Tag: miserable bastards series

Beer And Pakora

Aug 15th, 2025

Miserable Bastards Part 10

I’m walking back down the road, under the street lights, box of pakora under my arm. The silences, now only broken by the occasional bus rolling down the street. I’m back to the bar, through the old wooden door.

Feeling like Norm.

Bam, Mikey and Frank are sitting at the bar and they give me a shout.

A few folk are at the tables. Getting near closing time

I put the pakora on the table to cheers.

‘These Essies?’ asks Bam.

‘Aye, a gift.’

‘Here’ Frank says, I’ll get ‘them heated up’ and he disappears out back. Coming back with them on a plate heated up with dip.

I’m having a beer and pakora at midnight in the bar.

Tomorrow is a new day.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
(Near) Death in the Alley

Aug 4th, 2025

Part 8 of the Miserable Bastards Series

The streets are bright, feels like walking out into a spotlight. Feels like the volume level has gone up, like I’ve just taken off my headphones. Buses, cars, people, movement, energy.

Fuck, I’m moving to a different beat. I walk over to the wall and watch the river of people floating by. A couple of them give me dirty looks.

Aye, well, fuck you too.

I feel my stomach churning a little. Daylight doesn’t suit me. I stumble round the corner and I’m in the alley, I nearly collide into a dirty van. I get past it just as my nausea reaches fever pitch and I’m sick all over the alley.

Fuuuuuck.

Again.

That whisky could probably be used as a paint-stripper.

I can hear the van; the engine starts up. The horn beeping.

Oh fuck off, I laugh.

I hear a door open, footsteps. Rough hands pick me up and I’m balancing a bit precariously.

Alright, alright pal. Calm down. Don’t you know I have to be wined and dined.

“Junkie scum,” he shouts, his face red, eyes blazing. He stinks of aftershave. Suddenly, I feel the impact of a punch to the stomach and he pushes me onto the bins. I fall flat on my back and I’m spitting out sick.

The footsteps fade and the van rolls past. The exhaust fills my lungs and I cough and splutter.

I just lay there for a moment

Trying to ignore the dull pain in my stomach.
Trying to catch my breath.

I’m laying back against the bins. It smells like death.

Or is that me.

I just sit there. I look down to the end of the alley. The day rolls on regardless. All these people rushing here and there. So much to do.

I stay where I am.

I’m not sure how long for.

What the fuck was his problem. Fucking arsehole. What the fuck is wrong with people. I’m doing you no harm you fucking idiot. Christ.

I rummage in my jean pocket and pull out a miniature. This will stave off the hangover.

I knock it back in one go.

It doesn’t taste great, but not as bad as the no label whisky. What the fuck am I doing. I throw the bottle against the wall and it smashes.

I drag myself to my feet. I feel a bit like Mikey dusting myself down. Leaning against the wall. I try to steady myself. I run a hand through my hair.

What else are you going to do eh, and I’m back out of the alley and onto the street.

I walk on a few steps. Slowly. By the side of the street. Avoiding the first of the crowds.

I need to eat if I’m not dead yet. And the city is my oyster.

This street alone we have got:

Indian food
Mexican food
German Kebab
Turkish Kebab
Fish and Chips
Sushi
Chinese food
Vietnamese food

And more chippies and burger bars than you would ever need. It’s Glasgow’s own food Epcot.

I know just the place.

I’m into Mo’s Kebab and Curry shop. They had the place done up recently. TV screens, LED lights. He’s arguing with his wife who is through the back, cooking the food.

And she can cook. She is a magician. I’m here for it.

Mo is laughing a little.

‘What in the fuck happened to you, Al?’ He is passing me a bottle of water. ‘Here, get that down you.’

I take a sip and the water feels good. I splash a little on my hand and onto my face.

‘Rough day?’

‘Met some angry guy on the street.’

‘Ah fuck man, here you want the usual?’ he asks.

‘Thanks pal, aye please. I’m well set for this.’

He shouts through to Essie out the back with the order and looks back at me.

‘Perfect timing, mate. We’ve been busy the day, this is the first break we’ve had. Here, grab a seat. He comes around the

counter and joins me at the table.’ He passes me a can of juice.

‘You look like you have had a bit of a day, mate.’

‘Here, I’m alright. This place looks amazing, Mo. You’ve done an amazing job.’ I say looking around.

‘Thanks, pal. Aye, I’m well happy with it and it keeps the Missus from moaning my head off, you know? How about you, how is the writing?’

‘Ah, you know, I’m still working on it. I just like, got stuck, you know.’ I mumble a little.

A few customers come in and Mo gets back to work.

Nothing restores like a chicken kebab and yogurt and good company.

There is a knock on the window. I turn round and it’s Ami from the library. She is smiling and waving. A library assistant and a fan of my book, apparently. We’ve bumped into each other a few times before.

