An End to Stupit Questions
It wis aifter the TV caimeras left. That wis when it a’ went tae shite. They niver gied us any ay that media trainin’. Ye ken, the stuff they gie poash folk when they’re oan TV. The whit tae dae wi’ fans and thaim that want tae kill youse lessons. Whit tae dae when yir in Cornton Vale an’ ivery cunt hinks they ken yi, and hauf ay them fancy yir man. That kind ay trainin’.
Ah seen there wis this MP, poash cunt, goat the jail fir fiddlin’ his expenses. Aye, fiddlin’. That’s whit they cry it when rich folk rob the bru. Up here it’d be lying, cheatin’, an’ dole fraudin’, eh? Thievin’ scum an’ that. Onyway, Ah aye wunnert whit it’d be like fir him inside. If a’ his media trainin’ wid help or if it’d be worse fir the likes ay him, huvin’ tae go fae his life tae mine. A reckon worse.
See us here, we goat nuthin’ and nuthin’ tae lose neither. If Ah get the jail it’s just anither place. Ye get yer bed, food, TV, a fuckin’ pool table, man. And there’s nae cunt fae the social oan yir back aboot gettin’ a joab, or askin’ ye mair stupit questions, or sendin’ ye fir mair assessments. Wi’ him, it’s a downfall, innit? Mixin’ wi’ the likes ay us.
Me, ah hud wan wee taste ay his life, ay fame and gettin’ yir pus oan the TV, huvin’ yir voice heard. ‘A roar from the neglected underbelly of Scottish life.’ That’s whit wan ay they BBC suited cunts cried it. Aye, that’s whit we ur tae thaim – a neglectit unnerbelly. Mibbe even just fluff in its unnerbelly button.
It wis Big Gav whit pit thaim oan tae us. Big Gav who escaped. Goat himsel’ picked fir Rangers unner 18s, then fir the world cup team. His pus wis oan ivery magazine fir ages. Guid lookin’ lad Gav is. Then this lass fae the Herald is oan the estate, wanting tae ken hings, tae “unnerstaun” as she pit it.
Unnerstaun’ whaur he came fae an’ whit made him. It’s aye they kind ay words wi thaim intellectual types. They niver talk straight. They’ll niver just tell yi there’s a story there an’ they wantit fit their paper ‘cos it’ll sell. An’ Big Gav, aye, he hud a story.
As a wean he watched his aulder brother kill his Da. Aifter that he wis in haimes, in foster care, bidin’ wi’ aunts and uncles. He hud a poor time ay it as a wean, Big Gav. But he was ay oot their kickin’ his ba’, runnin’ aroon the estate fir hours oan end. An’ he made guid wi’ it; fair play tae him.
Nae wan oan the estate wis tellin’ her onything, yon lass fae the Herald. If yi want tae ken aboot…Ah mean, unnerstaun’…Big Gav, yi goan’ ask him, eh? But we’d say a’s aboot whaursels, nae bother there. So awa’ she goes an’ she writes aboot us. Aifter that, the caimeras come in an’ they want mair. They want tae make a “documentary”. An’ fir a month, there we were, being filmt a’ the time. In whaur hooses, in the street. It wis a mad time. A’ a sudden yi couldnae go oot but fir making sure yi’d washed yir hair and pit oan clean claithes.
Then they left.
And a’ the trouble stairtit.
It stairtit wi’ the McConnels. Jimmy McConnel, the Da, he’s this lard-ersed alky wi’ aboot a hunnert scars fae fights he’s bin in, maistly whit he stairtit himsel’. He just flipped wan day.
He’s oan the phone tae the social. Ah dinnae ken if yi’ve iver hud tae call the social. Ah’m talkin’ crisis loans here. If yi’ve iver hud tae dae it yi’ll ken whit a load ay pish they ask. Ken how long it takes tae get through tae speak tae onywan. Then the stuck up way they ask yi, ‘So what have you spent all your jobseekers allowance on?’ an’ how they want yi tae account fir ivery penny yi’v hud aff thaim, an’ explain how yi couldnae a’ budgetit better an’ how huvin’ nuthin’ left tae live oan is a “crisis”.
