James Kelman - A Disaffection

I will come.

Well you’ll let me down if ye dont.

But I will.

After a moment Nicola said, Gavin’s telling me to tell you when’s the next game of table tennis?

Aw! Aye — christ.

He says there’s no to be any excuses this time for getting beat.

Ha ha ha.

You’ve just to give him a phone and arrange it. Alright?

Aye.

Any time’s fine for him.

Great, I’ll remember.

…

Okay then cheerio Nicola … and he shoved the receiver down, away from his ear. And there had been no chance of her saying anything further. There was nothing she could say anyway. Yet another impasse. Getting beyond it might have meant a total breakdown! An emotional collapse! Patrick smiled. But he did find it very difficult being honest with Nicola at times. This is because he found it so easy. And stick Gavin and the weans in alongside her and he found it impossible, the whole thing, sitting there with them all as a family group.

And them feeling sorry for him! Terrible — absolutely pathetic in fact. Imagine being pathetic. Imagine being regarded with pathos by your family! For fuck sake, wee brothers should not be pathetic they should be solid bastards, rocksteady; the backbone of the community, filling all these minor posts in the church and armed forces.

The Teaching Profession.

Yes, fuck it, the teaching profession fits that fucking bill nicely, exactly and very ably, a tight fit. Heraclitus would be proud of him. High time he entered politics in fact, the New Member for Glasgow Central, setting society to rights; jus dicere on behalf of The Royal Majestics. Or else fuck Heraclitus he could take to the streets and become an urban terrorist, an urban fighter for freedom. Who was stopping him. No bastard.

He was in the kitchen filling a kettle for coffee although coffees too late at night often stopped him from getting to sleep and probably the very last thing required tonight was not to get to sleep. But for christ sake he was knackered. Tonight had been absolutely shattering, everything about it — shattering. It would be no surprise if he wound up sleeping straight through till fucking one o’clock in the afternoon! He did have a can of Ovaltine right enough. Maybe that would send him to sleep. His maw swore by it. Imagine swearing by Ovaltine! Fuck you Ovaltine.

When Patrick was dead.

Woooosh woooosh! Woaa wooaa. Ssshhh for fuck sake ssshhh ya devil, ya fucking devil, ya devilish besom. Is that you Goya ya dark auld bastard, with that twinkle to your eyebrow! Look at them all dancing! Nobody could call it a dance! It’s a form of ritualistic stepping which must end in human sacrifice. See the faces! O fuck. O jesus christ you’re dead ya bastard.

evil

evil

evil

Patrick likes to run the faucet, the Northamerican tap. He turns the tap and dashes out the water. EEEevilLLL. Evil is as evil does right enough. Look at the auld tollie swallowing his son with such lipsmacking enjoyment! And yet it’s a kind of ornery enjoyment. A bit like what you’d expect from a cheery old boy who enjoys getting up to mischief, merry pranks and so on. One of these ancient bleery bastards with big red noses, the type that beautiful young lassies seem to like so much. But if somebody such as Patrick was to act in the same manner they’d all pounce on him and fucking tear him limb from limb, limb from limb.

Get out! Get out!

Tonight is a night for suicide but. Anybody would have to admit that I mean just let a psychiatrist appear on the scene with a sharp analysis of the driving. Had the client set out to crash bang wallop the motor? Did he set out to attain death? Was the opposite of self perpetuation the object of the exercise? The opposite of self perp

What about a prostitute? A prostitute was sensible. Surely a prostitute was sensible? If it came right down to it and he did really feel as low as all that and the notion that female company, that

Not all the pubs would be shut. Up the centre of the city they stayed open till later. Half eleven. He could go out the now and snatch a couple of pints no bother, and if he really was as lowly

Plus what he could do for example; a quick wash and shave and fresh clothes and then off up to a latenight disco, to just fucking try one for fuck sake nobody’s asking more that. But what about the depression never mind the depression the depressings. And it’s no as if people have got these mammoth expectations. Just to see you’re making an effort, that can be enough. It would be enough for Gavin and Nicola. So long as they know he isni fucking giving up. So long as they know he isni a fucking pathetic specimen I mean nothing’s worse than that, nothing, nothing is worse than that, nothing, nothing at all. Get the coffee made, and made strong to keep you alert, an indication of your intentions, that you intend doing something of an optimistic bent. And obviously a prostitute is nothing to be ashamed of; it is quite common-sensible — fairly rational, as a proposition, as propositions go for christ sake, at least rational ones. There is that aversion of course which is also fairly rational, to do with the imagery, of a succession of pricks. But so what? If she is clean? If they were clean? What possible difference could that be from the same one going in and out all the time? Apart from the obvious A.I.D.S.! Venereal disease for fuck sake anything!!

The temporary English teacher would be at home just now with the wife and the weans and the grannie. They would all be sitting in front of the telly, in the middle of a movie, The Wizard of Oz or The fucking Sound of Music, a tray full of various sandwiches, cakes and chocolate biscuit. Happy Families. The television is good for that sort of carry on, everybody being together without having to communicate conceptually. People have suggested Patrick buys a television. And he has been considering it. Televisions must be good for loneliness. When you are lonely you just go and switch it fucking on. Simple. Nothing to it. And then you just relax with your eyes staring straight at it. But it could put you off reading and listening to music and what Pat likes is playing music and reading books at the same time which is a bad habit maybe but very comforting. And comfort is important. He is not getting any fucking telly unless comfort is guaranteed. Do you guarantee comfort with your tellies? No! Then away and fucking fuck yourself Charlie!

Even discussion programmes on the radio, Patrick can listen to them while reading. Probably just for the company. To avoid the

gaps. It is gaps.

And what about the pipes?

Fuck the pipes. It was a weanish notion from the kick-off. He would simply discard them. A not uncommon occurrence. But is that really true? Well it seems to be, even although it is the sort of trait Patrick approves of and here he is having it himself for christ sake he isnt a total failure, what do you expect, everybody’s got at least one thing going for them. He was reading this short story recently and the guy in it tried suicide, hacked away at his throat for ages with some kind of fucking supposedly sharp-edged instrument though obviously it was blunt as fuck; the usual, suicide as a last-gasp action rather than a considered event, something you prepare for. How did young Werther accomplish the deed. It is a couple of years since Pat read the novel. And the parallels! Christ, he hadni even thought of that. Young lover on behalf of beautiful-but-not-to-be-got young lass. Had she been spoken for? Was she actually a married woman? Could that be true! Christ. Right: no suicide till you rush out and re-read the book!

So God is dead is he, well well well.

Where did that come from?

Hölderlin was once alone in the same room with auld Goethe but didni know who the fuck he was because he was only there to meet fucking Schiller and was so excited he wasnt able to concentrate! Amazing these coincidences in life. You could actually just be walking down the stairs and something totally amazing could happen to you. Such as? Away ye go.