She sticks her head through the door.

‘Hi Al,’ she smiles and she comes over and sits with me.

‘Hi Ami, how are you?’ I smile. She’s a real one Ami.

‘Listen, I love your book. You’ve got to get back to writing some more.’

Her hand runs over mine and I feel something stir.

Her big blue eyes are looking deep into mine. Fuck!

Is this redemption, or a fuck, or a redemptive fuck?

She’s telling me about my book, and what it means to her. She read it in a flat near Largs, avoiding the retirees when she worked down at the Ferry. She has read it twice.

Wow.

She asks if I’ll walk her home and of course, I say, yes.

We stand to leave.

Suddenly Essie appears at our table. Apron and hairnet, smile on her round face.

‘Alan, I know you love our pakora. Here, these are for you.’

She passes me a box.

‘Some of my special pakoras. For you’

I stand and we hug. ‘Thanks Essie, you’re a star’

She laughs and hugs me. She looks me in the eye and back at Mo who nods.

‘Thank you both’

Ami is smiling and we go back out onto the street.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Christmas Miracle

Aug 2nd, 2025

Part 7 of the Miserable Bastards series

Mikey is returning like a conquering hero, arms high singing the Rocky theme tune.
This is lost on Bam, she’s never seen it.

“Alright smart arse,” she says.

Frank is serving up another whisky.

Suddenly there is movement at the end of the bar.
Pat stands up.
Wobbles.
Wobbles.
And down he goes.
Straight back and flat out on the floor.

Christ.

Frank is over the bar. “I told you, Patty, for fuck’s sake. You need to stop doing this.”

He’s throwing a pint of something over him. Is that water, or lager?

There’s a pause.
Pat’s up like a resurrected Jesus-Christ-Christmas-miracle.

“That’s the third time this month, Patty. You do that again and you’re barred. The last thing I need is an actual dead body leaving this place.”

He passes Pat some napkins to dry off and Pat’s out the door.
My whisky isn’t tasting any better.
Bam is looking at me.

“Was it like this when you were drinking at the posh end of town, Al?”

“Well, a wee bit different but not that different really. More expensive drinks but people are people, you know.”

“Yeah, I get that. My ex’s family, by the way, they were so up their own arses. I was thinking, you live in a cul-de-sac in East Kilbride. Your parents started out in a two-bedroom flat shared with another family. What do you think you are, the second coming of Jesus? Fuck off.”

I’m laughing.
“Aye, I’ve seen that before.”

“Well, no one’s perfect I guess, but there’s only so much I can handle.”

“Don’t you like people?” I ask.

She looks thoughtful for a moment.
“Aye, but some folks are a bit much, you know. This girl I’m seeing, Al, she’s a total sweetheart but she’s always texting, phoning, sending me pictures. I’m just like fuck’s sake, aye. I see you, but I’ve got a life to live.”

“You still painting?” I ask.

“Oh aye, I’ll never stop that. Got a couple of paintings in a gallery downtown. I sold one, £200. Not bad; the gallery takes a cut but that was the first one.”

“Fucking congratulations, pal. That’s amazing. I always said you were talented.”

I raise a drink to her.

“Thanks, Al.”
“See, I did two: one was about light, redemption, love, and the other about darkness, hurt, pain. Guess which one sold?”

“The darkness?”
“Aye, miserable bastards round here.” She chuckles.

We raise our glasses and toast.
“Miserable Bastards.”
“Just like us.”
“Yeah,” she smiles, “that’s where all the good art comes from.”
“Aye, I’m proud to be a miserable bastard.”

We’re laughing as Mikey comes over.
“Right, I’m offski. I’ll be back later though.”
“See you, pal.”

And with that he’s gone, as a couple of late afternoon day drinkers come in and take a place down the bar. Bam is away to serve them as Frank comes over.

“Right pal, I’m away to see about this bike. I’ll see you later.”

And he’s gone.

I’m sipping on my whisky and the jukebox rolls round to Mr Brightside for about two bars before Bam changes it.
I tell her, “With great power comes great responsibility.”

She laughs and puts on the Spice Girls and starts laughing.
I give her a look and we compromise on The Hold Steady, Constructive Summer.

She tells me, “You are sure stuck on that song, Al.”
“Aye, it’s a favourite.”

I finish my drink just as the last chords and feedback from the guitar fades out.
“Fucking love that song, thanks pal.”
She smiles.
“Nae bother.”

I’m up out of my seat in one smooth motion, then just a bit of a stumble but I’m fine. I laugh as she shouts after me:

“You be careful, you don’t get two miracles in one day.”

I laugh and stumble to the door and open it out to the street and the blinding lights.

Jesus Christ, it’s such a change of scene that I am almost completely disoriented. The working day is finished and the pavement is full of hustle, noise and energy.

