Books, Poetry & Prose: [54] A Glasgow Dynasty: Part 5 - Slappin' a Polis



Books, Poetry & Prose

Samples of my very own Poetry and Short Stories, and one or two not so short stories, as well as my thoughts on Books, Writing, Life and the Universe.

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Location: Gold Coast, Australia

I was born in Motherwell, an industrial town in Scotland. I have lived in various parts of the world, including Edinburgh, London, New York, Seattle and now Australia's Gold Coast Hinterland where I have settled with my Australian wife Kerrianne. If you are into Books, Literature and Writing, welcome to my weblog. If not, welcome anyway.

  • [72]The Politics of Ignorance and Fear
  • [71]What Celtic Means To Me
  • [70]Aussie Cave Man
  • [69]No Shit
  • [68]Smoking Damages Your Brain
  • [67]Whatever Happened To Private Grief?
  • [66]A Lucrative Enterprise?
  • [65]To A Fart
  • [64]Scotland's Shame
  • [63]Bank Aid
  • [62]It's A Girl Thing
  • [61]The Kids Are Alright
  • [60]Return to Sender
  • [59]Gender Poetry
  • [58]Humour for Wordsmiths
  • [57]The Gold Coast
  • [56]A Glasgow Dynasty : Part 6 - Erchie's First Sale
  • [55]I Haven't Lived
  • [54]A Glasgow Dynasty: Part 5 - Slappin' a Polis
  • [53]A Glasgow Dynasty: Part 4 - Pissin' up a Close
  • [52]The God Delusion
  • [51]Maternal Advice
  • [50]A Glasgow Dynasty: Part 3 - Broken Biscuits
  • [49]A Killing Kindness
  • [48]A Glasgow Dynasty: Part 2 - Pissin' in the Sink
  • [47]A Glasgow Dynasty: Part 1 - The Man Fae The TV Licence
  • [46]A Slap on the Face
  • [45]How Did We Survive?
  • [44]The Black Hole
  • [43]Buried Alive
  • [42]The World Cup
  • [41]In the Movies...
  • [40]My Favourite Writers: James Kelman
  • [39]Vital Football
  • [38]My Favourite Beer
  • [37]The Dream
  • [36]Comb For Sale
  • [35]McNulty's Law
  • [34]Beware of the Dog
  • [33]The Substitute: An Extract from my Novel
  • [32]Books That Became Films
  • [31]Tall Boys and Wide Girls
  • [30]My First Novel: The Substitute
  • [29]My Favourite Writers: Louis de Bernières
  • [28]My 25 Favourite Films
  • [27]Decisions Decisions
  • [26]Devil's Desire
  • [25]Pain or Pleasure
  • [24]Out of the Mouths of Babes and Sucklings
  • [23]No More Tears
  • [22]Dame Muriel Spark 1918-2006
  • [21]10 Things I Miss About Scotland
  • [20]Little Red Riding Hood
  • [19]Natural Bridge
  • [18]Journey to Nowhere
  • [17]Westminster Man
  • [16]My 25 Favourite Albums
  • [15]Bless Me Father
  • [14]Overdrawn
  • [13]I've had it with Born-Again Christians
  • [12]Moonwalking
  • [11]My 25 Favourite Books
  • [10]Heroes and Sinners
  • [09]Thinking of Kerry
  • [08]An American Dream
  • [07]Never Again
  • [06]Under A Bridge
  • [05]Deep-Fried Madness
  • [04]Man in a Bookshop
  • [03]Was There A Time?
  • [02]The Executioner
  • [01]Will I Know Her?
  • Click Cover The Substitute to view my book

    Moby Dick


    "Nobody is perfect, but if you strive for perfection, you will never descend to mediocrity."


    Kerrianne



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    The Schoolboy
    Our Lady's High School, Motherwell 1966

    Fyodor Dostoevsky
    Fyodor Dostoyevsky

    [54] A Glasgow Dynasty: Part 5 - Slappin' a Polis

    Tam stood at the bar of the Railway Tavern and ordered a double whisky and a half pint of heavy. Henry the barman stood with his back to him as he pushed the glass under the optic. Tam felt his mouth begin to water as he watched the golden liquid drop down into the glass.

    “Howzit gaun the day wee man?”

    “Och no bad Henry. Ye cannae complain can ye?”

