Wan Goal tae the Good

Wan goal tae the good, it is. Larsson scored afore we even goat in the door. Nervy as fuck though. Ma arse is makin buttons. We need another wan tae gie us a bit ay breathin space. The huns ur away tae Dundee United. If we slip up here — even drawin the gemme, an they win — the league’s theirs. Disnae bear thinkin aboot.

Ah’d huv McDade tae listen tae fur a start, that wid be bad enough in itsel. He’s a stroppy cunt when we get beat at the best ay times, imagine him the day?

He’d somehow managed tae persuade Tracey tae gie him her pal’s phone number an asked her oot. Call me a cynic but ah wisnae surprised when Tracey asked if it wis awright if her pal, Donna, an ‘Paul’ could come oot wae us tae watch the gemme.

‘No bad Danny boy. This whit the datin gemme’s aboot then? Ah could get used tae this.’ he sais tae me, as we’re staunin at the bar waitin.

‘Naw, it’s no. Is it fuck! Whit ye aw aboot anywaiy, invitin yersel alang? Ah wis just wantin a quiet wee efternin wae Tracey. Mibbe get somethin tae eat an back tae her flat later fur . . .’

‘ . . . Hoaw, cunto! That’s ma cousin yer talkin aboot.’ he sais, pointin his finger, the embodiment ay virtue aw ay a sudden.

‘Away ye go, ya fanny. We’ve been seein each other fur weeks noo. Spare us the concerned family member routine.’

‘Naw naw, Danny. Ah take aw that shite seriously, so ah dae. Family matters an that. We look oot fur each other oan the McDade — an it’s affshoots — family tree. That’s how ah’m here tae keep an eye oan the proceedins. Make sure ye don’t get too kerried away. Ye’ve still tae meet ma Auntie Josie an Uncle Englebert, sure?’ Fuckin Uncle Englebert? This is news tae me. Ah huvnae met her Ma an Da yet though, that’s true. How dis he fuckin know that?

He’s lookin at me, his hazel eyes still boayish but at the same time, disparately vacant an unnervin.

Ah’m no sure whit it is; the apathy efter slashin the boay the other week; the casual indifference tae it or whit, but there’s a chainge in him – an unpredictability an ah’ no sure if he’s serious ur no.

‘Fuck off, man!’ ah sais.

‘Aaahh, ha ha, Danny boy. Ye should’ve seen yer face.’ he sais, bangin the bar wae his haun, ‘ . . . two lager, a voddy an fresh orange an wan ay they Moscow Mules.’ he nods tae the lassie behind the bar. The guy next tae us, who’s been tryin tae get served since afore we goat here’s huffin an puffin, aw agitated lookin like he’s gonnae say somethin. He disnae.

Ah paiy fur them aff the score note ma Granda gied us an watch McDade as he strides back tae the table wae the drinks, confident an assured. Ye kin say whit ye like aboot him but nothin phases him. He probably slept like a log that night efter the Rangers gemme, that, an every other night ay his twinty-wan years oan the planet.

When the rest ay us lie awake at night tryin tae solve unsolvable problems, runnin oer conversations we hud in the past an revisin things sais; formulatin other, better scenarios; wans were we sais the right things; wans were we won the argument, McDade an cunts like him sleep soundly wae nae concept ay such contemplation. Blissfully ignorant.

He just gets oan wae it; just lives his life; he just is.

Sittin doon next tae Tracey, ah lean in tae talk tae her, ‘Ye awright wae us comin here, ah mean ah no it’s no exactly Babaza or that but it’s a good shoap – decent pint.’ ah sais. Nae bother Danny boy, that’s whit she wis wantin tae know.

‘It’s fine. It’s really – auld. It’s definitely goat some character.’ she sais.

‘Well if he thinks ah’m staiyin in here, he’s goat another thing comin.’ Donna sais, pointin at McDade, afore lightin a fag she pulls fae a twinty deck ay Club. ‘“Kin ah take ye oot fur a drink?” he sais, waited till ah sais aye then insisted oan this, ah’m sorry Tracey hen. Never meant tae intrude . . .’

There’s a murmur ay discontent workin it’s waiy through the room. Palpable, it is. McDade bounds away fae the table tae investigate. He neednae huv bothered as a guy fae the next booth sticks his heid roon, an tells us Rangers huv took the lead at Tannadice.

