by James Kelman
Who are we talking about here?
One is haunted by thoughts of prison and the constabulary classes; lawyers and that ilk, folk who wear fancy red waistcoats and go bump in the night with their harris tweed fucking jaikets. Your Honour, I recommend life! Life!! Lock up the fucker, he’s a rat, he’ll find a way, these mob people always do. He says he cannot avoid behaving like a human bean and as such has attendant requirements.
He would look for a place outside town, head south maybe. He loved society, the richer the better, falling off the edge, scrabbling the chalk cliffs with the fingernails, aint England the truth, with all their traditions and so on, one has to love it. He always did. How far to Rostoff? can he fucking swim it?
A million and one euros would be vunderbar vunderbar vunderbar, sung to the tune of ‘On We Go’:
On we go
On we go
On we go
Vunderbar
Vunderbar
Vunderbarar.
Why was he not rich though? God-given talents are rewarded by society and he believed he had these self-same talents. He was a one in a million talent and might reap the rewards post haste. Plus he had the heavy stubble so beloved of Male Celebs, the streetwise gestures. I might be a fucking billionaire but dont mess with me. It was only the dough, he had the fucking lot man if not for the old ho ho ho. A chicken sandwich, washed down by a half bottle of some arsehole’s fucking urine man that is what we are talking about here. Treating yer fellow human beans.
Mind you, a man of his calibre, sensibility, sense and physique of an overall manly deport.
All problems are surmountable according to a wise old Scottish poet whose work was wrocht in Gaelic. He fought for the Hanoverians too, German Geordie and all that anglo-saxon crap.
But what about Carer Agency work? The idea of Carer Agency work! Caring for those who required support from society.
Mind the gap.
A chap of unknown theological leanings, a background blighted by race, ethnicity and diverse bigotries.
The lack of a proper basis to one’s existence. Besides all of that he was raised a genuflector to the hierarchical god-class.
Wearily wearily. Howsomever, one trudges.
The trouble with life is the lack of a soundtrack, even a cheery hollywood song about working-class chimney-sweeps in mufflers, bunnets and torn semmits,
hi tiddly toe
it’s off to gaol we go,
then the weans up the fucking chimney. Ma’am Yer Honour can I present to you one’s ankle-snappers, they will scale the bricks on behalf of you and your weans and grandweans to do as you please Your Royal Divineness.
Coffees and green tea. He would take water with a slice of lemon, two Abernethy biscuits and a comfy chair a comfy chair, watching the wheels go round.
What about gross brains. My brains are gross. The chap has a palpitating brain your Honour and that brain, that brain
has left him speechless; bereft, left bereft, nay million euros.
People look at one. He needed to sit, to be free of stares. He found himself limping towards a tiny green area where there was a bench: edging his way clear of the lieges in said direction your Honour, in most ungainly fashion.
How come?
He dont like leixester Square. Something aboot that place drives a man nuts. He is a man. He dont care for the effing polisconfuckingstabulary either man stab yer ayn fucking abulary.
The plates o meat required a break else kaputo kaputare. One’s feet your Honour, one’s flip-flops.
He needed socks. A man needs socks.
There was nay space on the benches. Older beans sat on the grass, scrolling scrolling ever scrolling.
He flapped out the flipflops, hitting them on the grun. All sorts of gravel and wee chuckie stanes came flying oot. The feets were fine apart from that. Nay reason for limping.
Why o why had he left his native shores? Our hero wrung his hands. Okay it was a shitty dump but is that just cause? And it is not a shitty dump at all. He was a vainglorious type of fellow in search of meaning.
A shop in the vicinity advertised sales of clothes by Union Railways of Britain Lost Property Department. He heard about these sales in a rooming house for the confined class. Upmarket claes for the down-at-heel chap who was reassembling hisself on life’s weary belt-driven
och shut up.