    Henry placed the glass in front of Tam and moved along the bar to pour the heavy. Tam lifted the glass to his lips and swallowed a large mouthful. He stood for some moments letting the strong spirit warm his insides. He grabbed the glass of heavy from the barman before he could place it on the bar. Tam gulped down the lot and pushed the empty glass towards the barman and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket.

    “Another hauf pint please Henry.”

    The barman started to pour another half pint.

    “Christ Tam. Yer fair knockin them back the day are ye no?”

    “Had rough night last night so ah did,” said Tam.

    He swallowed a mouthful of the second glass of beer and leaned with his elbows on the bar as Henry stood waiting.

    “Ah take it ye want them pit oan the slate then?”

    “Aye if ye don’t mind Henry. Ah’ve got a bit of a cash flow problem like. Ma missus spends aw the cash an ah go wi the flow.”

    The toilet door opened and a young man emerged, adjusting his zip and carrying a rolled up newspaper under his arm.

    “Aw it’s yersel Tam.”

    “Aye awright Geordie,” replied Tam, half turning round to look at him. “Have you been in there pullin yer plonker ower page three again ya cunt?”

    “Aye very good y’aul bastart. At least ah still know how tae use mine.”

    Geordie stood at the bar next to Tam where a pint of lager was standing. He took a sip and opened a brand new packet of cigarettes. He offered one to Tam.

    “Aw cheers pal.”

    “How’s Malky?” said Geordie. “Ah’ve no seen’m fur donkeys.”

    “Och ye know whit he’s like. Ayewiz full o big ideas.”

    “Is e no workin the noo?”

    “Naw, he cannae work. He’s sufferin fae yon SM.”

    “SM?” said Henry. “Whit the fuck’s that when it’s at hame?”

    “Sticky mattress!”

    Geordie let out a sardonic laugh and opened the racing section of his newspaper. Henry turned away groaning, his hands on his head.

    “Ah don’t believe it,” he cried. “Ah faw fur it every time.”

    Tam screwed up his face and held his stomach.

    “Are you still sufferin fae last night?” said Geordie.

    “Ach it wiz thon Chinese cairry oot. It wiz too much efter the bevvy like.”

    “Ah widnae eat wan o them if ye paid me,” said Geordie.

    “Whit’r ye on aboot noo?”

    “Ma sister’n law Rosie . . .”

    “Aw here we go . . .”

    “Naw, naw listen. Her pal went tae a Chinky’s furra night oot wi the lassies fae the work like.”

    “Aw aye, it’s ayewiz a friend of a friend of a friend innit.”

    “Naw listen. She ordered chicken sumfin or other. When she tried tae eat it it tasted funny. So she took a bit hame in a bit o napkin or sumfin.”

    “An she knew this scientist,” said Tam in a low voice.

    “Anyways, her boyfriend jist happened tae work in a laboratory. He got the thing analysed an ye know whit it wiz?”

    “A dug?”

    “A fuckin dug it wiz.”

    “Naw,” said Tam acidly.

    “Are ye callin me a liar?”

    “Naw, naw. Ah widnae dae that son,” replied Tam with a smile. “But wan thing puzzles me.”

    “Whit’s that?”

    “Ah’ve heard that yin aboot a hundred times an ye know, these Chinky’s must be really bad business men.”

    “Howd’ye mean?” said Henry.

    “Well, chicken. It’s cheap, it’s easy tae git, ye can buy it doon the road by the ton an sell it at a great big bliddy profit.”

    “So,” said Geordie.

    “Well, why is it that the Chinkies cannae be ersed goin doon tae wherever the fuck it is ye go, tae buy in a van load o chickens? Naw, they’d raither go oot durin the night an hunt doon stray dugs, capture them, get them back tae the shoap, kill them, skin them, cut them up’n cook them, kiddin us oan it’s really chicken. Now that’s much merr fun innit?”

    “Well ah’m only tellin ye whit a wiz telt.”

    The door opened and in walked two young men wearing green and white football scarves. Tam and Goerdie looked round automatically as Henry moved to serve them.

    “Ye’ll hiv tae take yer scarfs aff lads. Nae fitba colours allowed.”

    “Aye nae bother mate,” said the taller of the two. “Two pints o lager please.”