And I’m back adrift again.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Mikey and Pammy Polis

Jul 31st, 2025

Part 6 of the Miserable Bastards Series

Mikey’s back, somehow looking worse than when he left.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

He’s bleeding from his lip and rubbing his eye. He looks like he’s been under police questioning for an hour.

“The polis found my hedgehog, called me a clatty bastard. I told her to get to fuck… so, er, she hit me.”

“Oh, for fucks sake,” says Frank as Bam comes round the bar and takes him by the hand over to a booth.

We all follow, and as I stand I feel a little unsteady on my feet. I’m getting a decent buzz from this whisky; let’s see what the fuck is going on.

I get there and Mikey’s cleaning himself up as Bam gives him another cross-examination.

“So, where is the hedgehog now?” she asks.

“Never mind that,” snaps Frank. “Where are the polis?”

Mikey is turning pale.

“Mikey?”

“Oh fuck, I just ran.” he says, looking over at the door.

“Christ, you, oot the back. Take some smokes, and we’ll shout you when it’s clear. Right, everyone else, back to where you were.”

Fuck’s sake.

We’re back to our seats, back to our places, trying to look innocent. This is one of those moments where it would be good to be drinking in a bar with windows.

It was an old rule of mine: don’t drink in a bar without windows or one with pool cues but no pool table.

“Fucking hell,” shouts Bam. “We’re sitting in here like a guilty party,” she turns up the music and starts moving, boogying, getting down.

And we’re all up. Even Pat is doing some kind of robot move.

Suddenly the door bursts open, and in walks a police woman, shorter than Bam. Face red, sweaty. This is Mikey’s attacker.

This.

She’s shouting.

“Where the fuck is he, where the fuck is he? Nae one, nae one. Nae one does this to Pam Wilson. PC Pam Wilson.”

I’m trying not to laugh. I look at Bam; she’s trying not to laugh. Frank’s going for the Oscar, straight-faced and smooth.

“What appears to be the trouble, officer?” he says in a radio DJ voice.

“Frank McTavish, I should’ve known that I’d find you in a shite hole like this. Where is he? I’m going to leather that wee arsehole.”

“No idea what you mean, Pam. How about a drink for old time’s sake?”

“A drink? I wouldn’t drink in here. Probably catch something. And it’s PC Wilson to the likes of you, alright.”

They are looking at each other, but no one says a word.

Suddenly the door swings open again, and a red-faced, puffed-up policeman bursts in.

“Pammy, Pammy, what the fuck…”

He stops as he sees this little standoff.

Pammy looks embarrassed. “I told you to wait outside, PC Findlay.”

“Come on, you. I’ve got reports of an aggressive mime threatening someone with an end of the world board on Sauchiehall Street.”

PC Wilson looks around the bar at everyone.

“I’ll be back,” she says and turns on her heels and storms outside. PC Findlay looks apologetic and leaves.

The door swings closed, and we all burst out laughing.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Bam : Part 5 of the Miserable Bastards Series

Jul 31st, 2025

“Careful, there’s maybe life in this place yet.”

I check the clock on my old phone; you can still make out the time despite the crack on the screen. 11:58. Near noon. Bam time.

“Another drink, please, pal,” I motion to Frank.

He brings me one over, and I slide him a couple of coins.

“You expecting Bam today?”

“I’m always expecting Bam.”

I take a sip of my drink; there is a moment’s silence, and the door opens. A chink of daylight, then the full effect with Bam standing in the door. Shadow cast across the bar.

“Alright boys?” She smiles.

I blink and squint out to the door.

“You’re fucking late,” says Frank.

“Aye alright, I’m here now, eh?”

The door closes, and she walks across the floor and around the back of the bar. Black hair cropped, black jeans, not a classic beauty, but beautiful nonetheless. Five foot five of dynamite.

And she knows it.

“Al, fancy seeing you here,” she laughs and smiles as she walks by. “Christ, it’s like a fucking funeral in here. Put some fucking songs on.” she announces.

She’s behind the bar and suddenly Angel of Harlem starts blasting from the speakers.

“Fuck’s sake,” she moans. “Old guy music.”

There’s a brief pause, and suddenly Taylor Swift is blasting out. She’s making some moves and pulling some shapes before Frank appears behind her, and they have a little sidestep tango before he leans over and turns the music down.

She gives him a grumpy look.

“Okay, let’s compromise,” and she puts on some Rocket from the Crypt.

“On a rope, on a rope…”

I smile. “That’s some music I can drink to.”

Bam’s laughing and turns to Frank. “Careful, there’s maybe life in this place yet.”

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon

Tag: miserable bastards series

Beer And Pakora

(Near) Death in the Alley

Christmas Miracle

Mikey and Pammy Polis

Bam : Part 5 of the Miserable Bastards Series