Honest to gahd. One dire Monday morning after the night before he required breeks urgently and buyed a pair at a polis lost property office. Nay kidding ye man they only let him oot on condition he purchased a pair of strides then sent him along the corridor to buy them. He will not divulge the city.
Okay: errors. What has been his greatest error? talking life here, what has been the greatest error in all his entire life?
He once flung away a coat. God forgive him. True but. A genuine actual coat. He flung it away. Thinking about it even now, one was astounded; at himself, by himself, his absolute – that word integrity because the cold the cold the cold, the cold, when it enters one’s very marrow, thinking about it now, to fling away a coat
speechless,
about to have become so,
honest.
Shut up.
But was it his gravest error? Gravitas, gravitatis, his actual gravest?
Grass is grass and ants is ants. He would fucking eat ants. They even look nutritious. Toty wee blackcurrant clusters. But ants are nutritious. He heard that. Some fucking Charity for poor African Countries advertised that. Rockstars and footballers, boyish Princes of the House of Whisper: all comrades the gether. They buyed up these African villages in the name of the next life. Brilliant people, all giving their time for fuck all, aint they the bees knees. All we need is 20 sense a day off the general population and we can feed an entire village. That is what they were shouting, these cheery billionaire fucking bastards. Something to do with ants, a hundred thousand volunteer workers coming from Birmingham, Manchester, Glasgow and Liverpool, we’ll feed the fuckers is the cry! No surrender.
The awkward reality concerning ants is quantity, ye need a few thousand a time for every wean. So these weans have to catch them. How do ye catch a thousand ants? One lays a bit of grub on the ground. The African wean exercises patience till at last a scout-ant arrives then passes on the message, then the mother-horde swarms across, then the wean licks them all up. One then returns the last ant to the grun to ensnare the next batch of toty wee clusters of nutritiousity. That was the brilliant idea of the boyish young Prince, his cheery rockstar and footballing friends agreed wholeheartedly
Say what you will, the countryside makes one ill.
He needed to get fit and healthy. Of that there was no argument.
Weightlifting exercises, wrestling clubs, gymnasia; oneself as a fit and healthy being. Learning to play cards and gamble profitably with interesting strangers. He could hustle down dimly lit lanes and corridors and have prostitutes for girlfriends.
Could his life be over? Had he been a normal sort of wage-earning guy this question, without fear of contradiction, would have preoccupied him. It is true he had possessed said coat then discarded same willy of the nilly. ’Twas done in a fit of pique. He was going through a believe-in-the-next-world phase. Get thee behind me Immediate Reality! Henceforth I shall tread the paths of righteous obedience, rule brittanicus, brittanicus rules the waves.
He hoped for a chicken sandwich out the deal. Talk about hypocritical bastards! A fucking charlatan man nay wonder he flung away the coat. He should have punched himself on the mouth. He deserved nothing less. He loved that coat. But couldnay concentrate with the necessary oomph. Ever tried punching yersel in the mooth? The jawbone aye wiggles out of reach.
How do other folk manage it? Has anybody ever? Autonomous limbs, ignoring the penis. He cannay imagine it. He tried. He just could not get one’s hand to disengage from its cog-in-the-machine-of-life role, so to speak, to just leave go and act as an individual member. Order order. This House demands Unity. Thus does the fist
steady itself at that last moment and merely taps him on the cheek instead of a major whack, whack whack whack, a whack on the gub that might break the old jawbone.
Jawbone. He came upon a jawbone once. It was on the lower reaches of a mountain. One jaw bone. Nothing else.
The Mysteries of the Universe. He would love a book with that title. He used to have a book.
Now here he was.
A huge Estates Agency. What do we make of that? The damsel at the upstairs window. She must have been bored. Looking out the window at him. What a building! It was a natural development too. He didnay know Estates Agencies grew to that size.
But she was there. Was she just making fun at his expense? What do we mean by that? Hey lady he got no expense.
Is expense a possession? Possessions he hath none.