As it happened, wee Robert McConnell hud died that week. Twelve year auld he wis. Dinnae git me wrang, nae cunt likes the McConnells an’ fair few wid be sad tae see the back ay Robert. Four kids they huv, an’ ay runnin’ wild. Jimmy widdae drunk maist ay the bru money afore his wee laddie even died. But nae wan’d wish that oan ony cunt – the death ay a wean. Jimmy, he’d a’ been drinkin’ an’ greetin’ a’ day afore he callt the social. He telt the patronising burd oan the phone he an’ his faimly had tae travel tae the Royal Infirmary in Glasgow three days, fae when his wean wis oan life support, dyin’. An’ it’s no fuckin’ cheap, oan they trains and buses. He’d hud tae cadge an’ boarra aff friends an’ faimly us it were.
The daft bint couldnae dae nuthin’ but follow her script, the wan they follow whitever. Exactly what food do you have in the cupboard right now, Mr McConnell? What would happen were the social fund not to award you a £22.50 loan today? Eventually he telt her tae just get the fuck tae fuck and says, dae yi ken who Ah am yi daft bitch? Well she didnae, obviously, fir she’d be sittin’ in sum call centre in Bradford or Birmingham or fuckin’ Bombay, sumplace whaur they didnae git BBC Scoatland. An’ onyway, they’re probly no used tae gettin’ celerities phonin’ fir crisis loans. So she wisnae impressed.
But Jimmy, he hus this fire in his gut by then an’ he wants tae yell tae the world. He wants tae yell, wee Rab is died, ya cunts. He’s fuckin’ died. Aye that we lad wha’ looked like butter wouldnae melt but hud ASBOs an’ wis prood ay it. He’s died wi a fuckin’ knife in his ribs an’ he didnae deserve it, whitever he done. He wis fuckin’ twelve.
Only the caimeras were awa’ and folk like us, they dinae hae nae voice. That’s no real, a’ that reality stuff. It’s just a fantasy they sell youse.
Then there’s the funeral coasts. His wife, Jules wis oan at him aboot it as soon as he wis off the phone. Mair n’ twa grand it’d coast, tae bury the wean. The social’d pay, but no that much, nowhere near that much. They’d pay fir a cardboard box and basic funeral, but no whit the cunts doon the parlour were askin’. Jules widnae hae that fir her wean. She wantit floo’ers, cars, the faimly tae be there, thegither. It’s aboot the look ay it, eh? Onyhow, the social needs yi tae fill in mair forms, explain hows yi cannae pay fir yir ain wean’s funeral yirsel’. Wantin’ tae ken how yir such a waster yi cannae fin’ twa grand oot ay Goad’s thin air; wantin’ tae ken ivery last wee hing aboot yi an’ yir faimly so’s some suit in London can say whither yir wean deserves a funeral or no.
Jules says fuck that. I’d raither take anither loan aff the Provvy lass. She’ll be roun’ Saiturday onyway, fir the washin’ machine money.
The Provvy wummin, they dinnae ask how come yi need mair money, or how yi managed tae spend yir bru by Monday. The Provvy woman, she’d a’ kent a’ aboot Rab onyway. There’s thaim that unnerstain’ and thaim that dinnae. An’ thaim that make the money aff yi, they’re the wans that dae.
But Jimmy, his hied’s mad wi’ the McEwans an’ a’ the talk ay funerals and the social an’ that, he cannae cope wi’ it. It flips him. So he climbs up ontae the roof ay the flats. It’s no a small bloack, by the way: it’s fourteen fuckin’ stories. (If yi want tae ken aboot stories the way the media dae, it’s over a hunnert stories, fir there’s twenty-six flats in that bloack, maist ay thaim wi’ faimlies. But that’s anither story, or hunnert). So he’s oan the roof shoutin’ fir the fuckin’ caimeras tae come back, tae listen tae him, eh? Because he’s fucking Jimmy McConnell an’ he hus sumthin’ tae say, an’ he hus a fuckin’ story fir thaim. And he hus a spectacle fir their six o’ cloack news.
