“Don’t fancy yours much...” Roy says, nudging me hard in the ribs, his playful physicality overdubbed with four too many “Rolling Rock"s. “...nor mine, really.” There are two girls ahead of us. He’s right. We watch a bouncer eject a drugged-up older guy who has been flashing his penis on the dance floor and is now objecting loudly that he did no such thing. It’s clear that he is in the no-mans land, where he thinks bouncers can be reasoned with (not true), but knows that after ten pm he will not be allowed to enter any other drinking establishment (true). This is not his night, and he is tossed almost casually out in to the dreickt (see glossary below) evening street, genitals glistening under street lamp light. I start to wonder why you’d show your cock on the dance floor, of all places? To watch it jig? I quickly end those thoughts. A child of Morrissey, I know my genitals look like some grotesque, shameful, vile joke gone wrong. “Prity thing you is ugly and you is ment to hide.” as Billy Childish wrote.

In mid-80’s Glasgow street crime curfew is all the rage—while the bars can stay open ‘till midnight and the ‘niteclubs’ (ugh) ‘till three am, you can’t enter either after ten pm. Constant police patrols wander the city centre to ensure these rules are kept, while ignoring the clashes between the blue shirt proddies and green-clad celtic catholics. Sectarian violence, you see, is not a street crime, and therefore not to be stamped out with quite as much determination. It seems like hyperbole, but it’s almost like a police state: every street, every corner there’s a presence, and they don’t make an effort to blend in.

Niteclubs are, of course, shit places with shit beer, overpriced and often watered down whiskey, far too much noise and neon light that seems to do nothing better than show off the sickliness of the pasty grey Glaswegian parlor. Drunk, they are almost bearable; half-cut, they truly seem like some poor imitation of Dachau.

Our friends return from the bathroom: Sean who thinks himself smart and is an awful prick when drunk, and Jamie, the hanger-on who we’ve been unsuccessful at losing earlier. We’re dressed like those stupid little books where the pages are cut in three and you can mix a head, a jacket, trousers and shoes. Dull greys, sickly dark greens, faded blue. Like children put it together, ramshackle, only to lose attention at a particularly bad combo moment.

Only the hair tells us apart: Sean with his jobbie brown scruffy girly hair, Jamie with his army wanna-be crew-cut, Roy with his workin’ man’s four pound black oil-slick ‘do and amazing invisible chin. If it’s winter I’ll be suedehead, if it’s summer another Evan Dando lookalike. Everything completely disposable, replaceable. We hunt for space amongst the tiny little seats at the tiny little tables. The blaring music makes conversation almost impossible without leaning right in to the listener’s ear and spraying their cheek with a fine mist of spit as some pointless information is passed along—in rare, quieter moments hearty shouting sometimes works too. Anyway, there is only one thing to do: drink until the girls look good and you mistakenly think you can dance.

Insanity, allegedly, is to repeat the same actions and expect a different outcome. Clearly, everyone here and every weekend here is insane—but not in the nice, carefree, crazy, high-on-life way: rather this is the nasty, paranoid, painfully shy fashion of insanity.

It’s amazing how much planning these events take. Choosing a bar to meet in first from a variety of locations different only by which brewer (Tennants or McEwans) owns them. Choosing a time (three o’clock, so show up at two so you can get a start going). Choosing another bar that we’ll send Jamie to in the hopes that he won’t find us. Drinking endless pints of suitably manly stuff: Guinness, Heavy, Eighty Shilling, Blackthorn. Always money for drink, no matter how poor. Cruel easy humor and an ever-flowing stream of crack. The TV gets turned on for the football scores. Career alcoholics appear, attempt to converse, then head on to tables, bathroom, bar—often confused as to where they came from and where they were going to, for what little difference it makes.

The bar is split in two: the public area, with bench seats, worn wood tables and a long bar without stools for the men; the lounge for the ladies, with nice tables, real chairs, and sometimes a toilet free of vomit or ill-placed shits. If it’s a classy joint, it’ll also have a snug—a small room off to the side for a group to gather. The aim is to get to the snug first, or to take it over as someone leaves. This is our sport, watching the snug, waiting for our moment of invasion that sadly today never arrives. Each bar also has it’s own culinary offering: crisps, pickled eggs, salted peanuts, and possibly scotch pies—overflowing with grease, artery blocking fuel against the cold night to come.

