Television

Shevlane’s was known as the kind of pub 
where the angle of your arm as it held 
your pint of heavy could signify the 
threat of a fight.  To say that it was a 
hard man’s pub was splitting hairs: you 
had to be a bit hard to show your face in 
the door.  The smell of beer and working 
men surrounded the place like some animal 
scent, a warning to the stranger to might 
stray into the den.  Marky did not like it 
much, but business was business.

"It’s brand new, just about."  He patted 
the walnut top of the Pye 21 inch colour 
television as it sat on the bat stool like 
a mate of his.  "And the best of it is, 
the screen has been personally signed by 
the Big Yin himself."

Scobie looked sceptical.  "It looks a 
bit manky.  Look at the scratches on the 
woodwork."

"Ach, a wee wipe over with some Mr. 
Sheen.  And I only want £25 for it.  Look, 
it’s a collector’s piece, Billy Connolly 
has marked it."

"Was it his telly then?"  Scobie’s wee 
pal, Shivs, looked more interested in the 
set than Scobie did.  But Marky had met 
Shivs before, and he knew from bitter 
experience that he was always skint.

"Eh... aye, it was his telly.  Are you 
wanting it then, Shivs?"

"Me?  Naw!  I’m brassic, but I like 
Connolly... where’s his name then?"

Marky looked uncomfortable.  "Well, he 
never exactly signed it as such."  The two 
unlikely customers looked at each other.  
"What I mean to say is… Big McLatchie told 
me they were watching the telly one night, 
and Billy Connolly was there.  And they 
were getting pished and all that.  And 
then when Hughie Green came on the box, 
Billy got a black marker pen and drew 
specs and a moustache on him."

Scobie laughed.  "You mean this telly 
has felt-tip pen all over it?  Big Yin or 
no, the wife wants a telly we can watch, 
no a piece of piss-artist grafitti."

"Come on, man!"  Marky senses he was 
losing the sale.  "It’s brand new, a 
collector’s item.  It’ll be worth a packet 
some day, they say Billy Connolly will 
play London soon."

"Anyway, I don’t want to touch anything 
that McLatchie’s had his hands on.  He’s a 
nutter."  Scobie got up to buy a round and 
squeezed past the television, which tipped 
off the stool.

"Watch your fat arse!"  Marky screamed 
as he caught the edge before it hit the 
floor.  Silence descended over the whole 
pub.  The place seemed to sense a fight in 
the offing, and was ready for a good old-
fashioned saloon brawl.  Marky hefted the 
television up and scuttled out of the 
door.

Marky hated to to do this, but he took 
the telly back up to McLatchie’s flat on 
Vulcan Street.  "I just want to check it 
still works.  Some eejit in Shevlane’s 
nearly kicked it to buggery."

McLatchie shrugged.  "You shouldn’t have 
taken it in there to flog it.  There’s 
some real mental bams in there."

"One of them said much the same about 
you.  Anyway, the pubs are the best places 
to find punters.  And they’re all hard, 
better the devil I know, but."

"Switch it on then, see if it’s 
knackered."  Marky plugged it in, ands 
switched it on.  The tube began to hum, 
and soon a picture began to form.  Some 
fella looking through the arched window.  
Except that this arched window had a 
moustache and wee round specs.

"And that’s permanent marker?"

McLatchie grinned.  "Aye, my wee bro 
sniffs them for a buzz.  Some nights he 
looks like Adolf Hitler, and oor Ma scrubs 
his face until it’s bleeding.  It’s 
permanent alright."

"You should stop him doing that.  It 
can’t be good for him."

"He’s a wee tube.  If it wasn’t pens, 
he’d be back on the U-HU."  McLatchie 
twisted the knob and the screen faded.  
"Better let it cool for a bit before 
shifting it.  Where you going to try after 
this?"

"I’ll let Shavlane’s cool for a bit, I 
think.  The bears looked as if they were 
going to eat me.  There’s that wee shop 
beside Woolies that flog second hand 
tellies, you know it?"

"Aye.  I know the bloke who runs it.  He 
has two birds on the go up they 
Balgrayhill flats."

"Oh aye?", Marky grinned.  "That 
information might come in pretty bloody 
handy."  He humped the television up again 
and made his way down the uneven steps of 
McLatchie’s close.  Springburn Road was 
busy, but somehow a man carrying a large 
wooden television did not raise an 
eyebrow.  It was that kind of town.

The shop was set back from the other 
shop facades.  Across the street, singing 
was coming from Quin’s Bar, and the green 
white and gold buses paused as they came 
out of Elmvale Street.  The shop was a bit 
scabby, but the gear in thw window looked 
pretty good, and the prices were no bad.  
For a wild moment, Marky was tempted to 
buy one of the colour tellies in the 
window…

As he went in, a grey-headed guy came 
out from the back shop, his shopkeeper’s 
smile fading when he saw that Marky was 
selling rather than buying.  Marky 
wondered how a wee nyaff like this guy 
managed to keep two birds on the go at 
once.  But he was always amazed by the 
generosity of women, and they were 
probably a couple of pure hounds anyway.