He hus a photy ay wee Robert in his haun’, an’ a funeral form fae the social, an’ a twa litre bottle ay White Lightening. An’ a can ay petrol an’ a lighter. He says, git the fuckers back here. Thaim cunts widnae want tae miss this show, wid they? No this wan.
A crowd’s gaithert below. Some ay thaim, maistly the weans an’ teenagers ur laughin’, sayin’ goan, dae it, dae it. Some ay the wummin an’ aulder blokes ur sayin’ dinnae…dinnae be sae daft. Git doon aff a’ there. But some ithiers, maistly the folk, who hud the experience, eh, that wee taste ay fame, they stairtit tae head up ‘n a’. So Ah went up wi’ them. It’s no sae easy, yi ken, tae gie it a’ up, a’ that bein’ heard. Like wan ay they dreams yi dinnae want tae wake up fae, so yi pull the bed claithes o’er yir hied again, try tae get back tae sleep. It wis like that: here we all are again, anither chance tae slip oot yir life an’ intae that ither world.
Listen tae me! Jimmy is yellin’. Fuckin’ listen.
This is the roar, Ah hink tae masel’. This is the roar, yi cunts, fae yir neglectit unnerbelly.
Jules is staunin’ unner the flats, holdin’ her youngest bairn in her airms. Screamin’, she is. Screamin’ git the fuck doon fae there yi daft bastart. Yir pisht.
Jerry, the schizo, is up wi’ us an’ all and he’s no right again. Probly aff the meds, mebbe hinkin’ he’s Hitler again an’ the doacters ur fuckin’ Jews tryin’ tae stoap his rise tae power, makin’ him take drugs tae calm him doon.
The Polis an’ the caimeras arrive aboot the same time an’ the folk wi’ yon caimeras an’ big fuzzy mics ur askin’, how did little Robert die? And How did Mr McConnell feel about his son’s death? And What do you think Mr McConnell wishes to achieve by his being on the roof this evening?
Like whit? Fuckin’ Jesus fucking Christ man. Wha pays these eejits? Ah’m hinkin’ they’re paid big bucks. But they come roun’ here, and dinnae even ken hoo it feels fir a man wha’s wean’s just been killt. They're worse than the social wi’ their daft questions an’ no unerrstaunin’ hings.
But ivery wan plays along, makin’ up shite tae keep thaim happy. Aye, he probly wants tae achieve the total overthrow ay caipitalism, an’ freedom fir Scoatlan’ fae English rule, an’ mibbe world peace while he’s at it, eh? Wha widdnae want thaim hings?
Mibbe he just wants an end tae stupit questions.
Then he goes an’ puir does it.
It a’ goes in slow motion, like in the movies. He pours petrol o’er himsel’ an’ afore ony wan can say dinnae, fir fuck sake…whoosht an’ he’s set himsel’ alight wi’ this lighter. An’ the tar oan the roof is meltin’ and folk below ur screamin’ an’ the smell is like barbeque an’ yi kin feel the heat in waves. And’ a’ ay us oan the roof ur runnin’ fir whaur lives, tryin’ tae git back doon.
The next day, it wis ma pus a’ o’er the front pages, along wi’ Jimmy’s. It wis ma quote they a’ ran wi’. Aye, Ah’ve goat ma ain quote noo, like a real famous cunt. This is the real roar, ah see masel’ holler fae that rooftap, just afore he goes up. This is the real roar fae yir neglectit unnerbelly.
Funny, Ah dinnae mind iver sayin’ it oot aloud. Ah thought ah said it tae masel’, just inside ma ain napper. Makes yi wunner whit else yi say oot loud when yi hink yir just hinkin’.
Ends
2035 words
First published, New Writing Scotland, 2012