Roy has decided to be a wank though and is drinking some trendy new import beer—Rolling Rock. It looks just like every other trendy new import beer: pale, yellowy like watered down piss. The rest of us pass our judgement upon it: it’s as bad as lager. Lager is the worst of all beers, only to be consumed in times of great poverty (unless of course it is a real, actual pilsner from the continent). Better to steal another man’s stout than pay for one’s own fucking lager. But Roy was heavily out on the pish the day before, and his guts cannot handle the weight of more stout—a truth made evident by his frequent visits to the bathroom, and the stink evident to any poor bastard following him in

We bemoan the state of the womenfolk, us Adonises of men. We start with those we know who are involved in relationships: these we must scorn. It is not that they are unattainable, just that we have no wish to attain them, you understand? Next we damn the pretty ones as either dumb or daft. We wonder perilously if we might lumber a barrows girl on accident. We describe our ideal women, their brains, their other assets, focusing on the physical. Each heart hopes for something to happen, but no brain considers that we are all supposed to sleep in the same studio apartment later.

The long walk starts at or around nine: don’t want to get to the club too soon, but don’t want to miss ten, and it would be nice to get a seat. Sitting is some great goal. A love of gravity perhaps? The next decision: which of the cookie-cutter clubs shall we frequent? Which ones has any one of us been ejected from? Do any of them have decent music? Which has the better looking women? How often do fights break out? Which has colors? Are the drugs on offer entry-level and cheap, or is it a coke-plus place? How piss-poor is the beer selection? All variables to be carefully considered and weighed until a “fuckit” moment hits and whatever is nearest will do.

* * *

All bouncers are cunts. All bouncers have the brains of very small pigs in the bodies of very large bastards. All bouncers have no sense of “the funny.” All bouncers take way too much joy in patting down punters, especially the swift knee-cap to the groin area to check for god knows what. But this is their little place of power: the doorway. They reign with the power of Saint Peter. They count on their fingers the male-to-female ratio, and try to keep it at no more than 2:1, as anything higher will ensure fights. They don’t do this very well however, often forgetting where on their fingers they were, if they have had to form a fist or pick an itchy nostril mid-count, say. Still a gang of four males has close to zero chance of entry. It’s time for the tactical thinking. We decide on a one, one, two pattern. If the first guy gets booted, we go elsewhere; if the second one doesn’t make it in, the first guy will know to leave; if the first and second both make it and the third and forth don’t then the forces will split up and the third and fourth will go elsewhere. Perfect logic. We have out-thought the small pig brains. Tonight it works, we get in.

“Jamie, go get the drinks in.”
“But I just got one.”
“Aye but it starts over at a new place.”
“How come?”
“Just does. We’re going for a pish.”
“Aw fuck you’se guys.”

In the bathroom, I count what monies I have left. Somewhere just north of thirty pounds. Let me think then. About four rounds of drinks. So if everyone buys their share, that would be four by four which is eight? No, sixteen drinks each. That should be way more than enough. If I get set as the last buyer per round, I may even get off on one. But then if I get a lumber I may have to ply her with drinks and pay for a taxi back to her place. And condoms. fifty pence times two for six condoms (one packet of flavored, one packet of ribbed—almost egalitarian). Three rounds then. Or I could borrow money later if I need it. So say I’ve got three rounds, a little spare for the lumber, a pound for raincoats, and if needs be I’ll get a loan. Sorted.

Or, the same deal but with only two rounds and two little tablets of X. Hmm. That sounds good, actually. Well, it’s good in that the music won’t suck so bad, I’ll dance sooner, and I’ll approach the ladies faster. It’s not so good in that I’ll talk shite, dance like an idiot and quite possibly vomit later. And I may get sold some bad shit, in which case we’ll need to head out on a murder. I turn off the tap on the anal Guinness and decide: if I know the hook, it’s on for X, if I don’t I’ll pass.

Probably.

