Scottish Comedy Novel (Untitled)
Sunday, February 02, 1997

Chapter 1

	Bawheid extended his telescopic pointer like some top brass army general and rapped the blackboard furiously.  It wasn’t really a telescopic pointer, it was a car aerial which he had broken off an old Cortina on the way to the meeting that night.  Bawheid wasn’t entirely sure where abouts you bought telescopic pointers, I mean, there didn’t seem to be any Teacher’s Emporium selling chalk-dusted mortar boards, tweed jackets with leather elbow patches, or tapes on ‘How To Sound Condescending’ in Sauchiehall Street that he could see.  Maybe they sold these items at teacher’s conventions, he didn’t have a Scooby.  Anyway, he had more important things to worry about : When this was over, his compatriots wouldn’t be driving poxy MOT borderlines anyway, and the Cortina owner would be reimbursed for the loss of his aerial with his freedom from oppression.

	‘Haw Gentlemen!’, he shouted at the laughing, swearing, and drinking crowd of upright Scottish youth which were slouched before him, partaking of the free cans of Export which they had laid on as an incentive for this meeting.  Bawheid rapped the blackboard again a few times, but when the wee guy at the front stood up and began doing the Hokey Cokey, Bawheid lost it, and began swatting the wee guy about the body like Zorro on speed.

	‘Haw cut that oot, mister!’, the wee guy shouted.  ‘Ma brur wull soart you oot, so he wull’  Baweid ignored the threat, knowing full well he wee guy’s brother was even more of a short arse than he was. 

	The tactic seemed to have worked, however, the noise had died down, everybody was facing the front, their big Glesga baw-faces staring up at him, waiting for the big revelation that would change their lives, or at least give them something to do between signing-on sessions.  Bawheid suddenly felt like a teacher, and he didn’t like it at all.

	‘Gentlemen’, he began.  ‘We’re here to talk about the future, your future.  We’re here to talk about Scotland, and how we’re going to make her free once more’


Chapter 2

	Shivs jumped from the wall and landed badly on the uneven surface below.  Cursing, he began limping off into the darkness.  There was no way he was going to be caught out for this one, he hadn’t even managed to get a hold of any of the gear before the fat bastard with the basey came lumbering through from the bedroom threatening to ‘take his heid aff’.  I mean, come off it, the fat bastard could do with a diet anyway, Shivs would have done him a favour if he’d tanned his fridge, the fat shite.

	No that Shivs was a professional housebreaker, he couldn’t exactly say he made a living out of it.  His speciality was tanning motors, car radios specifically, though there was a lucrative market for flashy wheel trims in the city, and Shivs catered for his market to the best of his ability.  In actual fact, there’s wasn’t enough decent motors in the city, demand was high, and Shivs was having to spread his wings into other professions to make ends meet, and to buy enough blaw for the weekend.  Thus the burglary.

	As he reached the busy junction of Edinburgh Road and Cumbernauld Road, he felt he could stop running.  His ankle, which he was sure he’d buggered on that dodgy landing, was starting to feel no bad already.  There was a bunch of wee joters on the corner, most of them just wee Haghill widoes, though he spotted a couple of mates amongst the throng.  The guy who sold the night edition of the Record to passing motorists was there as usual, trying no to look like a pusher.

	‘Haw Shivs, where ye been  man?’, the gangly boy with the frayed LL Cool J baseball cap shouted as he approached.  His name was Brian Reeves, but people knew him as Shivs, for reasons best left to the forgotten memories of primary school.   ‘We been lookin fur ye, a wee deal an at, know?’  It was Hingle, a wee bassart from up Garngad way, well out of his home area.

	‘Whit kind a deal?  Ye know I’m no intae that dope shite, Hingle man.’

	‘Naw, naw man.’   Hingle let his uneven teeth flash.  ‘Ma brur wid hiv ma hide if I was dealin roon here, man.  Naw, it’s just a wee reset job, an at, some wee joter let us hiv some hot gear, an at.  Cut price an aw, real classy stuff.  Brand new man.’

	Shivs grinned.  ‘I thought that Sticky did aw that fur ye?’

	‘Sticky’s aff his napper, man.  He’s up that community centre noo wi your mate, that Bawheid bassart, gie’in it laldy wi their struggle against the evil oppressor crap.  A right waste a time, when there’s stuff to be had.’  Hingle’s entire life seemed to revolve around making sure he had enough beer to see him through the weekend.  His idea of politics was kidding on he was a canvasser outside the primary school and tanning the pockets of the voters as they came out the polling station, while asking them questions about the bloody Labour party.  He added : ‘I mean, what’s Sticky want wi political power?  I think he’s just there for the free bucket, drunken bassart, wee scrounger, man.’

