James Kelman - Not Not While the Giro

Sucked my thumb to taste the nicotine. A salty sandish flavour. Perhaps not. In the good old days I could have raked the coal embers for cigarette ends. Wet pavements. I am in a bad way — even saying I am in a bad way. 3.30 in the afternoon this approximate Thursday. I have until Saturday morning to starve to death though I wont. I shall make it no bother. The postman comes at 8.20 — 7.50 on Saturdays but the bastarn postoffice opens not until 9.00 and often 9.05 though they deny it.

I refuse to remain here this evening. I will go beg in some pub where folk know me. In the past I have starved till the day before payday then tapped a handful on the strength of it and. . christ in the early days I got a tenner once or twice and blew the lot and by the time I had repayed this and reached the Saturday late night I was left with thirty bob to get me through the rest of the week ie. the following 7 days. Bad bad. Waking in the morning and trying to slip back into slumber blotting out the harsh truth but it never works and there you are wide awake and aware and jesus it is bad. Suicide can be contemplated. Alright. I might have contemplated it. Or maybe I only imagined it, I mean seriously considered it. Or even simply and without the seriously. In other words I didnt contemplate suicide at all. I probably regarded the circumstances as being ideal. Yet in my opinion

No more of this shite. But borrowing large sums knowing they have to be repaid and the effects etc must have something to do with the deathwish. I refuse to discuss it. A naive position. And how could I starve to death in two days, particularly having recently lunched upon oxtail soup. People last for weeks so long as water is available.

Why am I against action. I was late to sign-on this morning though prepared for hours beforehand. Waken early these days or sometimes late. If I had ten pence I would enter supermarkets and steal flat items. And talking about water I can make tea, one cup of which gives the idea if not the sustenance of soup because of the tea bag’s encrustation viz crumbs of old food, oose, hair, dandruff and dust. Maybe the new girl shall come borrow sugar from me. And then what will transpire. If

Had to go for a slash there and action: the thing being held between middle finger and thumb with the index slightly bent at the first joint so that the outside, including the nail, lay along it; a pleasant, natural grip. If I had held the index a fraction more bent I would have soaked the linoleum to the side of the pot. And the crux is of course that the act is natural. I have never set out to pish in that manner. It simply happens. Everyman the same I suppose with minute adjustments here and there according to differing chopper measurements. Yet surely the length of finger will vary in relation. Logical thought at last. Coherence is attainable as far as the learned Hamish Smith of Esher Suffolk would have us believe. I am no Englishman. I am for nationalization on a national scale and if you are a smalltrader well

No point journeying forth before opening time.

It is possible I might eat with the neighbours as a last resort and perhaps watch television although in view of the oxtail soup a deal to hope for. But I would far rather be abroad in a tavern in earnest conversation with keen people over the state of nations, and I vow to listen. No day dreaming or vacant gazing right hand up and honest to god. Nor shall I inadvertently yawn hugely. But my condition is such company is imperative. I can no longer remain with myself. And that includes Percy, Greta and the infant, let us say Gloria — all three of whom I shall term the Nulties. The Nulties are a brave little unit gallantly making their way through a harsh uncaring world. They married in late life and having endeavoured for a little one were overwhelmed by their success. The infant Gloria is considered not a bad looking child though personally her looks dont appeal. She has a very tiny nose, pointed ears, receding hair. Also she shits over much. Mainly diarrhoea that has an amazingly syrupy smell. Like many mothers Greta doesnt always realise the smell exists while on the other hand is absolutely aware so that she begins apologising left right and centre. Yet if everybody resembles me no wonder she forgets the bastarn smell because I for the sake of decency am liable to reply: What smell?

Greta is a busy mum with scarce the time for outside interests. There is nothing or perhaps a lot to say about Percy but it is hell of a boring. The point is that one of these days he shall awaken to an empty house. The woman will have upped and gone and with any sense will have neglected to uplift the infant. Trouble with many mothers is their falling for the propaganda dished out concerning them ie. and their offspring — Woman’s Own magazines and that kind of shite. Most men fall for it too. But I am being sidetracked by gibberish. No, I fail to fit into their cosy scene for various reasons the most obvious of which is 3’s a crowd and that’s that for the time being.

But dear god I cannot eat with them tonight. They skimp on grub. One Saturday (and the straits must have been beyond desperation if Saturday it truly was) they sat me down and we set to on a plate of toast and tinned spaghetti. For the evening repast! My christ. But what I said was, Toast and spaghetti, great stuff. Now how can I tell such untruths and is it any wonder that I’m fucking languishing. No, definitely not. I deserve all of it. Imitation tomato sauce on my chin. And after the meal we turn to the telly over a digestive smoke and pitcher of coffee essence & recently boiled water; and gape our way to the Late Weather. I could make the poor old Nulties even worse by saying they stand for God Save The Queen Of The Great English Speakers but they dont to my knowledge — it is possible they wait till I have departed upstairs.

I have no wish to continue a life of the Nulties.

Something must be done. A decisive course of action. Tramping around pubs in the offchance of bumping into wealthy acquaintances is a depressing affair. And as far as I remember none of mine are wealthy and even then it is never a doddle to beg from acquaintances — hard enough with friends. Of which I no longer have. No fucking wonder. But old friends I no longer see can no longer be termed friends and since they are obliged to be something I describe them as acquaintances. In fact every last individual I recollect at a given moment is logically entitled to be termed acquaintance. And yet

Why the lies. concerning the tapping of a few bob; I find it easy. Never in the least embarrassed though occasionally I have recourse to the expression of such in order to be adduced ethical or something. I am a natural born beggar. Yes. Honest. A natural born beggar. I should take permanently to the road. The pubs I tramp are those used by former colleagues, fellow employees of the many firms which have in the past employed me for mutual profit. My christ. Only when skint and totally out of the game do I consider the tramp. Yet apparently my company is not anathema. Eccentric but not unlikeable. A healthy respect is perhaps accorded one. Untrue. I am treated in the manner of a sick younger brother. It is my absolute lack of interest in any subject that may arise in their conversation that appeals to them. I dislike debates, confessions and New Year resolutions. I answer only in monosyllables, even when women are present: Still Waters Run Deep is the adage I expect them to use of me. But there are no grounds for complaint. Neither from them nor from me. All I ask is the free bevy, the smoke, the heat. It could embarrass somebody less sensitive than myself. What was that. No, there are weightier problems. The bathwater has been running. Is the new girl about to dip a daintily naked toe. Maybe it is Mrs Soinson. Or Greta. And the infant Gloria. And Percy by christ. But no, Percy showers in the work to save the ten pence meter money. Petty petty petty. I dont bathe at all. I have what might be described as an allover-bodywash here in the kitchenette sink. I do every part of my surface bar certain sections of my lower to middle back which are impossible to reach without one of those long stemmed brushes I often saw years ago in amazing American Movies.