The next question though is will any of the friends join in on this caper? Roy might if he’s flush and his tummy is working better. Sean might too but he’s double-plus-prick on beer and drugs. Jamie being a good little boy won’t. (But it’d be fun to spike his drink with one, hee hee! But too expensive. Fuck that.) If Roy is broke and I have two, he’ll take a beggars on one. Or pint for a pill. Do I owe him any? Fuck if I can remember. All right, time for the master plan. Buy the stuff if I know it’s good, pocket it for now, decide if Roy is flush, if so, sell him one, get myself another. If Sean wants anything he can see to himself (and he can fuck off, hopefully). No drink tampering this evening. Alright I think it’s worked out. Wait, what if the lumber wants some? Deal with that when it happens. Smart.

“Jamie, Go ask the man for some Pogues!”
“Aye, The Sick Bed Of Cuchulainn!”
“What?”
“Ask for a song!”
“What?”
“The Sick Bed Of Cuchulainn!”

Sure enough, like an idiot he goes up to the DJ, comes back, hands upwards.

“He says he disnae have the silly bed of whatever it was.”

Roy is still on his ponce beer, so we make fun. He holds the bottle by the top of the rim and makes the bottom roll in circles on the table. “Aye, but you cannaie dae this wi’ yer pints.” We acknowledge this, but enquire as to the usefullness and purpose. Sure enough, the slick top of the bottle slips from his fingers and the bottle falls onto the table, still spinning, splashing it’s half full guts over us all. Three of us find this hysterically funny, Roy not so much. We rechristen his drink “Tumbling Rock.” Such is wit.

Being first to empty, Roy gets to buy the next round of drinks. I go along to help carry (I go along to ask if he’s got money and desire for drugs). Sure enough, he has the appetite but is a little shy on money. Fuck it. I’ll get him a pill on the condition that if I get a lumber and need taxi money or drink money or something he’ll beg it off Sean or Jamie for me. I’m a better businessman than a beggar, and knowing I can parlay two pounds fifty into ten if I have to later is a fine deal. Good. We take the drinks back. Roy palms me a pound, which is generous as I’d already said I’d treat, but what the hell. That’s the condoms covered anyway. Ha ha, Condoms. Covered.

Thankfully, we’re in a lower-class drugs joint, so the bouncers are not caring much what goes on. The license is in no danger, no needles, nothing to worry about. I go about the arcane rituals of the buy.

First, law check. The police are easy to spot. Too old, dressed wrong, always with shiny shoes and a soft drink. You’d think they’d wise up, no? Next, the hook. Always a tiny guy, always kinda twitchy. No drink. He’s chatting up some girl, probably offering a free sample for a feel-up or a quick blow job (if he’s feeling really lucky). I sit two tables away from him, my fingers in the tell-tale “V”, being code for “Looking to buy ‘X’”. He notices and runs his hand through his hair, all four fingers up. I move my fingers off the table. He curls up a pinkie and does his hair again. I sit still. He curls up two fingers. I put my hand to my lips, wait a second and put three fingers on the table. I go back to our table. The wee guy goes to the big fella, the big guy fella takes a small envelope from his back pocket, and digs around in his girlfriends handbag for a moment. The wee man comes up and we shake hands, he palms my ten pounds, I take the envelope from him. Dead simple. Two pounds fifty over what I’d wanted to pay, but ah, so what.

It’s best not to take drink with X, but you can’t really buy X before dark, so what is a fella to do?

I slip Roy his tablet under the table. He drops it like the silly cunt he is. He rushes to grab it before the five second rule applies, shoves it in his mouth and washes it down with a swig of “Tumbling Rock.” Right in front of the prick boy and Jamie. Fucking classy. With the game all but up, I quickly slip my tabs into my mouth, try to tongue one and swig some Guinness. I fail in my tongue trick and both tabs slide down my throat. Fuck.

“What’s that?” Jamie asks Roy.
“Asprin.”
“Fuck it is.” Sean offers. “Are you holding out?”
“Naw, I got it from him.” Roy says, pointing at me. The man must have shat out every bit of class and sense in his body.
“Geeus!” Sean says.
“What’s that?” Jamie asks the table in general.
“I only had two.” I say, and it’s not a complete lie, I only ingested two.
“Are you lying?”
“Nope.”
“Cunt.”
“I’d love some.”