"How much do you pay for a special 
edition telly, like this fellow?"

The shopkeeper looked at the Pye.  
"Doesn’t look very special to me.  I’ve 
got one of them in the window already."

"Ah, but does that one have a 
personalised touch from our premier comic 
talent?"  Marky was in full sales pitch, 
and the upturned eyes of the exasperated 
shopkeeper would not deter him from giving 
it his Sunday best sales patter.

"Look son.  I’ve got a shop full of 
tellies, there’s a glut of second-hand 
sets in the city at the moment.  I’m 
having to cut my prices just to shift the 
buggers.  I’ll give you a ten spot for 
it."

"Ten?"  Marky was horrified.  "But this 
has a scribble on it done by Billy 
Connolly."  He pointed to the black marker 
pen marks.  "That’s got to make it worth 
more?"

"Not to me, son.  Makes bugger all 
difference to me, I don’t’ even like that 
big C."

Marky leaned on the television and 
beckoned the older man over with a 
conspiratorial wave.  "C’mere pal."  The 
shopkeeper patted the outline of a Luger 
automatic pistol, which he kept under his 
pinnie, a souvenir from his North African 
campaign.  He huddled close to Marky.

"Look, it has come to my attention that 
you have two birds up they Balgrayhill 
flats.  Now, if someone was to introduce 
one to the other, as it were… it wouldn’t 
go too well for you, I would imagine.  See 
what I’m driving it?"

The shopkeeper smiled, ruefully.  
Obviously a beaten man, Marky thought.

"So what you’re saying is, if I don’t 
come up with the cally dosh for this 
telly, then you’re going to go up the 
flats and introduce my birds to one 
another?"

"That’s about the size of it, faither."

"Very interesting.  Now piss off out of 
my shop before I shoot you."

"I will, I’ll tell them, don’t think I 
don’t know who they are."  In fact he had 
no idea at all, but he sensed this 
blackmail attempt was failing when the 
shopkeeper pulled an old German pistol on 
him and began waggling it in his 
direction.

"You don’t know a damn thing about them, 
son. If you did, you’d know my two birds 
already know each other already, and 
they’re up in my bed together, and I’m 
just about to go back up and join them, if 
you see what I mean… now piss off!"

He let off a couple of rounds at Marky, 
who was backing out of the shop with the 
telly in front of him like a shield.  
Marky hoped he was trying to miss, but 
when one of the bullets splintered the 
corner of the walnut casing and pinged 
past his ear, he needed no more 
persuasion.

It seemed to be getting heavier the 
further down Springburn Road he went.  He 
was going to have almighty biceps after 
today.  Some boys came out of a close at 
the Co-op and asked him if there was only 
thing good on the telly.  Feeling a bit 
unprotected without the use of his arms, 
he laughed it off and tried to push on.  
But the boys began picking dog turds off 
the street and pelting the television.  
"There’s aye shite on the telly, mister!" 
one of the wee bastards shouted as a 
smellier Marky crossed over at Angus 
Street to get away.

As he reached the bend round the high 
road, Marky spied McLatchie heading 
towards the Cawder, and fell in with him 
as best he could with the weight of the 
television pulling his arms out of their 
sockets.

"I’ve had it, McLatchie.  Take this 
thing back off me, I don’t want it any 
more."

McLatchie eyed him up and down and let 
his nose wrinkle.  "You pure smell, by the 
way."

"Aye, it’s shite… and I’m no taking any 
more the day."  By this time they had 
almost reached the gates of Sighthill 
Cemetary, and Marky took the chance to 
rest the television against the railings 
of the high road as it swept up and away 
round the bend of Springburn Road.  "Can 
you no see your way to taking this telly 
back?"

"Aye, sure pal."  Marky blew a sigh of 
relief.  "Just as soon as you pay me for 
the carry out you and your cronies drank."

Marky lay his sweating forehead on the 
cool walnut veneer of the television, and 
groaned.  McLatchie was such a fly 
bastard, so he was.  Inviting Marky and 
Boaby up to his house for one of his 
legendary parties, then after the drink 
had been drunk, and after some dirty 
bastard had spewed over the coats on the 
bed in the room, McLatchie starts going 
round the paralytic, collecting the ‘dues’ 
to cover the cost of the drink.  Big C 
hadn’t mentioned that before they had got 
wired in at the drinks table.  Anybody 
else and he would have stoated his face 
off the stairhead, but McLatchie was a big 
bloke, and he had plas everywhere.  Big 
pals.

"Aye alright, man.  I’ll sell this telly 
if it kills me."

