issue 34
december 2007
So, yet another year prepares to bite the dust and what have YOU achieved? Like the rest of us, probably SOD ALL. We're all FAR too busy viewing fresh tales of horror on the "git box" (� Charlie Brooker) or pushing trollies around dreary supermarkets just like all the OTHER nose-bag guzzlers or working in SHIT jobs we HATE. Never mind, though, for HY! is here to hold your hand and guide you through this season of grotty grottos and festering mounds of tinsel and tat, each word honed to perfection by our expert team of "freaks, faggots, drunks and junkies" (� GG Allin) - namely Mark Ritchie and Gary Simmons. That�s them there, LOOK! SUCH desirable beasts, I�m SURE you will agree. Photo by Maggie Ponce. Experience the thrills of Santa�s bulging sack at www.geocities.com/hiroshimayeah
FIVE O�CLOCK SHADOWS
They fall from the sky fully formed,
in neatly pressed suits
and Ralph Lauren aftershave,
bellies bloated with business breakfasts
and stale motorway dust.
The sharpness of shame is far away,
their world bright
with conference calls and hollow luck.
Perhaps their lives are blessed,
perhaps they will inherit the earth
with its Sunday supplement dreams
and vacant, pallid morals.
Or perhaps they will fall back into the sky
or crawl beneath the rocks
from which the rest of us emerged.
NOVEMBER
Hoods up hard against the icy chill,
we walk home from school,
leaves crunching beneath our boots,
clouds hovering like witches
in the charcoal grey light.
Plastic bag dragons
tangled up in skeletal branches,
pumpkins rotting in gutters:
all around, this autumn�s sombre ache.
Back at the house,
we pause before going inside,
frosting up the window with our breath,
faces eager and hungry against the glass.
We catch sight of our reflections
but don�t recognise ourselves.
21.12.02
To whom it may concern,
I wonder if you felt guilt
when you knocked me over with your car,
if you were high on drugs or drink
or simply not paying attention to the road,
full of Christmas cheer.
I wonder if you scanned the weekend newspapers
to see if you�d killed me.
I wonder if that�s what death is like,
that blank space
between the warmth of loose drunken chatter
and coming to in the gutter,
crumpled and bleeding,
looking up into a stranger�s face
with all the dazed wonder
of a newborn child.
ADVICE
Wait for the booze to hit
then go.
Let the words flow fast and hot
like a good dump,
like puke.
It feels better to get it out.
Don't stop to think of pain,
fear or embarrassment.
Critical assessments don't matter.
There is no audience
except the page and the pen,
the blank wall in front
and the bad dreams behind.
Keep it moving fast and free
as a train,
like you're being chased again
by mirthless, feral boys
desperate to taint you with their cold karma.
Feel the bliss of uniqueness
flood your heart.
Forget Lou Reed,
forget Patti Smith
and all those other burnt-out husks
who are bored bored bored
like the sun.
13.7 BILLION YEARS OF HELL
Selected Dispatches from an Unwilling Player of God�s Little Game
By Gary Simmons
I have a fuckin� cold, pro-bob-lee from walking halfway across the East of London t�other drunken night. Hope you don�t catch my diseases from this paper. Don�t wear long sleeves, cuffs are full of GERMS, it stands to reason and should be treated as treason, why wait for NEXT season? My wrist still aches, as does my back, my neck and my heart, longing for poocherama little blondie on my fantasy island. I�m stayin� in BED today. OK, I feel guilty but, you know, think of all the creatures, from microscopic amoeba three billion years ago right up to US fuckin� idiots NOW, who had colds and stayed in bed� What DIFFERENCE did it make to THEM compared with their get-out-of-bed contemporaries?? They all got fuckin� FOSSILISED in thee end. So, Happy Fossilisation Day.
