The pub holds promise, but I need to stay sober. If I can.
The underground just keeps going. Loops. All day long. For the price of one ticket.
Got time to kill. A cold winter day. It keeps you warm. No ticket inspector. Just one ticket on, one ticket off.
People, faces, quiet, loud. All day long you see them, looking awkwardly at the adverts, avoiding eye contact. It’s okay, I don’t mind. Ride on, ride on. I’ve got some soul on the headphones. I’m not alone. Mavis Staples, “We’re Going to Make It.”
Or the library. Heat and all those books. Good company when you’ve got nowhere to go. A mind revolution, walls broken down, different lives, different perspectives. Changed, alive, brain firing.
Or the nights the library is closed and you can’t find peace. When you’re too tired for books.
Then it’s music and walking and burning a hole in the soles of your shoes. It’s city streets, dreams, hopes, angels in the cracks of the pavement, the river bridge, smoking a joint in the car park.
With an old friend, or a new friend.
Then through the crowds, all these people with places to go. Just keep moving.
Check the clock. 8pm.
Into the venue, grab a beer. Familiar faces. Smiles and warmth.
2-0 win, on a Saturday afternoon. Following the game online, or on the radio. Wee man through to tell me the goals
Covid. Laying in bed. Or on the couch. A win is just the tonic.
Well, That and 2 paracetamol.
Last time this happened I had a chest infection, Everyone else was away to the game. 2-0 down at half time. We scored 5 goals and I could hear the cheers from my front room. Getting text message from the family. I’m laying there, just thinking what the fuck is going on.
We don’t often score 5 goals… Typical.
But that’s cool, I’ll take the three points. The cheering across the town. And their smiling faces when they get home.
“How the fuck can you live in Ayrshire and not be into golf?”
He took a puff on his vape and filled the car with a mushroom cloud of strawberry vapor.
“Christ, Chubs,” moaned Eddie, opening a window from the passenger seat and trying to waft the vape cloud out.
“How the fuck can you drive like this?”
Chubs continued undaunted.
“St Andrews calls itself the home of golf, but over here in Ayrshire, you’ve got Prestwick. The first Open was held there; you’ve got famous courses at Troon. The Open was there last year. You’ve got about a million other courses, from pitch and putts to municipal courses.”
Eddie sighed.
“Ah, fuck that. That’s for the tourists, pal.”
Chubs’ face turned a little red.
“The fucking tourists? Listen, pal, it’s in the fucking air, it’s in your Ayrshire fucking soul. Down here, it comes from working-class roots.”
Eddie tried to hold back a laugh. “You’re talking shite pal’!”
“Alright, alright. Christ. Listen, you cut me off. So you’ve got these courses everyone knows, but you’ve got real courses too. Magic wee courses that are like finding buried treasure. Ones for the people, the real people that work all week.”
Eddie chuckled.
“Come on, Tae fuck, Chubs. You are having a fucking giraffe. I never realized I was living it up here in a socialist paradise utopia. I must have missed that. Let them eat cake… let them golf. Next thing you’ll be telling me is that the fucking royals are really a deep undercover working-class family from Saltcoats.”
Chubs snorted and put his foot down as they overtook an old couple in their Beamer.
Eddie tried to stifle a smile.
“Listen, pal, there are courses here built for normal people. You can go out and play for less than a football match at Ibrox or Celtic Park. You see families playing, groups of pals. It’s real, then in for a pint when you finish. I remember my da’ teaching me how to hit a shot, skipping onto the course so we didn’t have to pay. Watch out for the greenie.”
“Aye, he was a good man, your da. How long has that been now?”
“Three years since the cancer took him.”
There was silence for a moment.
Eddie looked out the window. “Did he ever play the big courses?”
“Nah, wasnae his style. He preferred the municipal courses.”
They both laughed.
“Here, I need to find a parking space,” muttered Chubs.
Part Two
The weather had turned by the time they parked.
They climbed the steps and looked out at the beach. The water. The rain coming down sideways.
Chubs sat on the bench in the shelter trying to catch his breath. Eddie watched a woman and her dog out on the sand in the distance before he turned to look at Chubs.
“You alright, pal?”
“Aye, man, of course I am.”
Eddie raised his eyebrows.
“Maybe fewer vapes and Greggs mate, a little more fresh air.”
Chubs looked up at his pal.
“Aye, alright, you cheeky bastard,” muttered Chubs as he tried to hand over the sausage roll wrapper from the kiosk. “What time are we teeing off?”
“We’ve got an hour.”
Chubs took the flask from his pocket.
“Got myself a cheeky dram or two in here,” he said as he took a swig.
An old couple walked by, dressed for monsoon weather on top of a hill in the Highlands. Eddie gave them a nod.
“Lovely day for it, eh?”
He looked back over the water. “Hard to believe that this place was jammed with people at the weekend. How come we book a round and it’s pissing down?”
“What did you expect?” laughed Chubs. “It’ll be blue skies by the time we tee off. I checked it.”
“Aye, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was fucking snowing by the 19th. You remember that lassie from the pub last week, the blonde?”
“Aye, aye, see you and your women by the way, pal. I don’t know how you can keep up with them all.”
“What can I say, Chubs, it’s a gift.”
