Edward the Confessor

EDWARD THE CONFESSOR

"See that's the problem wi' youse Fenians! It disnae matter whit yese
dae, yese think ye jist huv tae go tae confession, an' everythin's
hunky dory again! See if

Gazza played fur the Celtic, he wid jist huv tae go intae the
confessional fur five
minutes, come oot, rattle his beads fur anither five, an' then yese wid
aw think the
sun shone oot ay his erse again!"

Eddie Erskine sat back on his own well-upholstered arse, with a smug
grin slowly
spreading over his blunt features. From his cheery countenance, I could
guess that

he thought he'd made a major point in the debate. Played his trump card
so to
speak.

Beside me Tommy sat twitching and chewing his lip. "If he wis a Celtic
player he wid
huv been oan the transfer list by noo," he countered.

"Zat so?" countered Eddie. "Ah dinnae think sae. Cause see if he did
play fur
youse.....yese wid be winnin' things. That's whit settles the equation
it the end ay the
day. It's no whether ur no thir a fuckin' saint."

I couldn't even be bothered getting into this. What was the point? We
were all,
loosely speaking, mates. This was in spite of our differences as
regards what school
we'd all been to, or what team we supported. We were best talking about
something
else altogether, something where you could be pretty much sure that any
rows
wouldn't get out of hand. I swiftly finished my pint.

"Right, ah said ah wid go up tae Joe's hoose", I announced. "Onybody
else comin'?"

"Aye, ah'll come wi' ye," said Tommy bolting down what remained of his
beer. "Ye
never know, ah might even manage tae get some ay ma records back oaf
the cunt!"

To my relief Eddie announced that he was going to stay for "anither
couple ay
bevvies", so when we set out for Joe's it was just the two of us.
Outside, Tommy
turned to me.

"First ah heard ay ye plannin' tae go tae Joe's. Yir no feart fae that
bastart ur ye?"

"Naw, ah'm no. Ah'm jist no in the mood fur arguing aw night, an'
that's aw thit wis
gauny happen if we'd steyed. Eddie's awright, bit ah cannae be arsed
wi' him when
he gets in wan ay thae moods. He wants tae take a toke noo n'again tae
chill oot,
instead ay hittin' the bevvy aw the time."

"Aye yir fuckin' right," Tommy agreed, nodding in what was his best
impression of
sagely. "Maureen telt us the cunt's been hittin' June. Mibbe that's why
he's sae
defensive aboot Gascoigne."

We got to Joe's block, entered the close and went up the two flights of
stairs to his
flat. Through the door which was shuddering slightly, the sound of
"Revolution Rock"
by the Clash could be heard. Must be playing some golden oldies, I
thought. I
chapped at the door. No answer save for the sound of Joe Strummer
singing;

"Tell your mama, mama"

"Tell your papa, papa"

"Everything's gonna be alright".

This message of hope was shattered by the sound of Tommy bawling
through the
letter-box.

"Joe! Ye in?"

The revolution in Joe's living-room rocked on regardless of Tommy's
cries. We
waited a couple of minutes until the track ended, then Tommy tried
again.

"Joe! Gauny answer the door ya anti-social big fuckbrain!"

The next track had just started when the volume suddenly dropped by
about twenty
decibels. We heard the sound of footsteps shuffling down the
lobby.

"Wha' is it?", enquired Joe in a voice overdubbed with heavy
hashtones.

"Drug squad ya cunt! Yir busted, noo open the fuckin' door!" Tommy
hissed.

The door opened in slow motion and Joe stood blinking. Tommy barged
past him
and through to the living room.

"Whit wur ye daein'?", he asked, "Makin' sure ye finished yir spliff
before ye
answered the fuckin' door ya stingy wank?" He stood sniffing the
air.

"Naw ah wisnae." Joe answered, though somewhat defensively. "Thir's a J
behind
the CD's there wi a coupla blasts still left in it."

"Great!" said Tommy clamping his lips round the roach and reaching for
his lighter at
the same time. "Ah need tae get somethin' in ma lungs tae get rid ay
the pish fumes
fae oot in yir close. It fuckin' honks oot there sir! It's no you thit
pishes oot there is
it?" He got the spliff going and took a deep drag, sucking till his
cheekbones stuck
out like Bez's from Black Grape.

Noting that Joe was raking through his music collection, I took
advantage of the
smoke-induced lull in Tommy's conversation to finally get a word
in.

"Ah never understand why yir doonstair's neighbour disnae go mental at
ye playin' yir
music iz loud iz that. Ah've nae objection tae a bit ay volume masel'
but ye've goat
bigger amps thin Knebworth gaun in here".

"Ach, the auld yin doon the stair's corned beef onywey.", explained
Joe. "She
widnae blink if ye set oaf a neutron bomb behind her settee".

"Aye, bet she wid blink if ah set oaf wan ay these though.", Tommy
proudly declared,
immediately following up his announcement with a loud and resonant,
somewhat
bubbly-sounding fart. The unmistakeable stench of the rotten guts of a
long-term
Guinness drinker slowly filled the room. Joe pretended to gag, and
opened the
window; except that I wasn't sure he was pretending.