    The two men removed their scarves and rolled them up before pushing them into the back pocket of their jeans.

    “Celtic’n Rangers the day innit?” said Henry as he poured the first pint.

    “Aye,” said the shorter of the two.

    “Should be three easy points then eh?” said Henry.

    “Aye ah hope sae. Ye can never tell wi these games but.”

    The two men picked up their pints and moved away from the bar and sat at a table in the corner.

    “Ah’m sure the wan wi the white shirt’s Davie Blackadder’s son,” said Tam, rubbing his chin as his eyes followed the pair back to their seats.

    Geordie was engrossed in the Racing Section as he meticulously studied the form and marked selections with a short wooden bookie’s pencil.

    “Are you still throwin yer money away on they donkeys?” said Tam.

    “Och aye. Ye know whit it’s like bit.”

    “Too fuckin right ah dae. It’s a crook’s gemme nooadays. There wance wiz a time ye knew ye were gittin a fair run fur yer money. Even if ye loast like. But no noo. The bookies’ve got it aw sown up atween them. The ordinary punter hasnae got a cat in hell’s chance these days. They’re aw fuckin bent the cunts.”

    “Ye’re talkin shite Tam.”

    “Ah’m fuckin tellin ye.”

    “Jist cos you couldnae pick a winner.”

    “Jesus son are ye blin? Can ye no see ye’re bein taken furra ride? Christ they’re fuckin quotin the favourite fur the National at five tae fuckin wan. Whit the fuck diz that tell ye?”

    Geordie continued to study form as Tam shook his head and muttered to himself.

    After a few seconds Geordie raised his head from the newspaper and screwed up his face as the horrible stench reached his nostrils. He stood for a couple of seconds and sniffed, then quickly grabbed his pint and moved along the bar, away from Tam.

    “Aw fucksake Tam that’s fuckin gowpin.”

    “Ah telt ye. It’s the fuckin curry.”

    “Jesus sufferin fuck!” cried Henry as the dreadful pong reached him and he too retreated to the other side of the bar.

    “Aw that’s fuckin awful,” said Geordie.

    “Christ Tam,” said Henry.

    “Ach,” muttered Tam. “Ah’ll away furra shite then.”

    They watched him scurry into the toilet and shook their heads as they laughed.

    “E’s some fuckin man aul Tam,” said Henry.

    “Aye fuck,” said Geordie. “Wan o the best right enough.”

    Geordie winced as an icy blast hit the back of his neck. He turned to see the sillhouette of a man against the bright spring sunlight of the doorway. It wasn’t until the door was closed that he regocnised him.

    “Aw fucksake look whit the wind blew in.”

    “The usual Balf?” said Henry, holding a pint glass in his hand as he waited for confirmation.

    “Aye geeza pint,” said Balf in his customary loud, clear voice. “Fuckit ah’ll hiv a rum’n pep anaw.”

    “Whit’s wrang wi the bowlin club the day then Balf?” said Geordie.

    “Ach a jist fancied a wee change. Fuckin quiet the day is it no?”

    “It’s early yit,” said Henry as he placed a pint of heavy in front of him and proceded to pour a dark rum.

    “Aye’n ah’m here fur the fuckin day, ah’ll tell ye that.”

    Balf swallowed a few mouthfuls of beer which left a white coating of foam on his ginger moustache.

    “Is wee Tam no been in yit?”

    “Aye,” said Henry.

    “E’s away furra shite,” said Geordie.

    “Aw fuck me. That means the bog’ll be oot o bounds fur six fuckin weeks ya cunt. Who’s the fuckin Tims?”

    Balf nodded in the direction of the two Celtic Supporters.

    “We think wan o them’s Davie Blackadder’s boy,” said Henry, handing him his change.

    “Yer fuckin jokin,” said Balf, looking intently at the two men. “They baith look quite normal anaw.”

    “Watch whit yer sayin Balf. Ye never know the minute,” said Henry, who now stood at the bar, facing Balf and Geordie, his hands inside his apron.

    After a few minutes Tam returned.

    “Ah widnae go near that bog fur another six fuckin weeks bay fuck,” he declared.

    “Aye ah can imagine,” replied Balf.

    “Aw jeezo look who it is,” said Tam, holding out a hand which Balf shook warmly.

    “Aye’n you’re a fuckin sight fur sore eyes,” said Balf.