*
Whilst waitin� for a bus in Scamden, I was �talking� to some �Paki� cunts and they asked if I had a motorbike coz I was wearing my MOTORBIKE BOOTS (not my usual Docs). I said �No�. I was told that I �shouldn�t be wearing them, then�!!!! THIS is that I have to deal with, every fuckin� day, every fuckin� minute, every fuckin� HOUR!!!! Three million fuckin� YEARS of fuckin� EVO-fuckin�-LOO-cunting-SHON, year 2007 and THIS is it, THIS is why I watched �Dr. Who�, �Fireball XL5�, �Stingray�, �Thunderbirds�, �Lost in Space�, �Time Slip�, �UFO�, �Tomorrow�s World�, �Time Tunnel�, �2001�, the Mercury, Gemini and Apollo programs, the Space Transportation System� I�d give UP! But I CAN�T. I�ve got more brains in one of my SPUNK-TADPOLES than these FUCKS have in their entire fuckin� SKULLS!! I just don�t get it!! I doe-nut fuckin� GET it?!?! Do YOU get it?!?! Well, IF you get it� WHY DON�T YOU FUCKIN� TELL ME WHAT IT IS THEN?!?! �YOU WANKERS!!!!� (� Whitehouse)
*
All is quiet. The swoosh of a few passing cars and a distant East-London-outskirts-murder-and-mayhem-siren wails in thee dissss-TANCE! I hear a bit of tinnitus. It�s warm. I�m wearing black knickers and nothing else. I�m �farting like a flea� (� Derek and Clive). I hope there ARE aliens in the Arctic and I hope they DO �reach the surface� and fuck-over mankind. Why not? They�re CUTE!!
GEROGARY'S PLAY-LIST IS UNWELL
MUSIC
MICRODISNEY � EVERYTHING IS FANTASTIC/WE HATE YOU SOUTH AFRICAN BASTARDS/THE CLOCK COMES DOWN THE STAIRS (ROUGH TRADE)
My Cathal Coughlan obsession continues, so it�s hurtling back into the 1980s we go, with three classic Microdisney albums that I TOTALLY IGNORED at the time. Blame the ignorance of youth, blame my teenage Smiths infatuation, blame the music press, blame Thatcher� Yeah, let�s blame THAT bitch. For EVERYTHING. These albums, from 1984-85, are ALIVE with finely woven tapestries of guitar from Sean O�Hagan, Cathal�s richly Corked crooning and treasurable, relatable lines like �as I lie alone in the dark, miles from the noise and talk, I�m reborn� and �watch the dawn in sick amazement�. These albums also contain the PERFECT blend of wit, anger, sarcasm and good old-fashioned JOY as well as song titles which would make Lawrence-out-of-that-band-Felt swoon (�Escalator in the Rain�, �Come on Over and Cry�, �Helicopter of the Holy Ghost�, �Patrick Moore Says You Can�t Sleep Here�, etc).
THE FATIMA MANSIONS � LOST IN THE FORMER WEST (KITCHENWARE)
Those �in the know� will tell you that the best Fatima Mansions album was 1991�s �Viva Dead Ponies� (which is no doubt why it was recently reissued). Well, guess what? Those �in the know� are WRONG as USUAL. ��Ponies� DOES contain a dung-load of fine songs but the layers of keyboards and short, designed-to-annoy instrumental snippets make it a rather jittery listening experience. The other three Mansions� albums are much more satisfying and this, their 1994 swansong, is perhaps the very best of all. Why? Maybe because there are fewer keyboards and more queasily churning heavy-riffed guitars or maybe because it contains amazing songs like �Belong Nowhere�, �The Loyaliser�, �Popemobile to Paraguay� and �Walk Yr. Way� (and THOSE are just the first four tracks!) or maybe because it has Cathal spitting out lyrics like �always know your worth as you roam the mirthless earth: You're dirt! DIRT!� and "an assassin's bullet which has lodged in my neck picks up Radio Kabul and it bores me to death/NOTHING, NOTHING, NOTHING IS TRUE" or maybe because so much of it just totally fucking ROCKS... It could be ALL of those things and MORE. All I know is that I�ve been listening to this album a LOT lately along with my bought-at-the-time-so-why-it�s-taken-me-so-long-to-hear-the-album-I-don�t-know �Loyaliser� cassingle which also contains the brilliant B-sides �Gary Numan�s Porsche� and �Arnie�s Five�.