"Ya dirty bastart!" exclaimed Joe. "Nae wonder ye dae half yir shaggin'
up closes
and doon by the golf course. Nae lassie wid want tae get her heid
trapped under the
duvet an' risk that!"

"Some lassies huv risked it, bit nane huv survived tae talk aboot the
experience."
beamed Tommy, raising one buttock from the settee as if to let off
again. "False
alarm lads!" he said with a frown.

Once the air had cleared a bit, the conversation resumed. It was mainly
the usual shite, football and what bands were currently giving it laldy
on the music front.

Eventually, however, Tommy and Joe got into a long and protracted
argument about
the merits or otherwise of Kula Shaker. Basically, Tommy was for and
Joe was
against. Personally, I tended towards Joe's viewpoint, but there was no
way I was
going to let Tommy know that. Memories of vengeful rants of years gone
by, made
sure I kept my mouth shut.

Eventually and inevitably the toking had taken it's toll on Tommy's
metabolism.

"Goat any'hing tae eat?", he suddenly interjected, interrupting Joe's
reasoned
viewpoint that the singer with Kula Shaker was in the Damon Albarn
mould. i.e. "A
fuckin' posin' wee shite".

I could sense Joe's discomfort from the other side of the room. Joe
never had
anything to eat, At least nothing that Tommy would term "proper
grub".

"Eh'm....ah've goat some breid, so ye kin huv toast", he offered.

"Aye but whit is thur tae go oan the toast?" pressed Tommy.

"Well.....ah've goat some Marmite........."

"Fuckin' Marmite! Hhhhh!" Tommy was making no effort to disguise his
scorn.

"Fuckin' yeast infection in a jar, that's whit that stuff is! Might as
well go doon oan a
lassie wi' thrush!"

"Well there goes ma appetite!", I said trying to stop this before it
got any further. I
knew what Tommy's next method of attack was going to be.

"Yir no still intae aw that veggie nonsense ur ye?"

Yep. I was right.

"Fuckin' rabbit food. Turn ye intae a fuckin' hippie so it will!"

Joes face was turning various shades of scarlet. Meanwhile Tommy was
really
going into one.

"Fuckin' size ay ye man! Ye cannae jist eat fuckin' lentils an' lettuce
aw the time!"

He finished this last onslaught off with a snort of derision. I think
it was the snort that
finally made Joe snap.

"Tell ye wan fuckin' thing anyway." he spluttered. "If you hud ay been
a vegetarian
ye widnae huv loast that joab ye hud in the supermarket wid ye? Ye
widnae huv
been nicking sausages if ye wur a veggie, wid ye?"

"Advantage Joe" I ruled from my imaginary umpire's chair. However, I
couldn't be
bothered waiting for the conclusion of this match. I'd seen it played
so many times
before. Like every time I was in the same room as the pair of
them.

"Right ah'm away doon the Rid Lion before it shuts. Yese comin'?" I was
already
pulling on my jacket and hoping that my gamble was going to pay off as
I had
planned.

"Naw ah'll jist stey here ah think", said Tommy eyeing up Joe's spliff
tin.

Good. And as Joe barely left the house, that was that.

Outside, the air was getting colder. I pulled up the collar of my levi
jacket and
wished I'd put on a heavier shirt. Within five minutes of leaving Joe's
house I began
to wish I'd used his bog before setting off. The draught howling
through my clothes
quickly accelerated my predicament, and before too long I was squeezing
between
some garages behind a block of flats. I got my dick out and, after the
initial shock of
handling it with icy cold hands, I soon had a fine stream of steaming
hot pish going.

It was right at that moment, just when it was too late to stop, that I
heard the
growling. It was pitch black and I could see fuck all, but it sounded
like a big dog
from where I was standing. It didn't sound too far away either.

"Guid boy......guid dug....." I was trying to stop my voice from
shaking as I frantically
tried to hurry up and get my pish over and done with. I could feel my
balls and my
prick shrinking even more than the cold had already caused them to. The
growling
continued. I backed out from between the garages, but without making it
seem like I
was hurrying and trying to avoid making any sudden movements. I could
feel a
residue of pee seeping into my boxers. I hadn't shook it before I put
it back in, being
worried about provoking a dog bite in the nastiest place of all.

Once I got clear of the garages, I firstly walked briskly away from the
flats then broke
into a run. The growling escalated into frenzied barking, but the dog
didn't appear to
be following me. The dog was probably ancient and had no teeth, but
that didn't
stop me from shaking like a leaf. I stopped running in case somebody
saw me and
thought I was a flasher making his getaway or something. My knees were
like jelly.

Fuck me I'm getting old, I thought.

My legs were still trembling when I got to the Red Lion. Tonight was
the night when
they got the DJ boy on to play some music. Virtually everything he
played was shite,
but people only went there to have a late drink so nobody bothered.
Ordinarily
nobody would bother trying to dance either unless there were some
factory lassies in
having a hen night. This was a typical night. Most people there were
just
concentrating on getting more pissed-up than they already were, before
making the
lonely journey home to their lonely wee houses. Or maybe I'm just
assuming that
everybody was there for the same reason as me.

