Pond Scum: Boom-Fucking-Boom
by Steve Finbow
It has stopped. Seven weeks. Seven weeks. Banging. Drilling. Sawing. No clouds of dust. No clouds of woodchip. No swearing. No humming. No whistling. Nothing. Seven weeks. Builders below. Me? Slowly becoming insane. They’ve gone. Silence. Quietness. Peace. And it’s driving me mad. I can’t stand it. Can’t stand the tranquillity. Can’t stand the hush. Do you know what I miss most? The surge of anger. The blood pumping. The banging on the door. The mouth engaged. The heated exchanges. The spite. The spittle. The venom. The hate.
By Nicholas Allanach
He never smoked weed. He snorted coke. He snorted speed. He revved. He zoomed. He spat grenades. Weed was for fairies. Weed was for girls. Give him a toot. A line. A go. Roll him a lady. A tenner. A score. He feels it in his nostrils. Back of his throat. Acrid on his tongue. Give him a pint of Stella. A shot of Stoli. A can of Tennent’s Super. You can keep your pipes. Your joints. Your brownies. Chop one out. Slice one up. Rub your gums and listen.
Adrenalin: Having sex. Watching Liverpool football club. Drinking with friends. Listening to loud music. Arguing. Fighting. Reading books. Some books. Not in that order. Let’s go. One by one.
He slides his hand up her skirt. The denim brushes his knuckles. Her legs smooth against his palm. He listens to her breath. Listens to her breathe. Panting. Mouth open. Eyes – beautiful green eyes – half closed. Her skin twitches. Her skin trembles. Relaxes. His index finger traces the outline of her lips beneath the lace. He slips his middle finger under the elastic. In. Wet. Panting. Kisses her. Brings his finger up. Sucks it. Tastes her. Kisses her. Tastes him tasting her.
Carragher tackles. Passes to Finnan. Gerrard cuts left. Alonso right. Pennant makes a run. Finnan chips the ball. Pennant collects. Turns one player. Turns another. Gerrard calls for the ball. Pennant passes. Gerrard steps over. Gerrard plays in Bellamy. Bellamy dummies. Fowler. Left foot. Top right-hand corner. Goal!
There are five of us – Me, Gary, Brian, Paul, & Dean. Or there are three of us – Me, John, & Brendan. Or another three – Me, Mike, & Richard. Or two – Me & Lo. Or Kerrie. Or Kelly. Or Charlotte. Or Mary. Or Dec. Or Sarah. Or Vince. Or Vanessa. Or Fi. Or Candy. Or Hels. Or Mei. Talking. Drinking. Laughing. Gossiping. The buzz takes away the loneliness. Cuts it. Cauterizes it.
Before he goes out – before he goes to meet his friends – he plays Hawkwind. He plays Bowie. He plays Patti Smith. He plays the Ramones. He plays them loud. He annoys his neighbours. He doesn’t give a shit. Not now. Now he’s out and he’s singing, ‘Can’t get enough, and you know it’s righteous stuff,’ and he knows they are the wrong lyrics. And he doesn’t care.
Always: He jabs a finger at her over his three-seafood sizzler and lotus leaf special-fried rice. ‘You think you’re perfect.’ he says, ‘you think the sun shines out of your arse.’ A slither of vegetarian duck wobbles between mock-ivory chopsticks. ‘Call yourself a writer,’ she says, ‘all you do is spout clichés and swear.’ ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘well, you have obviously never read Henry Miller. You and your Jane fucking Austen and Kathy no-balls Acker.’ ‘There you go again,’ she says, ‘you always turn conversations around to who you have read, what you have done. You never talk about important things.’ Waiting for the first move, they both know that, without exchanging another word, they might make it through the night. He wants that Scotch. She hopes he won’t drink it. The next word is either the end or the beginning. The next word is covered in rust or diamonds. ‘Thanks,’ he says, as the waiter brings the Scotch. ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘Important like what?’ he asks. ‘If I have to tell you, you don’t know,’ she says. ‘More wine?’ The waiter asks. ‘No, I’ve had enough,’ he says. ‘Only joking. Fill her up.’ The waiter fills the glass. ‘No, thanks,’ she says. ‘May I have a glass of water?’ The waiter bows and leaves. ‘Do you have to drink?’ She asks. ‘Only when I’m with you,’ he says. He looks out of the window, the dark canal. Snow is falling, brief patterns on black water beneath. He hears a snowflake’s delicate plash. ‘You’re not listening,’ she says. He turns. The folded napkins annoy him, as do the flowers etched on the wine glass. ‘Your water, madam,’ the waiter says. ‘Thank you.’ ‘Hey, may I have a double Scotch?’ he says. ‘Yes, sir,’ the waiter says. ‘With ice.’ ‘If you drink that, I’m leaving,’ she says. ‘ I mean it,’ she says. He stares at her. Her elbows on the table. Her knuckles white. She waits. He smiles.
A bottle bounces off Paul’s head. ‘Come here, you bag of shit,’ he screams. I look to the left and see Brian swinging. I have some guy’s shirt collar in my fists. I am trying to headbutt him but he is bigger and stronger. He forces me to the floor. I feel kicks to my ribs. My head. I spit in his face. I bite down on his nose until I taste blood.
The Damned Utd by David Peace is undoubtedly the best book I have read in the last three years. As far as I can tell, it is unavailable in the USA. This is a shame. A fictionalization of the 44 days Brian Clough managed Leeds United football (soccer) club in 1974, its themes are revenge, greed, ambition, obsession, hate, love, bravery, stupidity, ego, aggression, misunderstanding, friendship… It is very funny, very sad, and very good. I could not put it down. It is no more about football (soccer) than Lolita is about pedophilia or J.M. Coetzee’s Disgrace is a campus novel. It is a superb and brave portrayal of a complex human being. The novel’s sentences and narrative structure are as tight and sharp as a razor clam. It caused my adrenalin to surge and it’s only just beginning to subside. Now, where’s that bloody Victoria when I need her? Oi, V? Oi!
Postcript: Next morning. 7am. 7-bloody-am. Builders. Banging. Drilling. Sawing. Coldplay on the radio. They are singing along to Coldplay. They are whistling along to Coldplay. Where is my cobra? My Stalin organs? My Kalashnikov? Where are my Israeli reservists? My Hezbollah fighters? Where is my rondel? My gudendag? My voulge?
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© 2006 Me Three