Sean goes away to try and buy some drugs. It’s embarrassing to watch. “What’s that?” Jamie asks.
“Asprin.” we say. “If you take it now, you don’t get a headache tomorrow.”
“Really?”
“Aye. But you need to take water with it. Go get us two pints of water.”
“Can I get an Aspirin?”
“Ask at the bar.”

The place is starting to fill. We empty our jacket pockets and mark our territory with them. These seats are taken. We may have gone to the bar, the toilet, or the dance floor but we are coming back and these are our seats and unless you want barney you will leave well enough alone. I have about thirty minutes to scope before the tablets will kick in, so I drink my water and head out to case the joint. Behind me, Jamie is complaining that the barman said he had no Aspirin.

I have a list of priorities in the clubs. First, I prefer (as I’ve said) only low-end drugs (weed, X, LSD, and a little sniffing cocaine are fine and dandy). I don’t give a fuck if people want to inject whatever, but it attracts the filth and makes the bathrooms way too freaking crowded. Next up, I don’t like colors. For some reason the football fans always seem to congregate in pathetic little groups to arrange who they’ll go fight with. Two-bit tough men who live for kicking people in the head. It’s fucked up. The clubs don’t allow the club colors to be worn, but you can tell. They talk of the “bears” or the “orange”. All doc marten boots, skinhead, and that dead, mean grimace to the face. I’m lucky again: the worst we have is a small group of Heart of Midlothian fans sitting at a table discussing how their team did well with a nil-nil draw earlier in the day. Third on the list is the ratio of male to female. For once the bouncers may be on this one—more than two guys per doll makes for a miserable time. We’re running a little top heavy, but by the time the “support staff” are discounted it’s OK. I have two more items on the wish list—the beauty of the ladies and the quality of the music—but experience tells me these do not vary. I finish up my tour noting a few hot spots (two girls drinking, groups of girls dancing) and cold spots (bunches of guys, sickening couples in lurve who’ll snog at the last dance, eww, probably to a fucking Annie Lennox tune). Oddly enough, while the club is basically an extended “L” shape, I seem to have more corners in my mind than mere geometry would require post my tour.

Returning to the table, I finish my pint before Sean is back from his drug run. I’m really hoping he gets shown the door. He’s had enough to drink already, and anything more will knock him into prime prickhoodland. That said though, he hasn’t bought his round yet. I do the mental math to figure out if this is OK or not, and decide it’s not.
“Sean, drinks!” I yell. He ignores me.
“SEAN! DRINKS!” Roy and I yell together. Sean throws us the vickies.
“SEAN AHEM IS A HORSES ASS!
HE IS THE MEANEST!
HE SUCKS A HORSES PENIS!
SEAN AHEM IS A HORSES ASS” we chant, as loudly as we can, three times over, in case anyone failed to catch the news of Sean’s horse fellatio over the dub DJ rhythms. Still no move from Sean so fuck it, my turn to get the drinks in.
“Three Guinness, One Tumbling Rock, right?”
“Can I have a Bacardi and Coke?” Jamie asks.
“What the fuck for?”
“I’m getting full. I can’t drink another pint.”
“Then have a bottle. I am not buying you a fucking girls drink.” (I’m not buying him this as these drinks are way expensive, really).
“Just a scoosh of coke.” (What the fuck does that matter? What next? “No wee umbrella in it?")
“No—a pint, a bottle or a can—those are your choices.”
“But I want a Bacard...”
“Fuck you then, you come order it and help carry.”
We head for an empty spot at the bar.
“Two Guinness, one Tumbling, sorry, Rolling Rock, and what would you like again Miss?”
“Fuck you. Can I get a Bacardi and Coke please?”
“Ice?”
“Err, I don’t know. Aye I think.”
“Lemon?”
“Err. Aye.”
“Oh, and does he get a discount if he runs back bar and sucks your willie?”
This was a very silly thing to say, and could have cost me further drinking rights, but I just had to do it. We wait for the Guinness to pour and take the round back, passing the still drug hungry, still pathetic Sean, still looking. “Come to the table man.”
“I’m getting seen to.”
“Who by?”
“Girl in the corner. Her boyfriend is bringing it in.”
“Did you pay already?”
“Aye.”
“You are a fucking idiot.”