I don't mind having a pint or twelve on my own, but it's better to have
some company
all the same. I scanned the plastic interior of the smoky disco lounge
for sight of a
familiar face. I saw a couple of blokes I knew from previous nights
spent here.

Fellow late bevvy merchants. Sad bastards, as Tommy might say. There
was a
cluster of three women in, that I vaguely knew. One of them I wished I
didn't know,
and I hastily avoided her gaze. It was whilst I was still pretending to
look at my
shoes, that he crept up on me. The one guy in here that I did know
well. Not that I
wanted to talk to him tonight, mind. However, before I'd noticed his
approach, he

was upon me. A big, red, sweaty, baw face suddenly thrust itself in
front of mine. He
bawled some kind of greeting that I could only nod at in return, not
having a clue
what it was he was trying to say. He was in the company of two of the
McCutcheon
brothers. This wasn't good news. The McCutcheons were the type of guys
whose
idea of fun was to take some air rifles up into the woods outside of
town, drop some
acid and then see what developed from there. They weren't over keen on
Tims
either. Fortunately the two that were with Eddie had their attentions
focussed on the
lassies I'd just been mentally dodging. Along with Eddie they'd be
three on three,
but he was in such a state that he was virtually certain to blow what
chances they did
have. I could already see that they were looking for a chance to ditch
him and follow
their dicks. I presented just such an opportunity.

So it was that I found myself propping up big Eddie Erskine on my own.
Talk about a
weight on your shoulders. After about fifteen minutes of shifting his
weight every
twenty seconds so that he kept leaning against the bar, I spotted a
couple of seats
had suddenly became vacant. We got into them just in front of a pair of
young lovers
who'd obviously earmarked them to host a long and meaningful snog. Ah
well, it's a
hard life, and anyone who says any different is a mug.

Eddie had been ranting on at me since he had first shoved his big ugly
mug in front
of mine, and so far I'd managed to decipher about three sentences of
it:

"See you're aw right no like the rest ay thae Fenians."

"Ah've never even known ye go near a Chapel".

"Ah'm telling ye though man! Ah've been rotten!"

Eddie was right on all counts in as much as the first two statements
alluded to the
lapsed nature of my Catholicism. Well lapsed in fact. As for the other
utterance, well
he was certainly right about the nights when he got in a state like he
was in tonight. I
couldn't follow where the conversation was going though, and I wasn't
really in the
mood to make a lot of effort trying to find out. Point of fact I
intended to make a bolt
for it as soon as I could.

Half an hour passed with Eddie slavering shite in my ear, while I
pretended to listen.

The bar staff were getting ready for last orders, and across the way, I
could see the
McCutcheons were having about as much joy as I was. I wondered if they
would
have enough savvy to see the knockback coming. Eddie meantime was
getting
agitated. I thought I'd better tune in for a bit.

"See ah feel bad aboot June, but ah jist cannae help masel'." This, the
last
sentence he had uttered, but the first I had listened to for at least
ten minutes, was
delivered in such a plaintive tone of voice that I was taken aback. I
began to speculate on Tommy's report of his alleged June-bashing.

"Ah dinnae want tae hurt June like."

Well stop fucking bashing her, I thought.

"Ah'm really worried she's gauny find oot."

What is he on about? How can you batter somebody without them finding
out?

They must surely have some notion of what's going on before they lose
consciousness.
"It's jist thit, like, Sharon's goat some body oan her. Ken whit ah
mean?"

I was totally lost now. Who the fuck is Sharon? Is he beating up entire
mobs of
women at one go now?

I must have looked dumbfounded, because Eddie suddenly found a moment
of clarity.

"Ye ken Sharon......June's wee sister. She babysits fur us sometimes it
the weekends."

It suddenly all became clear. Eddie wasn't beating anybody up. He was
shagging
his girlfriend's wee sister. Probably when he took her home after a
babysitting
session. I had been sitting listening to his guilt trip, which was
rather a Catholic trait
for such a self-proclaimed "loyal true-blue". Well, I had better things
to do than listen
to guys who should know better worrying on about hefting wee lassies. I
should
have such problems. And so should the McCutcheons, I thought catching
sight of
them getting the unmistakeable elbow across the way. They brought him
here, they
can get him home, I concluded starting to finish my pint.

Eddie must've sensed I was planning to leave, for he suddenly caught my
arm.

"Ah've eyewis thought you wur awright, ma man. Ye ken that. Yir no a
fuckin' Taig
like the rest ay thum. Whit d'ye think ah should dae?"

"Well Eddie, if ah wis you....." I paused over the last mouthfull of my
beer for dramatic effect. "Whit ah wid dae wis....." the beer was gone
now. "Sit doon in a quiet corner, and say three decades ay the Rosary.
That should be enough tae absolve aw yir sins".

And I was out the pub before that last sentence had even sunk in.