But she was staring down at him. Jesus man, really. He should have called out. Young lady ahoy! Male-damsel in distress!
What is a male-damsel? A damson! A fucking damson man he am a damson. Damson in distress.
Veritably.
She was an audience. Maybe she was humming a tune at the same time, thus providing the missing soundtrack to his ungainly twitch of a dance, the rhythm of that, for he had such a rhythm. This has been remarked upon. She might have been blowing an encouraging tune through her beautiful lips, a low whistle, watching him do that wee jig albeit the yelping twitch, be careful it is a very old way of being that brings one nearer the light, that shard of light, he cannot utter the name, he cannot utter the name, he cannot utter the name.
Why he was doing the wee jig. These are questings
in demonstration of one’s existence
madness lieth
for too long having had nothing, far too long, shedding clothes and dispensing with food, all contact with the opposite sex.
It is true. He even threw away a coat. Now to throw away a coat!
But were the redoubtable former pockets of said coat empty when one discharged it from in short one’s shoodirs? Entirely. Into a fucking skip man a manky and smelly one, full of diarrhoeic rubbish, stones and brickwork, shite and assorted toenails.
Never mind. It was a bygone slice of life. Nevermore would he embroil himself in useless activities, he had deactivised.
Futile questings. The troublesome aspect to eggseestons: one’s involvement in same.
Now here he was set to embark on another. He required to inform parties. Lest he fail to return. He needed somebody to know if he had become an absence.
Bontsha the Silent.
A wee breeze in the park. Heh, that breeze is him, it wouldnay exist but for his absence.
A guy was looking at him. Really, this guy, he was looking at him! He was.
Mercy him. This was exciting. Why was he looking at him? All manner of questions raised their ugly mugs.
The guy was eating a sandwich, and smiling. He smiled back. But was it to him he was smiling? Fuck! Was this a pick-up? Maybe it was. Christ almighty. Such luck was beyond, was beyond, like it was like
beyond.
Was it true. But he was a smelly fucker.
He felt like giving the guy a kiss there and then in gratitude, the very idea, a man among men, axiomatic: I am a man. This guy is looking at me.
He very nearly spoke, was having to hold himself back.
Maybe he was an office worker out for a breath of fresh air, eating his lunch out in the open. It was all offices roundabout here. Ye would suffocate. The stultification of collegial-phobics, i.e. one’s fellow officeworkmates. Escaping out for a smoke, fresh air, a bit of exercise.
Had he finished the sandwich? He seemed to have because he was not eating. Maybe he had half eaten it and stuffed the rest away. Was that possible? Not eating a sandwich when one has the choice. Are there people for whom such is reality?
Maybe the guy had something to say. What might it be?
The guy’s napper and what lay within; the concealed phantasmagoria. What was going through the guy’s head? Here they were sharing a bench on life’s weary journey.
Imagine a conversation: Hi, says the guy, my name is Dave. What’s yours?
Bontcha Bill.
Bontcha Bill. Is that true?
Yes.
D’ye work in an office?
No. I work for Lambert and Price the furniture store.
Lambert and Price the furniture store?
Yes.
Never heard of them.
Neither have I, I just made it up! The truth is I’m a farm labourer, in the old days you would have said ‘peasant’, hardly a complimentary term but so what if it be truth required. I’ve escaped from the country but intend escaping once again tomorrow morning if one makes it through the night.
The guy was in his own world, a dreamworld too by the look of him. The lines on his forehead. Man oh man this guy was tired. Then of course eating only a mouthful of the sandwich and stuffing the rest away. Poor bastard. There was something pitiable about that. He was worn down by the vagaries.
An insight gained.
I beg your pardon, he found himself saying, I was just wondering if you were married?
The man frowned. Yes, he said.