Back at the table, Roy has tripped out on us.

Roy has three basic reactions to X: the first and best is the usual, happiness, thinks he can dance, manic grin, a little too touchy-feely maybe, otherwise harmless; the second is sleep, which is embarrassing but easy to deal with; the third is something we’ve taken to calling “mouth mania"--he will talk incessantly, nonsense. Introducing himself to people as “Snerky Snazzer” and repeatedly reciting lines from “Fat Freddy’s Cat”—“Hello there young chicken.” being one of his all-time favorites. He is in none of these states. This worries me. It is, if anything, like he is in some confused mix of all the above, but combined with an expulsion of energy and strength. I think back: Roy on weed is always paranoia, so it’s not that. Roy doesn’t do coke after his cousin died. All other reasonable possibilities exhausted, we conclude Roy has combined X with speed and booze and is now quite utterly manic. I am totally fucking guttered that he hadn’t offered me any speed, the bastard. He does, however, chug his drink and insist Jamie and I come dance with him. At this point I’m fucked up enough myself that a little exercise is fine. Sean takes the table. Waiting for his man.

If it’s true that white boys can’t dance, it is super-fucking-overdub-edly so that Scottish white boys can’t dance. Even, perhaps especially, on drugs. Fortunately, the small dance area is mostly empty, bar a party of office girls in the far corner, dancing in a circle around their handbags to protect these from theft (or from bouncers finding the bladders of wine boxes snuck in for booze economy). Totally out of time with the music we pogo, sprawl, prance, swirl, smash into one another, laugh, fall over, get up again, rinse and repeat. Our chances of getting any sort of a lumber with the girls currently watching us has now hit zero. We continue to make fools of ourselves for probably three or four tunes, it’s hard to tell with the music being played. The DJ forces us off the floor with a Sade number, which it is impossible to act the giddy goat to.

At the table, Sean stares into his pint, still waiting. There is no longer any “girl in the corner.” I almost feel sorry for him, and burst into laughter.

The dancing trio slam down into their seats, rattling the table, splashing some beer.
“Sean! It’s your round!” Roy yells, having consumed his whole Rolling Rock earlier. “SEAN!”
“ROUND!” we all yell. He sits, stares at his beer. Super. We’re in full-on prick mode. Sean pulls this shit every so often. Pretends to be a mute, or goes and sits on the toilet for hours, or some other bullshit. It’s a pain. When he does it at his round that’s the worst.
“Sean? Are you alright?” Roy asks, moving around the table with the grace of a new-born gazelle.
“Sean, do you want to dance?” Roy asks. Fuck me.
“Sean, can you hear me?” Roy asks.
“Sean, IT’S YOUR FUCKING ROUND you prick.” I yell.
Roy kisses Sean, full on the lips, open mouth. For the first few seconds Sean doesn’t react, but when it becomes clear that Roy isn’t in any mood to stop Sean pushes him away. Roy rolls around on the floor, giggling. I go and pick him up, waving off the bouncers who are making it clear that we need to straighten up or we’ll be out on our ear.
“Sean, go get the round in and I’ll get you some… stuff.” I offer.
“I’m fixed, her boyfriend is bringing it.”
“Whose boyfriend?”
“She must be in the bathroom.”
“OK, tell you what, you get the round in, I’ll get you some stuff and if the boyfriend turns up I’ll take his stuff, OK?”
“I suppose.”
“But you have to pay me now.”
“I already paid her.”
“I know, but you need to pay me for the new stuff then I’ll give you that back when your contact comes through.” (AKA, never) “How much did you pay?”
“Ten.”
“Fuck, how many did you get?”
“Eh?”
“How many hits.”
“One.”
I will not slap him for the bouncers are watching, I will not slap him as the bouncers are watching, I will try not to slap him as the bouncers are watching and it’s gone ten, I will not slap him but I want to slap him so very, very hard. “OK.” I say.