	‘Aye, yer prob’ly right, man.  Sticky always wiz a pisshead.’  Shivs considered his position.  ‘So there’s some bevvy being haunded oot, is there?  I wisnae asked, bastard.’  Bawheid wasn’t exactly a great pal of his, but they’d arsed about thegither, and it seemed only right that Bawheid should have given him the nod if there was a freebie going.

	‘They did ask ye, Shivs man’, Hingle said.  ‘But you said ye’d rather drink in Paisley than crack a can wi that bunch a wankers.’  Hingle grinned.  ‘Ye also minded him his mother was English, and Bawheid was not too chuffed wi ye there man.  He was not chuffed at all.  So ye cannae expect him to welcome ye wi open arms, man.’

	‘Aye, s’pose so, I was a bit pished that night, right enough.  This conversation was starting to get heavy.  ‘So whit’s this gear ye’v got for me then, classy you said?’

	‘Sure is, Shivs man’, Hingle said.  ‘This wee joter I was telling you aboot knows the warden up this auld folks hame, and he can get millions a towels, facecloths and thermal underwear-’

	‘Ach pish, Hingle.  I’ve been wasting ma time here for bloody fat arse scants and colostomy bags, ya bastard.’  Shivs shook his head, laughing.  Ah’m away up the centre, see if that bassart’s left me any bevvy.’  He put his hands in his pockets, and tested his weight on his sore ankle, which seemed to have recovered.  ‘Are ye coming?  Ye never know, mibbes Sticky will take a dozen incontinence pants aff yer hauns!’

	‘Ya bam!’  Hingle kept time alongside him like a puppy dog.


Chapter 3

	Bawheid had known that it wouldn’t be easy.  The trouble with these arses was that they had no ambition, no drive to better themselves.  Bawheid was different, he knew where he was going.  These joters were just here for the bevvy, a fact which became sadly apparent when the supply of cans began to run dry, only a few minutes into his big speech.

	‘Haw mister’ began one of the widoes, ‘Aw this stuff about they English oppressing us an stealin our ile, an aw that, it’s pure brull an at, but hiv ye any merr cans, we seem tae be running low on the swally an at?’  He was one of they wee cheeky bassarts, a pal of Dodie’s maybe, Bawheid hadn’t been paying attention.

	‘Eh, ye’ll be able to buy cheap alcohol when we are a nation once more.’, Bawheid said smugly, trying to inject a bit of rousing rhetoric to counter the wee bam’s question.  ‘When we are free, so will the drink be.’

	‘Aye, great, but if that means ye’v no got any merr swally in this den, then ah’m away up the offies.’  Most of the room burst into laughter, which Bawheid thought spoiled the atmosphere of conspiratorial debate.  The wee bam got up, followed by a close group of cronies, ringing him like a mafia bodyguard.  As he got to the door, he turned and added ‘Good luck wi yer struggle an at, sounds magic, man, jist the ticket.  But next time, merr bevvy,eh?’  His cronies all guffawed like morons as they left.

	Bawheid decided that maybe that was a good place to end the lecture part of the evening’s events and move on to the discussing and planning phase.  Unfortunately, his audience had lost interest.  Some of the people at the front had started an argument amongst themselves, and a couple of widoes at the back had lit big clusmy spliffs and were busy slapping the hands of scroungers wanting a draw.

	Only one person in the room still seemed to be paying any attention, a wee dark-eyed ned, brooding eyebrows, hard line of a mouth, No 2. haircut, he looked a bit of a bampot to Bawheid, but by this stage he was glad of any support.  He must have sensed Bawheid's growing tension because he suddenly shouted ‘Wull ye’s jist aw shut up fur a minute!’   Nobody seemed to have noticed.  He screamed again, loud as he could ‘Shurrup ya bastards!’

	Suddenly the wee hard man stood up, and without a sound took one of the arguing idiots by the neck and threw him face down onto the desk in front of him.   He pinned him there, and despite wee idiot’s struggling, it was clear that the wee hard man had more strength in his arm than he had in his entire body.  ‘Jist listen tae whit the man’s got tae say.  Ye hear?  If ye’r gonny cause a rammy, ye can jist bugger aff.’  He gave the wee idiot a squeeze.

	‘Shhhheh... cut it oot ya bastard, I’ll get ma big brur ontae ye fur this!  He'll soart ye oot ya swine!’