"And out of your winnings, don’t forget 
a two oh for your big pal McLatchie, eh?"  
McLatchie grinned, and the scar, which 
went from his left ear to his lip, almost 
became invisible, and Marky could see a 
bit of how he managed to get all those 
birds.  "And Marky… don’t say I don’t do 
you any favours: I gave you that telly to 
sell, and you’ll get a div if you make the 
right price."

Marky sighed.  McLatchie sniffed again.  
"Here, you better wipe it down with a 
Handy Andy before you try to sell it 
again."  He handed Marky a pack of paper 
handkerchiefs.  "I take it you had no luck 
up the telly shop?"

"Bastard shot a hole in it."  He pointed 
to the bullet damage.  "Nearly put a hole 
in me as well.  Do me a favour, don’t give 
me any more blackmail material, I’ve no 
luck at that game."

"Damage the merchandise, did he, the wee 
toerag.  Don’t you worry, he’s marked."  
McLatchie looked as if he was making a 
mental note with an HB pencil.  "So where 
are you off to now?"

"I thought I’d try up the town.  I’ve 
had no luck in Springburn, too many 
shysters and toerags.  If I stay around 
this drum much longer the telly will be 
nothing more than matchsticks and broken 
bottles."

McLatchie laughed.  "But these are your 
people, man.  Salt of the earth 
Springburn.  But here, it’s a fair walk to 
the Cross from here."  He spotted some 
dirty-faced lassies playing with an old 
pram by the graveyard gates.  He almost 
caught the irony.  "You can use that old 
pram, by the way."

He went over and argued with the girls 
for a bit, wrestled the pram with them for 
a minute, him pulling the tatty hood end, 
and the four urchins in their mothers’ 
slingbacks pulling on the handle.  Marky 
couldn’t help but laugh at the farce of 
McLatchie, big hard man, settling the 
debate in the way he settled most things: 
with cash.

"And I had to bung them two bob each."  
He bounced the pram over to Marky, and it 
squealed in response.  "So that’ll come 
out of expenses as well."  He zipped up 
his jerkin.  "I’m away up the Cawder for a 
pint, I’ll see you in there later to 
settle up the divs."

"Aye, alright."  McLatchie was already 
walking away: he was like that.

The pram certainly helped as Marky 
wheeled his pride and joy past the Cale, 
and under the Carlsberg railway bridge.  
Before long he was passing the Royal 
Infirmary with the jakies languishing 
outside, waiting for their drinking 
buddies to be discharged after an edifying 
stomach pump.  So they could go back up 
the Necropolis and get jaked on Red Biddy 
and Lanny again.  But soon he was on the 
final straight down the High Street and 
Glasgow Cross.

Marky was feeling almost optimistic by 
the time he reached the Trongate.  There 
were dozens of bars within easy 
perambulation.  He could go left and try 
the Sarry Heid first, or he could turn 
right and head into town.  It was a nice 
evening, and he fancied some window 
shopping in C&A and Dee Fashion.  He might 
even be able to afford a new jacket if he 
made a deal on the television.  This one 
was still a bit shitey smelling.

The town pubs were a different class 
from the ones in Springburn.  The landlord 
of the Scotia Bar would not let him in 
with the tatty old pram under any 
circumstances.  "We don’t serve bairns in 
here, son" was his final word.  So Marky 
had to dump it, and lug the telly inside 
on tired arms.

It was hoaching inside, some folkies 
were at it in the corner, giving it laldy 
with banjos and accordions.  Nobody famous 
that Marky could see.  He dumped the 
television in a corner seat and ordered a 
pint of heavy.  He would sit and eye up 
the customers before making a pitch.

It didn’t take long to divide the pub’s 
clientele into three main groups.  The 
ones there to listen to the act, the ones 
there to drink themselves into their 
nightly oblivion, and a bunch of about 
twenty long-haired folk laughing around a 
table in the other corner.

Throwing his jacket over the television, 
to mark it as his property to any tea-
leafs who might wander off with it by 
accident, he had a casual dauner over to 
the laughing group of people.  He sipped 
his heavy as he merged with the standing 
crowd around the table.

It took him a few moments to tune into 
the conversation and a few seconds more to 
recognise the raconteur telling it.  It 
was Billy Connolly himself, holding forth 
with a story about a jaggy bunnet.  Free 
entertainment, Marky thought, and a 
remarkable piece of luck: maybe the Big 
Yin would be interested in buying the 
telly himself?

He waited, and sipped, and laughed in 
all the right places.  Billy Connolly 
finished the story to a round of laughter 
and applause.  It was not hard to join in.  
Billy stood up and asked if anybody wanted 
another drink.  A dozen offers to buy him 
one were refused graciously.  "This 
round’s mine.  Hamish, the same?"