Roy and Jamie are talking nonsense, Sean and I go to the bar. Act straight act straight act straight. “Four pints of Guinness, Bacardi and Coke, bottle of peanuts, and a water.”
“What?”
I am way hazy, damn it, gotta pull this together. One thing at a time. “Four pints of water.”
“Lemon?”
“No.”
“Ice?”
“No.”
“Three, no two Guinness.”
“OK.”
“Bacardi and Coke.”
“Lemon?”
“Same as last time.”
“OK.”
“Rolling Rock”.
“Glass?”
“No, bottle.” (Hang on that was a trick question wasn’t it. Fuck. Alright, laugh like it was a joke, look him in the eye.)
“Alright, here’s the waters, I’ll bring the rest on over.” This is a bad sign. When the bartender brings you drinks he suspects that perhaps it’s time for you to move along, on the basis that you are shit-faced. Do not drop the glasses of water. Walk slowly but not too slowly. Set the glasses down easily. Fuck. Made it.

Sean is OK, other than being a prick. Jamie is a little drunk, but we don’t care if he gets kicked out anyway. I can probably hold it together. Roy is our problem child. His crooked full-face grin and wild eyes with seemingly independently controlled eyeballs are a dead giveaway.
“Roy, do you need to use the bathroom?”
“NO! I DON’T NEED TO USE… TO USE… TO USE… LAUTREC!”
Alright fuck. We are all supposed to bunk with Roy this evening, so this is not good. Thank god they only have one Guinness pump at the bar, we have a few precious seconds. Think man think. What can Roy do when he’s fucked up that won’t look fucked up? Think think think.

I dash to the bar. “Can we get some Mars bars and some Coke not diet?”
“What?”
“Our friend is hypoglycemic. He needs sugar. “ (don’t giggle as you say sugar).
“What’s he doing out? He seemed fine last I saw him.”
“Yeah, it comes on fast, but he just needs some sugar.”
“Are you sure? Should we not call an ambulance?”
“No no non nonono no need! He’ll be fine in a wee minute if we get some sugar in him.”
“DONKEY!” yells Roy.
“He shouts sometimes...” I offer lamely.
“DON’T call me MATTHEW I think I’M A HORSE!”
“...it doesn’t, always, make sense. Mars bars?”

The little baby jesus, who has been tuning up the beer scooter for our ride home, smiles upon us and the barman goes and gets some Mars bars, soda, and other chocolate stuff. Crisis almost averted. But the barman wants to see Roy eat the treats to make sure he’s OK. I unwrap the Mars bar, put it in Roy’s mouth, he bites down. Good. He bites off a good sized chunk. Good. He flips his head back, spits the chunk of Mars bar as high into the air as he can. Laughs. Not good.
“It might take a minute.”
“Maybe the Coke?”
“Alright.”
Thankfully, Roy drinks the Coke, then some water. Starts to eat the Mars bar when asked. Continues to eat the chocolate bars until his mouth and surrounding area are filthy with the stuff. I’ve given up at this point. “Jamie, take him to the bathroom and clean him up would you?”
“It’s an awful shame, for them poor folks.” the barman says towards me.
“Yes, yes it is. Awful shame. But he can lead an almost normal life.”
“That’s good.”
“How much for the Mars and stuff?”
“That’s alright, don’t worry about it.” (What the fuck? OK, I’ve fallen down and am now asleep or unconscious.)
The barman leaves. I wait a few minutes and head to the bathroom. Sure enough, Jamie and Roy are occupying a stall—Roy vomits copiously and with a fearsome racket. I console myself that if there is any loving to be had tonight, I’m probably the most attractive / least smelly of the group at this point.
Back at the table Sean turns to me: “Where’s drugs?”

It’s not done to make two buys a night, it’s too obvious, and it can bring more legal issues if you can get tagged as a dealer. But it’s a one whore club tonight as far as hooks go, so my only option is to go back to wee man, big fella, and big fella’s girlfriend. The dealing table is filled now, so I find a spot at the bar and knock for a repeat fill when wee man is watching me. Back at the table, I suck down some more beer before the contact comes over. My guts are full now, time to switch. God I need to pee again. I just fucking peed. Here he comes. Nods me over to the side of the club, we can’t shake hands again. We stand at the wall and talk for three, four minutes. Football. I know nothing about football. I drop the ten pound note, we both reach to get it, him fast, me slow, he gets it, hands the envelope to me but it looks just like he gave me the note. It’s like some bizarre mating ritual. I head back to the bathroom: of the three X I just picked up, Sean is getting the one he thinks he paid for. I’m doing this for his own good, of course. As I open the envelope I think the last of my luck must have passed as instead of three tablets, now we have four! Jamie is cleaning off Roy, so I dodge back quickly and give Sean his tab, and drop two into Jamie’s B&C, saving the last for myself.