	The hard man grinned.  It wasn’t a pretty sight.  ‘You’re Sticky, am I right?  I kicked your brur’s erse for him up the Parade last week, so I don’t think he’ll be too chuffed about another square go wi me, wee man.’  He looked around the room.  ‘If any other a you noisy bams want tae hiv a go, come ahead noo, I’ve only got one free hand, so that’ll gie ye a chance.  What’s it tae be then?  Stey an be quiet, or leave?’

	Bawheid saw his chance to regain the meeting.  ‘Right, come on people, nae need tae fight amongst oorselves here’  He patted the wee hard man on the shoulder.  ‘Here pal, what’s yer name?’

	‘Smith. Maist people call me Clarry but.’, he said.

	‘Well Clarry, gather yer strength fur the coming fight against oor oppressor.  Nae need to squash this wee arse.  Sticky’s no a bad wee fella.’  He smiled what he thought was a charismatic smile, full of leadership potential, a face to be carried on flags and banners held high over the marching people of Scotland as they rejoiced in their glorious leader....

	‘We’ll be seeing yous then, big man.’, said a pock-faced wido at the door.  Bawheid noticed that most of his audience had left.  Clarry released Sticky, who scampered to the door, his face like fizz, muttering threats as he went.  Apart from Clarry and Bawheid, only Dodie was left in the room, killing himself laughing at the outcome of the night’s proceedings.

	‘Aye, very good.’ Dodie laughed.  ‘I can see that the good courageous people of Scotland are as impressive as usual, buncha wasters.’  He stood up and surveyed the empty room.  ‘Hardly a swelling of our revolutionary ranks, is it Bawheid?  Only wan wae any get-up-an-go who didnae get up an go is a bliddy heidcase!’  Clarry stared and growled. ‘Aye OK pal, just a wee joke, a figure of speech if ye will.’

	Bawheid refused to be downhearted.  ‘At least that bam Shivs kept his wee nippy face outy here.’

		There was a ruckus at the door.  It was Shivs.  ‘Haw there, comrades, are ye’s ready to crown me king of Scotland then?’  Bawheid shook his head and stared at the ceiling impateiently.  Shivs grinned ‘Well then, if no, where’s this swally ah’ve been hearing aboot?’

Chapter 4

	Somewhere along the dark and dirty streets of Glasgow, the idea was born.  Afterwards, nobody wanted to take credit for the idea, but the time was not in dispute.  Discussing it in some detail later, they seemed to be getting nowhere.  For a start, Clarry declared himself to be a pacifist.

	‘Whit dae ye mean?  Ye’re the hardest joter in the East End, and ye say ye’re a pacifist?’  That was Dodie, tactful as ever.

	'Aye, I kin haunle masel right enough, but mibbes that's why ah'm no bothered aboot using my strength, ye get whit a mean?'  Clarry seemed to be trying to articulate a sensitive philosophical stance.

	'Away'n shite,'  Dodie replied.  'I never saw ye haudin back on yer strength up Ally Park last week when ye kicked Sticky's brur's arse fae wan end ay the boatin pond tae the other.'  He took Clarry by the shoulder. 'Anyways, ye'r nae bloody use tae us if ye don't want tae use yer God-given talents of being able tae kick the shiters ooty every joter fae here tae Coatbridge.'

	Clarry seemed unconvinced.  'Hiv yes never jist voted SNP of somethin less, well... ambitous?'

	Dodie, Bawheid and Shivs all groaned in unison.  Sticky laughed.  'Look man, they politicos are aw corrupt.  Ah wance saw wan o they fat bastards at a big do in the toon, drinkin an laughin with the Tories, big mates so they wurr.  Nae point in leavin it up tae theym, they're jist in that gemm fur the buffet lunches and fiddlin the expenses.'

	'So whit exac-ly ur yes gonny dae then?  March on Westminster and declare yersel king a Scotland?'  Clarry scoffed.

	Bawheid shook his fist. 'Aye eventually mibbes.'  The others chuckled.  'Aye laugh away.  What we need is something wee tae start oaf wae.  A sort of publicity stunt, tae get merr volunteers tae the cause.'

'So whit dae ye recommend?  Nuthin illegal ah hope, ah'm still oan three months suspended jile for helpin a polis find his way doon a flight a stairs durin a wee rammies at a mate's hoose.'  The others guffawed.  'Ah didnae mean tae dae it, sometimes I don't know ma ain strength, man.'




















Chapter 5