So I'm Kenneth. I'm currently back at home, freeloading off my parents and generally sitting in front of my computer in my vast acres of spare time. What I post here is often the result of that spare time.
I only ever post very rough first drafts of what I'm working on because I really like the idea of them existing somewhere other than just my hard-drive in raw form.
Catching Elephant is a theme by Andy Taylor
wasted youth on the M8
The other side of the couch never seemed so far away, so out of reach.
The other side of the couch never seemed like another country.
Night Out
Davis is outside, smoking. Ridiculous. He doesn’t even smoke.
He got talking to this girl earlier. Blonde, kind of chunky but well on his level. She was with a group of mates so normal wingman duties didn’t apply — they kept themselves busy. No-one to keep me entertained though. I just stood there like a tool, wishing I was anywhere except The-fucking-Garage.
So aye, this girl says to him - I’m going for a fag, you coming? And he’s all like - Aye, sound. ‘Sound’? Who the fuck says ‘sound’ any more? Anyway, he turns to me all pleading like and I just kind of shrug like I don’t care. I care a bit, but the poor bastard hasn’t had a shag in six months and I’m not getting in his way.
I’m also not going outside. It’s pissing it down and that smoking shelter they’ve built out there doesn’t deserve the name. Who the hell builds a gazebo on Sauchiehall Street?
While he stands out there choking in an attempt to impress this bird and being glared at by her pals, I stand on my own at the top of the steps. Good view of both the bar and the cloakroom and plenty of traffic flowing past for perving. There’s a few girls in here I like, there always are at The-fucking-Garage, but as is always the case with The-fucking-Garage they all look about twelve years old.
A lot of guys I know take the opinion “if it’s legal, it’s OK”. Hell, a few guys I know are of the opinion “if the stewards let them in it’s not my fault”. Yeah, tell that to the psycho cell-mate who has it in for paedos. I won’t even go for a girl younger than twenty any more. Seriously, I’ve been known to ID girls before I even begin to properly try it on with them. They find it funny.
This girl I used to know, Lesley, walks up to the bar. I used to work with her in Sea (yeah, I worked in Sea, I know). The girl’s a bit of a ned, but she’s alright like. One of the nicer folk in that place. There’s a cuteness to her, but you need to look for it. I probably would if I’d had more to drink.
She sees me and I get that weird look of recognition. You know the one of “do I know you?”. Normally I ignore them and folk decide that they don’t in fact know me, but I was looking her way this time so there wasn’t much hope of getting out of it. I give her a wee wave and a smile.
She considers me for a moment and then, in lieu of returning either the wave or the smile, she instead turns to her friends, says something and they all burst out laughing. I don’t actually hear the laughter, the music is too loud, but the fact they are all practically doubled over kind of gives the game away.
After that they keep their backs turned and I have to stand there, painfully waiting for Davis to return, purely because I don’t want it to look like I wandered off in humiliation.
I knew I should have stayed at home tonight.
The Night Bus
It’s just before five in the morning and the bus is driving into the sun.
We’ve been driving for about forty-five minutes now, but it hasn’t calmed the folks up the back any. Too wired to be tired. They’re singing that Cockney Rebel tune — the one whose name I can’t remember: “Come up and see me…”. That one. They don’t all know the words though. One guy seems to. The rest join in anyway. None of them seem to care.
They’re cutting right the fuck through my skull though.
It’s been one of those nights. One of those amazing nights. One of those nights where you go out with friends and you start on the pints, then you move to a club and start downing the Jack and then someone hands you a Jaegerbomb and then you’re on the dancefloor and you’re pure bouncing and then you’re at the bar and you’re talking to some girl and then you’re pulling and then you’re in love. Truly, madly, deeply, all, the, other, fucking, clichés, in, love.
‘Til closing time and then she ditches you and you trundle, heartbroken and alone, onto the night bus.
I used to love pulling girls. I always saw the night as a failure if I didn’t and a raging success when I did. But it’s got emptier as I’ve got older. Now the lack of self-control that leads to it and the crushing on-my-ownliness that it results in feels like the failure.
Up the back of the bus they’ve changed the song. I don’t know the new one. We’ve driven closer to the light.
I’m not sure if things changed with me with age or with experience. They’re not really the same. Younger folk than me have more experience. If I hadn’t been such a fanny with girls when I was a teenager I’d probably have been jaded sooner.
My phone buzzes. I check the screen and a mis-spelled name pops up. In my drunken haze I must have got her phone number. I smile to myself and tap back a reply.
We’ll text all day tomorrow. And we’ll never see each other again.
The bus stops and the singers get off. I go from being irritated with them to feeling sorry for them. Here they are getting off and we haven’t even reached the light yet.