“Guinness.”
“I think it’s your round Roy.”
“Fuck.”
“No, it’s Jamie’s.”
“Oh, right.”
“Guinness, Black Bush large, no ice, no water, no lemon, cheap brandy and whatever you want yourself.”
Roy has speed. Hmm. Do I want to be up all night? I’m feeling sleepy. That’s the X talking. Roy has speed. Do I want to be up all night? It’s been a good night. Maybe I do. I’ll just ask for a little, for later. Just in case…

A few sips of Guinness bring Roy back around. Sean thinks he’s high so he’s alternately dancing and annoying girls near the dance floor. Sometimes, he thinks he’s Jim Morrison and the memory of the penis flashing guy slips before my mind. Please dear lord no…

“Roy, I’m going to take a powder.”
“What?”
“Taking a powder. I am.”
“Leaving? Already?”
“No. A powder. In the bathroom.”
“Oh, OK, I’ll… watch the drinks...”
“No, not that kind of powder. The kind you took.”
“Your going to be sick?”
“No. Powder. You have powder. I take bathroom. Use.”
“Eh?”
“Fuck it, GIVE ME SOME FUCKING SPEED!”
“Oh, sure. You only had to ask you know. No need for the yelling.”

Bathroom. Sit. Pee. Snort. Do I need to make a bowel movement? Nope, just a resonant fart. Oh dear John of Groats, that’s nippy.

There comes a moment when you are just correctly drugged and drunked up where you are just at perfect peace. Even bad niteclub music is good. Everyone is special. You feel like you could paint the moment perfectly. Maybe you can sing. Dance. Roller-skate. It’s a moment of purity and it lasts about four seconds. Then you start the long road down…

At least, usually you do. I’d been a little reckless. The speed kicked in quickly. The last X joined the party. At this point my memory gets very vague. I am told tales of what went on, but I don’t believe them for one second.

* * *

Sitting on the bar seemed odd, suddenly. Sitting on the bar talking to someone. Hmm. Girl thing. I’m talking. What am I saying? Does it matter? Does she have a boyfriend? How much danger am I in Who is pushing me? Barman. Not like sit on bar. I say sorry. Drink on bar beside me: ergo my drink. Drink drink. Should get water. Wait keep talking. Girl. Focus. Focus focus fuckus fuck us. No boyfriend? Ah, girl friend. Initiate sneaky man trick number seven.

When trying to get a lumber, it is often better to approach a pair of girls together rather than a single girl in a group, or a girl alone. The girl alone is probably waiting on someone, or is a career drunk, or is working. The girl in group has all the backing of the group, one of whom will hate you. But in a pair, you have some obvious “things you can do”—such as sneaky man trick number seven. Follow this simple guide.

• Approach the pair harmlessly, not intentionally headed towards them
• Make contact casually, something totally benign, with the girl you are “after"
• Engage her further in conversation if not given initial brush off.
• Flatter and patter.
• As soon as she is interested, engage her friend in conversation.
• Flatter and patter the friend, ignoring as far as possible the initial, desired girl.

At this point, you have initiated a competition between the two girls, and it is now no longer about you, just about which of them “wins”, and oh my what a prize too! Plus you’ve broken through the whole “Oh she’s my friend I can’t possibly leave her alone” thing too. Genius.

When it works.