“I seen Jenni the other day. You guys ever talk” asked Chubs
Eddie grimaced a little.
“Naw man, that’s done. But it’s all good, I’m keeping busy’ he said as he forced a smile.
“You ever get a name wrong and it all kicks off.” “Ha, that’s why I call them all darling,” he laughed.
“Anyway, that wee darling sorted me out with some of this. rolled and ready to go, pal.”
“Aye, ya wee beauty, you’re some man, pal.”
They sat on the bench as Eddie produced a lighter and lit them up. There was a moment or two of silence as they drew them in.
“We’ll no see any polis down here; they’ve barely got enough to police a demonstration these days.”
“Aye, man, life’s good.”
They sat back and listened, the rain and some lone seagulls. Time seemed to drift
Part Three
“Aw, fuck, here Eddie, mon. I think we’ve missed our tee time,” muttered Chubs.
The rain had started to clear, and there was a haze out on the water. At least Chubs thought it was. Eddie was sitting with a far-off look in his eye.
“Eddie… Ed.”
“What, what… oh… fuck aye, I think you’re right.”
“Oh, fuck, man, I was ready for a round.”
Chubs breathed out.
“Still, pal, it’s been a laugh.”
“Haud on, big man, it’s not lost yet. Give me the car keys.” “What, what for?” A confused Chubs looked at him.
“Don’t be a fanny, just give me the keys.”
“Alright, alright. Here…” He reached into his pocket and threw the keys over.
Eddie disappeared, but what felt like moments later, he was back with four clubs and golf balls.
“Mon, let’s go. I’ve got an idea. This is going to be a real Ayrshire Open”
The clouds cleared and the sun was breaking through.
They walked round to the Ballast Bank, rising by the shoreline. It had been built to protect the harbour, but it now had benches and a view out across the water.
That’s how they ended up there, on top of Ballast Bank, a four iron and five iron in each hand and a bag of golf balls, teeing up and aiming out over the Firth of Clyde.
Eddie hit a slice.
“That one’s ending up on Barassie Beach,” laughed Chubs.
“Your old dad would have loved this pal, well that or he’d have said we were off our heads”
“Aye, no doubt about it. Off our heads” smiled Chubs.
“Just like old times pal,” laughed Eddie as he teed another one up.
In this episode of the Whatever Tomorrow podcast I’ve got a new song ‘Shine’ as well as spoken word in ‘Bus Stop Boogie’ and ‘Let It All Be’
*IN THIS EPISODE:* —
00:00 – Intro Music & Welcome 00:54 – Creative Update: New recordings 03:15 – SPOKEN WORD: “Bus Stop Boogie” 05:05– MUSICAL PERFORMANCE: “Shine” (Original Song) 08:13– A thought on art and interpretation 09:00 – SPOKEN WORD: “Let It All Be” 10:05 – Sign-off & Outro
Bus Stop Boogie
Bus stop in the gentle rain, Waiting, Waiting.
Old couple arguing about something, nipping at each other.
Dressed like they are on a hill-walking expedition in monsoon season for the trip down to the bingo.
Sharing a packet of Wotsits.
The wet grass. Cars rolling by in the street, Turn up the volume, Ian Dury and the Blockheads Burst through my headphones.
And I’m traveling, Borneo, Bordeaux, Fantastique.
Feet tapping, Moving, Near ready to fly. Suddenly, shoulders start going, And the arms,
Like a dad dancing special at a wedding,
I’m moving.
The Missus is over the road walking a dog, Chuckles and gives me a wave. Saxophone solo hits, I give her a wave back.
And I’m moving like Jagger,
Moving smooth like an old soul band, Busting some moves like Sam and Dave, Found the 46-year-old version of the splits, I’m channelling James Brown.
The lights are on at the bus stop, Like a late-night club.
Me and her are dancing together, She always was a great dancer, Natural rhythm, Her perfume.
The dog’s the DJ, Spinning the songs, Looking at us like,
“You got this.”
The old couple are boogying together, They used to do salsa, They announce, “You young ones are missing out,”
They laugh.
As me and my lady dance closer, Slower, As the beat hits,
And we are dancing down The Champs-Élysées, Santa Fe, Troon Bay, Roses and fireworks.
We hear the bus, but it can wait.
At least a beat.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Let It All Be
I see an advert at the bus stop.
The open road of the USA, highway stretching through Monument Valley.
Nah, I’d rather be here.
On the bus, headphones alive, listening to something real —
like Traquair and the Tranquilizers, or Steve Adams singing, “Have you washed your hands?”
Heading to Irvine beach in the peelywally Scottish sun.
The kind of day you need sunscreen and a hoody, just in case.
The old town is alive with sun seekers, joggers, families and old ones.
Down those old roads, along the harbour.
Smiles at the Hac. I get the feeling that might be my kind of place.
Past the ghost of The Big Idea, drawbridge up.
I’m going to walk from Irvine to Barassie along the beach.
The water slowly rippling in, the sound of seagulls, and the further along you get, the people fade away,
and it almost feels like you are alone.
Arran in the distance, keeping a watchful eye.
Jumping over the streams and sandbanks, the occasional dog sprinting past, chasing his ball.
Paul Andrew Sneddon 