Walk through town. Tall buildings casting shadow under the winter sun.
Traffic queues up. Someone’s got the window down, making a phone call, and you can hear them half way up the street telling someone they need to get cream for those haemorrhoids.
Few folk laughing.
Walk past the pub. Looks like a good crowd in. The band is cranking out Sharp Dressed Man.
I’m either in a time machine or I’ve found the only other folk in 2026 who still love Billy Gibbons’ guitar tone.
I step inside.
The guitar player is ripping out a solo. A few folk dancing near the front. I find a spot by a pillar and watch them tear through the end of the song.
Then the guitar and bass drop out and it’s just the drummer, holding the groove.
The band look at each other. The bass player laughs. Then they lock in.
A few notice. Heads move in time. Most folk keep chatting.
The band turn their backs to the crowd and lock in with each other.
The drummer looks serious, pulling those faces only drummers pull when they are really feeling it.
A woman beside me starts dancing and bumps my shoulder. She turns, smiling. I smile back.
The song finishes. The crowd cheers and the band take a break.
I head back out to the street.
The shadows have grown. The sun is sinking. And I’m moving again.
The congregation filed out. Grey hairs and suits. Alex looked at the faces. Same faces every Sunday for fifty years. Look the same, but like they sat too near the fire and they melted just a little bit. A few faces missing. More than a few, but what can you do. That’s the way it goes.
He checked his watch.
12:15.
Too early for a roll call of the dead.
Malky bumped into him.
“How’s it going Alex, me and you the last of the survivors?”
Malky had one strand of hair that went round his head like spaghetti.
“Where’s Betty, not seen much of you too recently, you alright?”
“Aye you know us pal, barely get a minute between the clubs and the work we’ve been doing, you know raising money, since Jon died.”
Alex put his hand on his shoulder. “Yous have done well, I’ll be coming down to help again this week.”
He dropped his arm as Betty appeared from the crowd. “Alex how are you,” she smiled and they hugged. “Good to see you.”
“I’m doing alright, just saying how well yous have done.”
She looked a little embarrassed but smiled.
“Thanks Alex, see you later Alex.”
He smiled.
“Aye of course.”
Malky nodded and they wandered off to speak to the minister.
Alex turned and made his way down to the street.
It was still quiet. Always was quiet for a Sunday. It made him laugh how they had the church, the police station, and then the court house. All lined up. Just need the pub now.
He cut through the park. Sun shining. It was quiet enough you could hear the birds sing. He saw Francine coming along the way, her dog bounding about her. She spotted him and made her way over in a beeline.
“Alex pal, you just back from the church?”
“Aye Frankie, how are you.”
The dog bounded over and started sniffing Alex’s shoes. He reached down and petted her.
“You alright, Honey?”
Frankie laughed. “Oh that’s not Honey. Honey died last year. Well, actually this is Honey, but not that Honey, this is Honey Two.”
“Er, aye, alright Frankie.”
They both started laughing.
“It’s just easier, you know.”
He laughed. “You’re the George Foreman of Kirkentoun.”
She looked puzzled. “Is that not the boxer? Fought Ali?”
Alex smiled. “Aye, that’s right. And the grill, remember. He called all his kids George cause he got punched in the head so often.”
She started laughing. “Listen, I better get going. Good to see you, Alex.”
She put her hand on his arm and smiled. “See you soon, eh.”
And she was gone, moving quickly after Honey.
He cut down the path, past the tennis courts and round the corner.
Same pub. Same table.
Pint waiting.
Alex smiled.
“Alright pal, you didn’t make the church.”
Davey grinned. “Funny you get older and you don’t care so much for that shite. You’d think it would be the other way around.”
Alex laughed as he took off his coat and sat down.
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”.
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.
Paul Andrew Sneddon 