One of the problems with being deceitful and manipulative is that you really need to have your wits around you. After all, this is not your normal modus operandi (well, it’s not mine anyway). Drink and drugs are very good ways to take your wits away and bury them deep in a far off mine where you shall never be able to find them. I am lucky in that steps one and two appear to be done, with step three underway. Now, if only I knew what I was talking about. Or how to find a stopping point. A period. End of sentence. Come on. Stop. Stop. Stop. Did I ask her name already? Did I pick the right one? I laugh, loudly, as though I can’t contain myself. Really funny. She laughs a little, strained.
“whssassas assaduasduewas asdwshiasa saddyayeywdsadadawreaskhdghads?” she asks softly in a voice that is impossible to hear over the damn music.
“Sorry?”
“whssassas assaduasduewas asdwshiasa saddyayeywdsadadawreaskhdghads?”
“Sorry, can you speak up?”
“Why are you drinking my drink?”
Aw shite.

I buy her a new drink. We say goodbye. At least I think she says goodbye. Could have been “Fuck off” or “Fuck me” or “Come back to our place and fuck us both!” or “Come back to our place and we’ll put on a show for you, and the only person you’ll have to worry about satisfying is yourself.”

I’m strictly a “one shoot-down per evening” type of guy, except when I’m blacked out. So my heart is heavy as I return to the table. Sean and Jamie are dancing like idiots. Roy is slowly drinking his Guinness. It’s two am. Last hour. We sit. One day is starting as ours is ending. No idea now who’s round it is, Sean and Jamie don’t seem interested anyway. Roy gets us two more Guinness’s. I pour what’s left of my Black Bush into mine to take the bitterness away.
“No lumber then?”
“Nah, not tonight.”
“Ah well.”
“Happens.”
“Often.”
“Feeling better?”
“Yeah, I must have had a bad pie or something.”
“Aye, pie. Did you try your hand yourself?”
“Nah, I spilt something on my crotch. The ladies don’t like that.”
“You are remarkably coherent.”
“Hello there young chicken.”
“Don’t start.”

Last orders. We think about it. No. We’re done. We’ve done all we can. Need sleep. Jamie and Sean come and sit with us. Sweat and spill all over them. Sean has a big smile and demands his ten pounds.
“How so?”
“Got the stuff for you!”
“Really? The boyfriend of the girl in the corner?”
“Yup.” he’s really pleased. Really happy with himself. He’s big fucking man. I’m too tired to argue. A fiver, four ones and fuck it.
He passes me the pill.
“That’s all right, you can keep it. Might want to take a Coke with it?”
“Eh?”
“Fucking Aspirin mate.”

* * *

A short glossary:

• dreickt: a burdening mix of cold and damp, without actual rain or fog. Miserable weather.
• jobbie: a healthy brown shit, or turd.
• suedehead: a haircut rather longer than a crew cut, but not yet needing styling. Not to be confused with skinhead.
• crack: pointless, endless conversation about nothing; bullshit.
• to be a wank: to shame the group with unacceptable behaviour, to annoy.
• barrows girl: a girl who works at the “Barrowland”—the largest outdoor market in the UK. Previously known as a “Gorbals Girl” from a now renovated housing estate area. Generally neither bright, nor, pretty, but often with high-end pick-pocketing skills.
• raincoats: condoms.
• out on a murder: to search for someone to beat up on the basis of their misdeeds. Totally justified. Actual deaths are rare.
• take a beggars: take a ‘loan’ of something, with the implicit understanding by both parties that the ‘loan’ shall never be repaid.
• Geeus!: Please would you be so kind as to supply me with a little of what it is you have. From the English “Give us!”
• the filth: the gentlemen who can always tell you what time it is.
• colors: football colors—clothing or paraphernalia which match the football teams jerseys.
• barney: trouble, fisticuffs.
• HORSES ASS: an undesirable thing to be.
• scoosh: a small amount of liquid, one quick press on the soda dispensing pipe at the bar.
• lumber: a casual pickup, usually at a bar or club, leading to a snog or a one night stand if one is lucky.
• snog: prolonged kissing and cuddling intended to make the single people watching feel miserable.
• to bunk with: to stay overnight with, not in the same bed essentially.
• hook: drug runner, liaison between holder and buyer.
• powder: various uses. Can mean to leave the premises, to use the bathroom (powder ones nose), or ready to snort narcotic.
• Oh dear John of Groats, that’s nippy: Oh my, that is quite smelly.
• working: actively prostituting.
• shoot-down: turn down.