar case. I lift it out and hold it in my arms, sitting at the end of the bed.
Fifth string. Slide from E to D. And back again. Down the scale to the low E.
Blues. Steady. Pulse. Sings. Two doors down. Two doors down. Singing my blues.
I grab the receipt for the room. Scribble it down on the back. I can see it. Like an old movie. The money. Banknotes all over the bed. The bathtub.
Her whispers. “Hey now, babe, won’t you stay a little while?” The wall. She kept her boots on.
I breathe out, slow. I took the money. Left her the bill. Guess her brother isn’t getting that operation.
There’s a knock at the door. Her perfume drifting in like a ghost. “Tell me that you’ll be here… when it all comes down.”
I open the door. She smiles. “I knew you’d be back.”
A shot rings out. Gunsmoke curls up. An acrid chemical smell.
She walks away in those boots. Doesn’t look back. She’s muttering the lyrics to Roots Radicals, I can hear the sound of her boots, and the sound of the street.
Fading out.
This is the song, recorded at home on an old tascam 4 track I’ve still got somewhere.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
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This is the companion to ‘Shelter.’
Music breaks the silence.
I sit for a while and just listen to the music,
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
RancidTo 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.I finish my drink and walk outside.
It’s fucking raining.
Of course it is.© Paul Andrew Sneddon
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A coffee.
Rain on the roof.
A quiet moment by the sea.
I sit in the shelter with my coffee.
Black.
The rain is my company as it is falling steadily on the shelter
roof. I can see one guy walking out on the beach with a dog
running loops around them, but there is no one else here.
You come down here in the summer, and you can hardly move.
BBQ and music, ice cream and slushes. Barely an uncovered
piece of sand. So many Glaswegian accents it reminds me of
home.No one’s taking the BBQ to the beach today. The coffee is
decent, but it used to be good and half the price. The lassie at
the cafe had even written my name on the side and passed it to
me with a smile.I half expected it to say ‘Prick’ on the side, but it just said
Ed.
She was cheery; I’m probably the first customer that she
has had for an hour or two.The pace of life is a wee bit different.
It’s got that seaside town vibe, but you don’t have to look
too hard to see people carving out a life. It’s not exactly a job
hotspot, you know. I look out across the water. I think about the
people who have been and gone.Old school friends, neighbours. Christ, some of them barely had
a chance.Danny splitting his last cigarettes with me on the walk up
the road. Or the two of us sitting up on the wall by the graveyard,
drinking vodka and singing old Tom Waits songs. Hit by a
fucking car stumbling up the road after a night out.
We got the call the next morning. I was holding my son, 3
months old when my brother called.Danny’s gone.
I didn’t understand.
All here and gone. Too soon. Too fast.
Who am I to sit here and squander what some have lost. A
couple walk by and offer a little smile.“That’s a cracking dog you’ve got,” I say.
“He is a cheeky wee rascal,” says the woman.
“I bet.”
I look back out. I wonder how far you’d get on a boat out
there; the water doesn’t look too rough. Sounds easy until you
realise you’d probably wash up on Arran or the Mull of Kintyre,
or Ireland. And then what?Well, maybe a pint.
But I don’t want to run.
As I’ve got older, I find myself sitting up, crying in the wee
hours alone on the couch. Not full-blown waterworks, you
understand, but just enough.I remember one of my first girlfriends when I was just a wee
guy. 11 years old. I heard she passed. I couldn’t stop thinking
about it.I hadn’t seen her for years.
I don’t doubt that I’m a fool.
I’m a romantic.
I still believe in life, love, music, and how a song, a lyric can
change your world. I’ve crashed and burned a few times, but I
swear I’m going to break this grey.Maybe that doesn’t mean much.
Maybe no one gives a fuck.
But it means something to me.
Here.
Now.
In this shelter.© Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 