‘Laudrup’s just scored fur them, thirty-first minute.’ McDade sais, ‘MONE TAE FUCK CELLIC!’ he shouts, inspirin a few mare phrases tae the same affect fae the punters further intae the crowd, glued tae the tellies.

‘Did we? Ah mean – did they? Ah love Brian Laudrup, so ah dae!’ Donna sais, tae McDade’s immediate, an obvious disapproval as he spits oan the flair an glares in her direction.

There’s a steady swell ay movement taewards the bar as the hauf-time whistle goes. The mare familiar bustle an drone ay cunts talkin fills the room again; how they’d pull aff such-an-such cos he’s been woeful an how keepin a clean-sheet is essential cos it just takes United tae equalise an the Huns ur drappin points.

The lassies bolt tae the toilet, leavin me an McDade, ‘Ah cannae settle doon here man, ma nerves ur janglin.’ McDade sais, ‘Fancy a wee livener tae get the spirits up?’ He fans a wee folded-up lottery ticket in front ay his face – a pea an ham.

‘Where’d ye get that?’

‘Scanlon’s gettin it aff that Stevie McShane, sure. Tap drawer, so it is.’ he sais, puttin it quickly back intae his poakit as Donna an Tracey approach the table again.

‘Right, ah’m gaun fur a pish. Ah’ll get the drinks in when ah get back, okay ma wee pumpkin?’ McDade sais tae Donna, an pinches her cheek afore boundin oot ay the seat again. She disnae know how tae take him, an who kin blame her? Ah’ve known the cunt fur years an ah’m the same. She starts talkin tae Tracey aboot somethin an ah nod ma heid that ah’m off as well, no that they notice.

In the carsie, a voice comes fae wan ay the cubicles, ‘Danny, is that you?’

‘Aye, hurry up man. Where ur ye?’ ah sais, nudgin wan ay the doors gently tae see if it’s open.

A bolt slides in a loack an two doors doon, he sticks his heid oot, ‘In here, mone. Ye goat a caird oan ye?’

Reachin intae ma poakit, ah get ma wallet oot, gien him ma Clydesdale Bank caird an he scrapes a bit oot ay the wrap an sets up a couple ay lines.

He hauns it back an rolls a tenner up, bendin oer the cistern, snortin wan ay them up. Ah dae the same an he clicks the loack open, walkin back oot. There’s a cunt at the urinal that gies us a look as we exit the booth. McDade deflects his curiosity by tellin him he’s pishin oan his shoes an the cunt looks doon afore lookin forward again, facin the waw in front ay him, seethin, knowin he’s just been done.

The gemme’s kickin aff again when we get back an McDade’s buzzin aboot the table, collectin empty glesses an puttin them oan wan ay they McEwan’s Export trays the auld yins like tae use. Hauf ay them urnae even oors.

‘Whit yies huvin ladies, is it the same again, is it?’ he sais.

‘Aye, ah’ll huv the same again an then we’ll huv some ay that yous just hud an aw.’ Donna sais, croassin her airms an pursin her lips, expectantly.

‘So, same again then, aye?’ McDade sais, ignorin her, ‘ . . . mone gies a haun, Coyle.’ he nods at me.

‘Paul McDade!’ Donna sais, in mock outrage, or mibbe real outrage, but it disnae matter as we’re cuttin through the crowd taewards the bar like Moses partin the Red Sea as McDade hauds the tray ay glesses above his heid, ‘Oot the waiy gents, glesses comin through here. Mind yer back there buddy. Watch yersel there mate, eh?’ he sais an they aw dae it. Every bastart in the waiy moves, clearin a path an we’re back at the bar. There’s a couple ay disgruntled lookin cunts that realise they’ve been hoodwinked but it’s just like Joe sais the other day, the power ay suggestion, man. Too late tae greet aboot it noo. Nae danger.

An auld guy wae a bunnet oan’s goat an earpiece in listenin tae a wee portable trannie next tae us while McDade gets the drinks in. He’s been served straight away again, huvin gained the favour ay the bar staff by bringin the tray ay empties back.

‘Away ye go, ya bastart, ye!’ the auld guy wae the trannie sais, ‘Rangers huv just scored again. Albertz, a fuckin penalty.’ he sais, an a collective groan goes roon the pub alang wae subsequent mumblins aboot the probability ay them gettin a penalty at some point (they always dae) an the possible ramifications ay it, as the news spreads through the bar. If St. Johnstone equalise wae us noo, an it ends that waiy, the title goes tae Rangers.

