Filth

– I knew it! I want to see them. Put one in!

– Bunty, I don’t think it would be wise.

– Oh yes, I want to know everything! I want to know all about him. The real him! she sobs.

I acted reluctant, but Bunty was insistent. We watch a bit of Vibrator Massacre, and she runs to the toilet puking, just as I was getting into it. She’s seen enough.

I calm her down a little and eventually call her a taxi home. I was certain she’d phone the police and make a formal complaint against Bladesey. I kept half-heartedly trying to talk her out of it, gently urging her to call Cliff at his mum’s, give him a chance to put his side of things and all the insincere bullshit under the sun, but I knew that her mind was made up. I get a bell from Gus at the Lodge after tea, telling me that they are pla

This sets me up in fine fettle for the do tonight, with the earlier débâcle with that stupid dug now last Tuesday’s Daily Record. I’ve given Ray Le

I’ll be three sheets but I take the motor; I’ll pick it up later if I’m too wasted. I switch on the car radio. It’s that Celine Dion bird singing that horrible song, the one she was just made to sing. Le

I’ve got A

To my surprise, Stronach greets me heartily. It seems as if he wants to let bygones be bygones, or perhaps it’s because he senses my potential to wreck his big night if fucked with. I brazenly install myself and Le

It’s a good crack with the usual loads of jokes about how fitba guys are the salt of the earth and women are only good for cleaning, cooking and shagging. I’m enjoying the fact that Stronach is ill-at-ease because Dolacre’s upstaging him, though Le

The meal is pretty good. I start off with the prawn cocktail, then go for steak, chips, mushrooms and onion rings, followed by Black Forest Gateau. Stronach and Dolacre have some pasta dish while Le

I have to give it to that English cunt Dolacre, he’s got us daft Jocks well sussed out. – These arseholes’ll always bring between five and ten thousand down, which at our prices could mean an extra quarter of a million quid in the kitty. All I have to do is play up this old Irish gra

Someone produces an Evening Times. It contains an interview with Rodney: I grew up in a large Irish family in North London and all the folks back home in the old country were mad keen Celts. I would have dearly loved to have been able to pull the hooped jersey over my head.

– I said striped jersey at first, he laughs. – I couldn’t remember that they played in hoops! Thank God the journalist was sympathetic! Bleedin Nora, he snorts, – I mean, one Jock team’s much the same as any other to me. All shit, ain’t they? Still, I’ll take their giros! Another ten thousand on the gate: can’t be sneezed at, can it?

I saw Stronach go red at that point.

Dolacre gives a witty speech, as does a Scottish First Division manager, but the rest are just fucking windbags who like to hear the sound of their own voices. Dolacre leaves early, before the auction takes place. The strip he wore in the England B international versus the Czech Republic a couple of years ago in his last representative game is auctioned and fetches a hundred and fifty quid for Tom’s testimonial fund. It was bought by Alan Beach, the plumber’s merchant, who’s on the testimonial committee.

At the end of the night Le

– Arrogant English cunt, Stronach spits.

I go into my home and Shirley calls. I let the machine get it. – Broosss . . . I need to talk to you Brooooss, her distressed mechanised tone whines. – It’s very important . . . phone me Broossss . . . please . . .

I put on a Private video, one of Hector’s, which features some good arse-fucking shots. It never fails to amaze me, the purchase those male actors get on the old arse-fucking. Poles must be well-greased. Mind you, these birds but, their arseholes must be stretched like a mother-of-ten’s fa

Shirley. Don’t mistake me for somebody who cares my love.

I go to do a shite. I’ve taken some of Rossi’s laxatives but I can’t see any of the worm. It’s no good just getting its body out anyway, you need to get the whole head, otherwise it just keeps growing. I try to turn in, but I feel uneasy and sleep with the light on. These cunts with their OT cutbacks’ll kill me.

the fucking head of those things and I can’t get the bastard out.

I decide that there’s going to be no work done today, so I fill out an OTA 1–7 for the overtime, and sit back watching videos until I drowse. When I wake up, I note that it’s the evening. This is when I come to life. That was a great kip. It’s got me going.

I’ve snorted my last half G and I’m on the mooch for mair posh. I call cold round at Ray Le

– Eh, Bruce, Le

– Pleased to meet you my darling, I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss it, an extravagant gesture. Worth forty wanks as well. Mmm hmm. – Pleased to meet you Trudi. Ray’s not mentioned you to me. That’s remiss of him, I smile. I turn to Le

She smiles and departs, Ray instantly recovering his cool.

– Tidy piece Mister Le

– A lovely girl, Le