David Peace - 1983

And in your dreams -

Your bellies slopping with tea and fishcakes in teacakes, chips and peas, you cross the Springs to the indoor market and the secondhand book stall, Gareth getting his weekly additions to his porn stash, you helping him choose, the woman behind the stall pointing out a few he’s missed, you treating him, it being his birthday, the rain streaming in through the roof, you wonder what the fuck will happen to this place when they finish the Ridings, Gareth with his secondhand porn in a brown paper bag, the readers’ wives with their plastic carrier bags, their umbrellas and their meat, kids under their feet.

In your dreams, you have wings -

Back out in the puddles of blood, past the fish stalls, the tripe and offal shop, up the side of the Fleece, behind the back of the Bullring, out opposite the bus station and into Tickles, just in time for the afternoon stripper and that first pint of the weekend, Gareth moaning about the plastic glasses, standing room only as Disco Ken cues up Billie Jean and out traipses Tina, all tassels and tits, telling half the room to fuck off and forking anyone she’s missed, no wink today for John Piggott, solicitor to the strippers and the deejays, the bar men and the bouncers, the spots on Tina’s back catching in the lights.

But all these wings in all your dreams -

Three pints later you’re next door in Hills between turns, waiting for the two-thirty from fuck-knows-where, out of cigs and hungry again, busting for another slash, an old bloke holding open an Evening Post and a photo of Hazel Atkins with the words Hazel: Police Arrest Local Man in Morley , big-black-bloody-type and doesn’t-look-so-bloody-good says Gareth and hanging-is-too-good-for-him agrees the old boy, your brain, your bladder and your belly contorted, screaming and howling, the old man smiling, nodding and blinking, his teeth yellow, stained and loose in his gums bloody, black, and sore.

Are huge and rotting things -

Fifth pint and two packets of beef and onion, Gareth wants a decent pint across the Bullring in the Strafford, you telling him to piss off cos he only wants to go in Ladbrokes and why doesn’t he anyway because you’re quite happy here watching the little stage, the mirror ball shining and Phil Collins playing over the empty dancefloor, waiting for Disco Ken to give it a bit of Too Shy which is Blonde Debbie’s song, quite looking forward to Debbie coming on, fit despite two kids and the plasters the brewery make her put over her tattoos.

The room red .

Back out in the rain again, ducking next door for the night’s cigs, forty of them to be going on with, telling Gaz you’ll see him at six down the Waterloo, half-past at the latest, but he’ll be in Clothiers opening time if you change your mind, and you wander over the Bullring to Greggs and buy a bag of pasties for your tea, corned beef and Cornish, then you walk back up to St John’s, past the Grammar School and on to Blenheim Road, the tarmac coated with thousands of pieces of broken glass from a shattered windscreen, some of them a deep, dark and bloody red.

You have dreams -

Quarter-past five and you’re soaking in Matey, a big Gordon’s on the edge of the bath, slice and ice, careful not to bloody nod off again, out and dressed, fingers full of green super-strength Boots hair gel, washing down the last of the pasties with another gin and tonic, out of slice and ice, feeling better already, putting on Rod and wondering if you shouldn’t wear kegs instead of jeans, fucking the money and calling Azads for a taxi down the Waterloo and the start of the Westgate Run, smelling your breath on the phone and cleaning your teeth again and again and again.

And in your dreams -

Gareth’s at the bar already, half-drunk Tetley’s in his hand, everyone else piling in right behind you: Sarn, Kelly, Daz, Hally, Foz, Dickie, and Mark the Fireman, across the room a group of lasses starting the run themselves, hen night, everyone laughing and joking and Gareth doing the honours: a spirit for everyone in first pub then the birthday boy doesn’t buy another drink all night, yours a Southern Comfort, but he knows that and there’s an old man at the bar in a white coat with a tray of whelks and you quietly check your shoes for dog-shit, your ears burning.

In your dreams, you have fears -

You are in the White Hart before the hen party, Gareth and Sarn playing arrows, Kelly telling jokes and taking piss out of Hally and Foz, same old stories getting funnier and dirtier as the weeks turn into months and the months into years, Daz dissecting Leeds’ season starting with Harvey back in Waterloo, now on to Thomas, Dickie stoned and half asleep and Mark the Fireman putting shit on the jukebox and getting the same in return, beer in the ashtray, beer on the table, beer on the seat, beer on the floor, Kelly reminding everyone of the time Foz shat in a girl’s handbag upstairs in Raffles.

But all your fears in all your dreams -

Waggon and Horses is dead and Kelly reckons you should slow down and wait for the hen party, saying that now because he has to meet Ange in the Elephant, but a bloke at the bar reckons there’s been a fight in Smith’s Arms and you think you should skip it and go straight to the Old Globe, but you end up supping up even faster which pisses off Mark the Fireman because he’s just put a load more bollocks on the jukebox, Whiter Shade of Pale for fucking starters, and someone drops a Tampax from fuck-knows-where in his pint to hurry him along, not that it’s used or stops him downing the pint in one.

Are islands lost in tears -

Landlord in Smith’s Arms says there was a few broken glasses was all, nothing he couldn’t handle, group of lads from Stanley on a Run, heard that Streethouse were coming into town looking for them, these lads fancying their chances but getting a bit edgy, few broken glasses was all, the hen party coming in, but your seal’s just gone and you’re stood staring at the bloody bogies wiped on the wall above the bog where someone’s written the Paunchy Cowboys and stuck up bits of bog roll everywhere with their own shit.

The room white .

Stopper and Norm are in the Old Globe and it’s half-seven already, the big old map of the world and pictures of ships which traditionally dictates a Captain Morgan’s followed by a Barley Wine and cider, Stopper shouting Ahoy! as his shipmates board, going on stoned about Captain Pugwash , the Black Pig and Master Bates, and you start on about The Flying Dutchman when you swear you hear Procul bloody Harem come on the sodding jukebox again but Hally says there isn’t a fucking jukebox you pissed fat legal cunt, never has been, not here.

You have dreams -

In Swan with Two you find the hen party again, better looking by the pint, specially one with the short brown hair who’s bound to be the bleeding fucking bride, not that she’d look at a fat cunt like you anyway, not that there’s a wedding ring in sight on any of them says Kelly, not that a ring means any-bloody-thing thinks Dickie, and she smiles as she goes to the bogs and tells Kelly to fuck off when he does his been-for-a-shit-darling routine as she comes out, her hair smelling of shampoo and smoke and you wonder if she did have a shit or just a piss, perched over the seat, not wanting to touch it.

And in your dreams -

Daz catches up with you in Henry Boons and he’s up to Hird now, the various crimes he should be shot or hung for, way he’s played this season, all Eddie Gray’s fault anyway, he picks the fucking team doesn’t he, fat bastard, no offence John, but everyone sups up quick, except Kel because Ange and her mates will be in Elephant which you think is good news because she’s got some nice mates has Ange, but you do have time for a swift one in Mid before Elephant, so you head up the back way past the Prison, everyone breaking into a chorus of Born Free as you go, everyone except you.