‘INTAE THESE CUNTS, CELLIC!’ a guy alang the bar screams at the tellie an silence faws oer the place, just the occasional cough or shout ay encouragement piercin it.

McDade passes the lassies their drinks oer an Tracey prods me in the ribs, ‘Danny, tell Paul tae gie us that coke. We’re wantin some.’

Ah’m gonnae protest, tell her naw; impose a moral code oan her that ah don’t subscribe tae masel; wan were cunts like me ur free tae ingest recreational drugs as a matter ay course, but nice burds like her shouldnae. Ah don’t though. It’s the nineties man, ye cannae be a hypocrite.

‘No way.’ he sais, efter ah’ve hud a word in his ear, ‘ . . . ah’m no dishin oot the lines tae ma wee cousin.’

‘Gie it a by, Paul. Yer three month aulder than me.’ Tracey sais.

‘Hurry up ya miserable cunt. This is borin the life oot us, ye know. We’re ready fur the off here.’ Donna adds, an ah look at Tracey who gies me a reassuring shake ay the heid.

‘Whit? So’s ma Auntie Josie an Uncle Bert kin find oot. Na man, no happenin.’ McDade sais, resolutely.

‘Ah’m twinty year auld! How they gonnae find oot, eh? Tell ye whit, Paul. They’ll find oot ye gave us it, if ye don’t gie us it.’ Tracey sais, cryptically, ‘ . . . Ah’ll tell ma Da, ma Ma and ma Uncle Ronnie that ye were makin us take drugs. Forced us, practically. See whit happens then.’

‘DUNDEE UNITIT HUV JUST SCORED!’ the auld guy wae the radio shouts fae the bar an there’s a tingle ay hope ripplin through the room. This might happen, if they get another wan and we kin haud oan tae oor lead . . .

‘Here, take it. Ye never goat it fae me, right?’ McDade sais, slidin his haun concealin the wrap oer the table tae Tracey, ‘ . . . an don’t be fuckin greedy.’

The next five minutes take an eternity. Every time St. Johnstone get possession ay the baw there’s a sense ay forbodin; that we’ve been here afore; that we’re gonae slip up. If they equalise an it staiys that waiy, it’s oer.

Then, oan the seventy-second minute, the substitute fur Cellic, Harald Brattbakk, tucks it intae the coarner fae twelve yerds oot.

There’s a split second; a fuckin infinitesimal period ay time between the net bulgin an the reaction, but it’s there.

The place erupts in a rapturous wave ay elation. Tables an chairs go flyin as punters rise fae their seats. Spilt alcohol flies through the air, sprayin oer people. Naeboady cares though; the hive mind; the collective soul ay the pub is in momentary ecstasy, concerned wae only wan thing. The worries ay everyday normality ur washed away, wiped oot an forgotten, if only fur a wee snippet ay time. That time is noo.

‘YAAAASSSSS! FUCKIN BRATTBAKK!’ McDade shouts, clampin ma heid between his hauns an screamin in ma face, saliva sprayin oer me in concurrence. Ah grab a haud ay him, an another guy ah’ve never seen afore in ma life an we’re jumpin aboot, bufferin aff other cunts dain the same in some mad human pinball.

The score remained the same till the final whistle. Cellic won the title.

 

We staiy in fur another drink efterwards but the lassies ur gettin pissed aff, an mare tellingly, the gear’s finished (McDade hud insisted oan victory lines, aw roon) so we came tae the agreement that gettin some mare ay it fae somewhere wis the waiy tae go.

We walk alang tae the phoneboax an McDade phones Johnny Scanlon tae see if he kin sort us oot.

‘That’s no happenin man. Sais he’s busy the noo. Won’t be aboot till later. Any ay yous know any cunt?’ he sais, walkin back taewards us fae the phoneboax.

‘Ah know a guy in Easterhoose but it’s no as good as that stuff wis.’ Donna sais.

‘Fuck gaun away up there man. Fuckin bandit country.’ ah sais.

‘Aye, fuck that. There’s goat tae be some other cunt we kin get it aff.’

‘Here, whit aboot that McNulty? That’s who McShane sais he works fur. Just go straight tae the source.’ ah sais, mindin ay him talkin aboot it at McDade’s party.

‘Aye! That’s the fuckin wan Daniel San,’ McDade sais, ‘How did ah no think ay that?’