    “So whit brings ye doon here then? Barred fae the bowlin club again?”

    “Naw, naw. The wife’s away tae visit her sister ower at Greenock. Ah’ve got a few readies in ma back pocket so a thought...an speakin o which.”

    He took out his wallet and counted four crisp ten pound notes.

    “This is fur yersel wee man.”

    Balf stuffed the notes into the top pocket of Tam’s blazer.

    “Whit’s this fur?” said Tam, removing the notes and holding them in front of him.

    “Remember thon last time a took ye tae the club.”

    “No really, but on ye go.”

    “D’ye no remember buyin the tote tickets?”

    “Naw. Ye don’t mean...”

    “Aye, ye won the tote. Forty fuckin smackeroos.”

    Tam laughed and did a little childish skip as he counted out the four notes.

    “That’s whit a like tae hear. Well done Tam,” said Henry.

    “Fucksake,” said Geordie.

    “Right Henry,” said Tam, slamming a ten pound note on to the bar. “The drinks are on me.”

    One of the Celtic supporters approached the bar and Henry moved to meet him.

    “Same again?” said Henry.

    “Aye please. And two bags o crisps. Wan cheese’n onion’n wan salt’n vinegar.”

    “Are you Davie Blackadder’s boy?” said Tam to the youngster.

    “Aye.”

    “Used tae work doon the docks?”

    “Aye, that’s right.”

    “Och ah knew it. Ye’re awfy like’m ye know.”

    “Don’t fuckin tell’m that,” said Balf.

    The youngster laughed.

    “Wiz yer aul man no a bluenose?” said Geordie.

    “Aye. Still is.”

    “Fuck me, it must be a bundle o laughs in your hoose on a Setterday night,” said Balf.

    The man picked up the two pints and returned to his friend.

    “Tell yer auld man ye were talkin tae Tam Mitchell fae Partick.”

    “Aye.”

    “Is that Blackadder that used tae drink in here?” said Geordie.

    “Aye, e’s barred noo but.” replied Tam. “Nice enough bloke like. But he couldnae handle the vino. Wan minute he wiz nice as ninepence, the nixt e’s staunin on some poor cunt’s napper.”

    “Fucksake,” said Geordie.

    “Aye ye couldnae have that in the pub,” said Henry. “E’s barred oot o jist aboot every boozer in Glesca.”

    “Ah wiz walkin doon Dumbarton Road wan Friday night aboot six o’clock,” said Tam. “Ah wiz oan ma way oot furra jar like. Then ah sees Blackadder. He’s got this polis by the scruff o the neck against the waw. E’s fuckin slappin the polis across the face an callin’m aw the cunts under the sun.”

    “Fucksake,” said Geordie.

    “Aye. As ah walked past he stopped hittin the man. He keeps haudin’m by the throat like against the waw. He stops hittin’m an says, howzit gaun Tam, no bad Davie says I, zat’ye gaun furra wee swally, he says, aye, says I, see ye later then Tam, he says, aye see ye, says I, then he turns roon’n starts slappin the polis again. Ah couldnae believe ma eyes.”

    “Aye that’s Davie awright,” said Balf.

    “Fucksake.” said Geordie.

    “Will you stoap sayin that?” cried Tam.

    “Whit?”

    “Fucksake.”

    “Whit’n you don’t swear like?”

    “Course ah dae. Ah gae it a bit o fuckin variety bit.”

    “Talkin aboot swearin Tam,” said Henry. “Gordon McVittie wiz in the other night. E wiz staunin at the bar wi a couple of mates. Apparently e’s workin as a proof reader wi Collins the publishers.”

    “A proof reader?” said Balf.

    “Aye. E spends aw day checkin ower manuscripts’n stuff like that. Lookin fur mistakes like, afore they go in fur printin.”

    “Sound like a cushey wee number tae me,” said Geordie.

    “Forget it wee man,” said Tam. “Ye need tae be able tae read furst.”

    “Awe aye, funny fuckin funny.” replied Geordie.

    “Aye, but wait tae hear this,” said Henry. “E wiz tellin e’s mates aw aboot it an how e spends aw day readin. So ah says tae’m, ye must find that improves yer vocabulary eh? D’ye know whit e says? E says, aw fuck aye.”

