I’m delighted to have this story in issue #2 of Spinners

Saturday dinnertime. Got the 22 up Shields Road, back along the Fossway, towards Daisy Hill. Just came off nights. Long weekend ahead. Decided on a bit care in the community, so I did the Morrisons thing, getting some messages in for Unpopular Fat Simon. A full Dickson’s breakfast should sort him out. Fact is, you can’t trust him to go anywhere by himself, as any trip to the shops always ends up in a pointless pagga with some random who accidentally bumps trolleys, or a bloke just aimlessly hanging around the street corner, minding his own business, but who ends up on the rough side of the Fat Cunt’s tongue for allegedly being in his road when he’s striking out in the direction of The Raby for a pint. Or loads of pints, generally. And maybe a go on the afternoon karaoke, which has always got the potential for a wild west saloon style barney if the racing is on.  

Gone are the days when Si could intimidate you with his firm, little body. Bloke’s an enfeebled sensualist now, and he honks like a care home laundry basket. He won’t look after himself. Refuses to. Never eats properly. Won’t take his medication. Ignores every letter that drops on the mat. Self-harm in the slow lane. Liquid cosh three times a day.  You wouldn’t believe he used to be one of the 50 hardest blokes in NE6. Fact is, his life’s turned into one long piece of confusing performance art, whether or not he’s been on the peeve.

Even when he’s not unaccompanied, the threat of bother is always there. Had the dispensing pharmacist by the throat in Boots when we went to get his laxative prescription on his birthday the other month. Took me half an hour to diffuse the situation, obviating the need for any intervention by Northumbria’s finest. That was it for me. Told the cunt in no uncertain terms that I’m happy to get some bits in for him on a regular basis, but it’s at a convenient time for me and I’m doing it alone. Otherwise, he can go solo and, more often than not, end up in Clifford Street nick overnight for scrapping or some other public order offence. Many’s the time they’re let him out first thing of a Wednesday with No Further Action and a bag full of defrosted Cornettos and crushed up plate pies to show for his social expeditions, pushing him in the direction of The Butchers or The Grace for opening.

Never more than 10 seconds away from a volcanic temper explosion with that cunt. Mind, he was in decent fettle this morning when I called round. Back door wide open as per usual and he’s snoring and farting on the sofa. Probably been there all night. No sign of post-bevvy detritus, which is a good thing. When he’s been properly at it, place looks like Glastonbury after the festival. Room stunk like. And not in a good way. Thought about waking him with a cuppa, but there’s no milk. Standard. Gently spoke to him, to no response, so shouted the cunt awake. No hangover meant a reasonable mood for him. He’d even written a shopping list on the back of a red Gas bill, with one of those shite little pens he’d chored from the bookies.

Last thing he said, stood on the back path and roaring, was don’t forget the cauliflower. DON’T FORGET THE FUCKING CAULIFLOWER!! That’s one of the reasons why I’d turned up with a small coin bag of rapidly defrosting garden peas in my outside pocket. He needs more fruit and veg in his diet. Read an article in Take A Break at the doctor’s the other week that reckoned fresh produce lowers levels of aggression. Hormones or something. Ding dinged them for a minute in his fucking filthy microwave and he swallowed the lot, cutting his chances of developing scurvy while I’m at the shops.

So, as I say, job done and I’m on the 22. Middle of the back seat. A couple of groaning bags for life. Full of beige ready meals, with the odd item of fresh, green goodness shoved between my legs. White head of the cauliflower popping out the top of one of them like an enormous, pale bell end. Far as I could make out, me and the driver were the only cunts downstairs who weren’t on PIP. Seats all taken by weak, insignificant men like Ginger Olly and Specky Kev, both nervously avoiding eye contact. I’ve seen their sort. Making furtive peeks at thronged Primary School playgrounds through dirty, smeared windows.  

I can remember when I was a young’un, you’d pay your fare and race up the stairs sharpish to get the front seats. The view added to the anticipation about where you were going and the excitement of the journey to reach that particular fucking destination. Not now like. You can never see fuck all on the top deck these days. Cloud of fucking vape fumes from the bairns, nicking off school and that. Or excluded for being radge cunts. Clouds of exhaled gunk drifting downstairs and making the place smell like an Opal Fruits factory.

Seems like no fucker ever pays on the bus any more. Every cunt has a free pass because they’re old, or a cripple or a heed the ball. Simon’s all 3 but would he loan me his free pass? Would he fuck. Tight cunt. I paid me £2 fare, which I’ll be adding to his bill by the way. Cash like, which seemed to fuck the driver off for some reason, the moaning cunt and I’m thinking: listen pal, me and you are the only fuckers on here still grafting for a living. We should be allies against all these thieving toerags, bag heads and COPD dossers.  Didn’t say owt though. No point in getting stuck in with anyone this early, so I took a seat, feeling like an Ubermensch Dromedary among a herd of Bactrians with limited capacity for work and work-related activities, heading down The Fossway towards home.  Walker. That scenic fishing village on the north bank of the Tyne. The only place I know where people complain that their life expectancy is going up.

Wife across the aisle and down one has got teeth like a burnt fence. She’s telling her mate in front, who’s got a really funny shaped head, how she’s got this Alsatian called Kaiser, bequeathed by her daughter who’s always loved Germans when she moved to Hamburg with this bloke she met on the internet. Now the dog is getting all lonely and out of control. Went for the kebab delivery bloke the other night, so she’s going to abandon it in Wallsend shops as it’s cheaper than having it put down and she’s worried about getting banned from Bella Napoli. Understand her point like.

Go past the pitches at Miller’s Dene. About an hour to kick off. Old Davey Thompson still devoted to the beautiful game. Pumping the balls up. Nets are hung and the corner flags are out. East End home to Wideopen. Should be a canny game. Well, that’s my afternoon sorted. Might even take the Unpopular One for a breath of fresh air. Although, that way lies danger. If he doesn’t start some mither with the opposition subs or officials, he’s sure to kick off in the bar afterwards if there’s too many about or too much noise. Or both. Sensory overload apparently.

I ring the bell as the driver takes the Stotts Road roundabout like it’s an out take from the Dukes of Hazzard. Sends the cauliflower spinning down the aisle like a malnourished bowling ball. Cunt. Wait until it stops. Retrieve the damaged brassica from under an empty seat.  Inch down the bus and get off without thanking the fucker. It’s his job after all. Miserable twat. Wander back down to Si’s.

This area man. Looks like a film set for one of those dramas set in early 70s Belfast, but with different graffiti. Good thing is it hasn’t gone down the pan. It was always a shit hole. There’s photos in the Discovery Museum in town of it getting built just after the war and there’s knee high grass and shite all over the roads back then. It probably suits Si’s demeanour to call a residential landfill site combined with a scrapyard his home.

Back door’s open and there’s noises from upstairs. Snuffling. Murmuring. Clearing his throat. Gone for an afternoon nap to top up his lie in. Lazy cunt. I don’t bother to wake the idle fucker. Unpack the shopping. Put it away as best I can. There’s never fuck all in his cupboards except drink. Well, that’s changed for a few days at least.  No sign of a vegetable drawer in the fridge, which is basically full of cans anyway. Have to leave the fucking cauliflower on the draining board. Staring back into the sitting room like an eyeless, severed head. At least he’ll know I didn’t forget it.

Nearly kick off. I head out the back and shut the door behind me. Fancy a 3-1 home win and then a few pints.