The Big Yin moved to the bar and Marky 
took the chance to shuffle along at his 
elbow.  "Nice story, Big Yin, can I get 
you a pint, and that?"

"Cheers pal, but this one’s mine.  What 
are you having yourself, pal?  You never 
said your name?"

"Mark.  Cheers, big man, I’m alright 
just now.  You could do me another favour 
though…"

Billy looked sour.  "Sorry pal, I don’t 
lend folk money on principle.  The 
principle being that I never see any of it 
back."

Marky smiled.  "No, no.  I don’t want a 
tap off you, big man."  He pointed to the 
television in the corner.  "Take a look at 
that telly, will you?  I can let you have 
it at a one-time low price."

"If it’s all the same to you, pal, I 
won’t.  We just bought a new telly 
recently, it’s up in the flat.  For the 
weans to watch, you know?  I really don’t 
need another one."

"But you’ve seen this one before.  You 
scribbled a moustache on this one."

"Me?  No me pal."  The barman was 
handing the Big Yin change from a fiver, 
the pints of beer arranged like skittles 
on a round tin tray.  "Anyway, as I said, 
we’ve already got a brand new one, because 
some swine nicked the old one…"  He put 
the drinks tray on the bar again.  "Wait a 
minute…"

Billy went over to the television hiding 
snugly under the jacket in the corner, and 
cleared a space so he could look at it.  
"What in hell’s name…"  He rubbed the wood 
down and checked it for marks.  "This is 
my old telly!  You thieving bugger!"

"No me, big man!" Marky protested.  "I 
got it off big McLatchie, honest!"

"That big tube?  I’ll be seeing him 
later.  Look pal, you’re trying to sell 
this here stolen television, aren’t you?"

"Sure am, Big Yin.  Twenty quid and 
she’s yours.  Again."

"One thing first."  Billy lifted the 
television and shook it up and down a bit.  
Something inside seemed to break loose and 
thump ominously.  He grinned.  "I’ll take 
it."

"Brill man, pure tops."

Four blues changed hands, and some of 
the crowd had moved over to see what was 
going down.  The Big Yin lifted the 
battle-scarred television onto the bar.  
The barman was quickly spreading beer-
soaked Export towels.  "Mind my woodwork!"

Marky was ecstatic.  Sure, he’d only 
made enough to cover big McLatchie’s 
drinks bill, but at least he could be 
clear with the big thug, and rid of that 
bloody telly at last.  He wondered why the 
Big Yin had bought it, though.  "Hey 
Billy, I hope it still works and that, it 
sounded a bit broke up inside.  It’s been 
through the wars a bit, you know?"

Billy asked the barman to get him a 
screwdriver, and no jokes about poncy 
cocktails.  "I don’t care if it works or 
not… this will be in the midden in ten 
minutes."  He took the screwdriver and 
slotted it between the walnut veneer and 
the black plastic casing, and a few manful 
twists had the back off, all of the screw 
threads shot beyond repair.

Billy began digging in between the 
wires.  "You see, pal, this did used to be 
my telly after all.  And before some 
thieving bastard stole if from my house 
while we all lay paralytic, I used to use 
it as a sort of… safety deposit box."  He 
ripped out some wires and mysterious bits 
of metal.  "Ah, here it is."

He pulled out a small hardback book with 
no paper cover.  It was dusty and beaten 
up, and had a couple of elastic bands 
tightly round it.  But the gilded 
lettering could still be made out: Fry The 
Little Fishes, by Matt McGinn.

Marky was still shocked at the wholesale 
and wanton destruction of the very 
television set he’d been protecting from 
the elements all day long.  "It’s a… 
book?"

"Aye, and not just any book.  You could 
call it my bank book."  He opened the 
book, the elastics twanging away and one 
landing in some old sot’s beer.  Inside 
was a bundle of brown notes, there must 
have been over £200 in tenners.

"Jeez!  I mean… you mean?  I’ve been 
lugging that bastard about all day to sell 
it for a £20 debt and all the time there’s 
been all that money inside it?  I don’t 
fucking believe it!"

"Here pal, you can keep this as a 
souvenir."  Billy handed Marky the book, 
which was signed by Matt himself on the 
cover.  "Maybe that’ll be worth something 
one day."

Marky sat down, and could do nothing but 
stare at the book and the twenty pounds 
he’d been so glad to hold a moment before.  
Any other night and it would have brought 
him down.  But he realised that there was 
one pleasurable thing left for him that no 
amount of money could buy.  He just 
couldn’t wait to see McLatchie’s face when 
he told him.  Now that would be a thing to 
see, and for that alone, all of that day 
had been worth all the effort.

Grinning, he saw Billy Connolly wave his 
wad of money at the crowd and shout for 
drinks all round the bar.  The Big Yin was 
paying, and this time, his was a malt 
whisky.