    All four men went into fits of laughter.

    “Aw Christ Henry, that says it aw, diz it no?” said Tam.

    “Ah wiz in a cafe a couple’a Sundays ago doon in Govan,” said Balf. “It wiz early mornin efter an aw night party like. Me an Patsy O’Flynn went in for a coffee while waitin furra bus. The wee wummin handed ower the coffees an we sat doon. Patsy took a sip o e’s coffee and says, aw that’s fuckin nectar. The wee wummin looked across and shoutit, if ye don’t bliddy like it ye don’t hiv tae drink it.”

    This time Tam’s fit of laughter turned into a fit of coughing.

    “Aw Christ Balf,” he spluttered. “That’s fuckin priceless so it is.”

    “Tell ye whit Tam,” said Balf. “They fags’ll be the death o ye wan o these days.”

    “Och don’t geezat patter. Ye can jist as easy git kil’t croassin the road.”

    “How’s that then?”

    “Ah’m sayin ye could walk oot here the night an be flattened by a bus or a truck or whitever.”

    “Can ah let ye into a wee secret Tam?” said Balf.

    “If ye must.”

    “Well pal, the secret is, ye croass the road when it’s clear an there’s nay fuckin buses or lorries or whitever.”

    “Bit see when ye’re talking aboot bein barred fae pubs,” said Geordie. “Did ye hear your Malky’s barred oot the White Swan?”

    “Naw,” replied Tam. “The wee cunt never telt me. Whit’s e been up tae noo?”

    “Och Tam it was hilarious. E hid the hale pub in an uproar. The place wiz rockin wi laughter. It wiz priceless so it wiz.”

    “Well are ye gonnae fuckin share it wi us or whit?” said Balf.

    “Aye,” said Geordie. “We were aw staunin at the bar, me an Charlie Dempsey an Barney McFarlane an wan or two others. Who else wiz it again?”

    “Aw fur fucksake,” said Tam in exasperation. “Spare us the minor details wull ye?”

    “Anyway, Angie, the owner’s wife wiz behind the bar. We were aw dain wee tricks n’that an Malky says tae Angie, ah bet ye ah can make yer tits wobble withoot touchin them. So everybody sits up an takes notice like, well ye’ve seen the size o big Angie’s knockers. Anyway, she looks at him. We’re aw lookin at him, wonderin whit wiz comin next like.”

    “So am ah,” said Tam.

    “Fuckin me tae.” said Balf.

    “Well, Angie says, ye’re sayin ye can make ma tits wobble withoot touchin them. Aye, says Malky. Whit’s the bet, says Angie. Dunno, says Tam. Angie says make it a double Vodka then. So Malky tells her tae stand in front o im wi er chest stickin oot. So she does an Malky waves his hands in front of her tits, bit no touchin them. Then aw a sudden he grabs them both in his hands an shakes them up an doon and side tae side. Angie lets oot a scream an backs away sharpish. Malky puts his hand in his pocket’n pulls oot his wallet an says, will Smirnoff dae ye?”

    Balf and Geordie and Henry were doubled up in laughter an Tam just shook his head and sipped his pint.

    “The cheeky wee bugger. Wait tae ah see im.”

    The telephone rang. Henry moved to the other side of the bar and picked it up.

    “Tam? Aye e’s here.”

    Tam looked up.

    “Don’t tell me that’s fur me.”

    “D’ye want tae speak tae’m?” said Henry. “Aye, aye ah’ll tell’m.”

    Henry replaced the receiver and called Tam across. Tam quickly moved to meet Henry who was leaning against the bar.

    “That was Wullie Dunn,” he bagan, his voice almost a whisper. “Hiv you still goat that thing on yer electric meter?”

    “Whit? Yon magnet thing that fuck’s up the readin?”

    “Aye. Only Wullie says tae tell ye the electric boys are oan tae ye.”

    “Ye’re fuckin jokin.”

    “Ah’m no Tam. E says ye better git yer arse hame fast and get shot o the thing. The boys are on the way right noo.”

    “Aw Christ ah knew ah shouldnae’ve listened tae that cunt.”

    Tam turned and walked quickly out of the pub.

    “Whit’s up Henry?” said Geordie.

    “Where the fuck’re ye gaun?” cried Balf.

    “Ah’ll tell yous later guys.”

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