I only mention it because it is possible you might have seen myself in the pick-up context. At the same time if you had, I wouldnt hold it against ye, people have to act. The state of passivity gets you nowhere, that is inaction, the state of do-nothing. So at least you broke the ice, and a guy like me ye know, when one is skint, when one has no food and considering food, clusters of same, vegetables and berries, ants, and then that sandwich you stuffed out of sight, the halfeaten sandwich. The truth is, I speak in hunger, in the throes. Is the sandwich a figment of the old imagination? Grub is grub and food is food, ne’er the two, et cetera ad nauseam or is it nauseum.
The guy
There was no guy. No halfeaten sandwich. Figment if figment it had been. The sandwich figment. Futile imaginings. What comes first, the sandwich or an owner, its owner, owner of the sandwich. Which the egg which the chicken? The egg must come first, according to science, but for us . . . godly fuckers – call a halt,
call a halt
or is it the chicken?
Imagine a man who has a sandwich to eat, takes one bite then stuffs the rest of it back into his pocket. Would he give the sandwich to a deserving stranger? Is there such a question? Can such a question be said to exist?
Never mind if it doesnay because he, he
Farewell to one and all. He was not mad and knew it to the very core, the very core. For he too
ach
A FRIEND
She was a friend. I knew by her absence. So much that was her, the imprint she left. Hers appeared a gap in space but was a movement. By virtue of that, courses of action, how these are performed.
I learned about music. She was younger than me when she died, younger than I am now. The way I see it she did die even though technically she did not. She was not killed. Imagine ‘killed’, a woman killed.
She was breathing beyond the accident so that she might have died. She would have smiled as she did so. She was special.
I was not present. In discussing her absence I was hearing music. This was a development. My own life, it too, it has developed.
Her absence and music there someplace, music, filling the absence.
A thought is not a finished entity if it is not one. A thought. Thoughts are more varied. Thoughts; entities in my head, inside it. So that was it too, thinking of her and her absence.
And I can not get to it, and to her, what of her? I can not reach her. It is too painful; memories, image, neither an image, not a thought. She was a friend. Her smile was to me.
ONE HAS ONE’S
WEANS
I was just in the door from work and was tired tired tired. Things had been happening and I was irritated. Every fucking thing. Not the kids, they were sound asleep. Not Wilma either. How could I be irritated by her? If not for her I dont know what would have happened. The job was so
bad it was just like
forget it,
ye felt like murdering cunts.
Better no talking about it. Certain it is that without her I wouldnay have lasted. How do people manage without a partner? I wouldnay have survived. She took me out the mood – moods; it was moods. I didnay hate the job but there were things about it drove me nuts. As soon as I got home, closed the door, saw the kids and had a cuddle with Wilma the world reverted to one in which a person could cope without contemplating the murder of one’s fucking superiors. The officer-class I am talking about. This story by Heinrich Böll, the German army on the point of retreat, their officer-class and the ones here in this load of royalist shit known as britsin were exactly the same. But why in the name of god did we all put up with it! Fucking hell, curtseying to these upper-class cunts. We are talking here about my grandpa. I remember him. He was a tough Glasgow guy and yet there he was yessir nosir threebags full sir
forget it.
Here’s yer toast and cheese, said Wilma.
I dont want any.
Well I’ve made it.
Well ye can just unmake it.
She smiled and put it down on the floor at the side of my chair.
Seriously, I said, you’ll have to eat it yerself because I’m not. I dont have any stomach left ye see.
D’ye want tea or coffee?
I’m not bothered.
Horlicks?
Horlicks!
Wilma laughed. I gave her a cuddle. Seriously, she said, there’s been some lying in the cupboard for months.
That charred lump? Is that what ye’re talking about? a lump of meteorite dust. Fuck knows where it’s come frae, Saturn or someplace. I mind buying that stuff. Months ago. It was for you I bought it.
It wasnt for me.
It was.
I dont drink it.
Ye used to.
No I didnt. Not Ovaltine either, and not hot chocolate.
Hot chocolate. One drools at the words alone.
Shut up.
So ye mean I should dispose of the charred dust?