CATHAL COUGHLAN - GRAND NECROPOLITAN (KITCHENWARE)
�Cos I don�t have FIFTY QUID to splash out on the original from Amazon, this CD-R copy of CC�s first solo offering (from 1996) will just have to do. Stylistically, it mixes elements of his previous Microdisney/Fatima Mansions records with a more mature outlook (though PLEASE don�t think that, when I use the word �mature�, I mean �boring�). The lovely ballads like �Unbroken Ones� and �The Big Lukewarm� are even LOVELIER than we�d come to expect - they�re more world-weary, resigned � and the pop/rock moments still thrill and kill with TUNES and lyrics of such calibre as "you'll all be starving when your hair is white, unless you're lucky or you end your life" and �alcohol doesn�t heal sadness, it just puts it out of focus�, a line from �Eerin Go Braghag� which is like an old �Twilight Zone� episode set to music. Oh, I dunno, this all feels rather futile, actually. If you want to HEAR any of this stuff rather than READ about it, either download it on your mega-posh PC/laptop or send me a good old-fashioned TAPE and I�ll do you a compilation. You WON�T be hearing any of this played in your local Sainsbury�s anytime soon.
THE WALKABOUTS � ENDED UP A STRANGER (GLITTERHOUSE)
This lot have released about a zillion albums and, although I only ever hear the ones that other people give away/flog to second-hand shops, it�s always nice when I DO because The Walkabouts are one of those bands who give you a warm brandy glow inside with their sad, sleepy tunes of bruised drama. On this album, they add a few modern beats to their usual Tindersticksey stew of swooning strings and twangy guitars. Carla Torgerson has the bruised croon which graces such instant classics as �Lazarus Heart� and �Fallen Down Moon� and Chris Eckman delivers the deep-throated goods on songs like �Life: The Movie� and the brilliant title track, but when the pair harmonise on �Winslow Place� it�s just SO sublime that the �repeat� button DEMANDS to be pressed as you slip into an hour or more of dusty, dreamy bliss.
VARIOUS � BULLSHIT DETECTOR (CRASS)
From the sublime to� Well, I WAS rather ASKING for this after my glowing review of that anarcho-punk book last issue, and BOY, did I GET it! Here we have bands with names like Frenzy Battalion and Counter Attack and Red Alert doing songs called things like �Thalidomide� and �Napalm� and most of it sounds like it was recorded in a garden shed and lots of the bands sound EXACTLY THE SAME and I KNOW it�s from 1980 and most of these folk are probably stockbrokers now, complete with horrible little brats running round vandalising everything in sight, and you probably had to BE THERE and I WASN�T but I�d MUCH rather listen to some Beat Happening or Vaselines or Huggy Bear if I ever found myself in the mood for endearingly badly-played stuff. (That new book on Riot Grrrl looks good, doesn�t it?!) There ARE some quite-good tracks here (�Cancer� by Icon is GREAT) but others, especially those by Andy T, Fuck the C.I.A. and Action Frogs, are SO bad that they HAVE to be a JOKE.
RYAN ADAMS & THE CARDINALS � EVERYBODY KNOWS EP (LOST HIGHWAY)
More of a mini-album than an EP (there are EIGHT generous tracks on it), this includes a �cut� from the recent, brilliant �Easy Tiger� (see HY!#29 for review) as well as three gorgeous, pedal-steely new songs, �Follow the Lights�, �My Love for You Is Real� and �Blue Hotel� (NOT a Chris Isaak cover, though there�d be nothing wrong if it WAS). Then there�s �Down in a Hole�, which sounds like a cross between an old Appalachian ballad and �Killing Me Softly� but is actually an ALICE IN CHAINS song! There are also stunning Cardinalisations of three of Ryan�s older tunes. Quality! Nice cover too.
INTRAVENOUS IN FURS � HEAVY LEATHER PARTS 1 & 2 (SMITH RESEARCH)
Here�s a rather disturbing CD-R from the manky underbum of Blackpool. The first track is a stoned, spacey jam with Simon Ceramic Hob spouting semi-comprehensible gubbins over the top, including references to the F.B.I and Social Services. But what REALLY made this an eerie listen were the repeated mentions of murdered schoolgirl Milly Dowling, along with the bizarre, scrawled sleevenotes, moors murderers cover collage and news footage of police digging up the bodies of long-dead teenagers from a garden in Margate. Admittedly, that last part had nothing to do with this CD � it just happened to be on TV when I was listening to it - but it seemed APT, somehow. Track two is a queasy sound collage of slowed-down news reports on a recent high-profile child disappearance, recited poetry, strange chanting, porny gaspings and other weird shit. It gets pretty noisy towards the end. I have NO IDEA what was going through the minds of the people who made this and can only be GRATEFUL for that.
GIGS
MARK KOZELEK � ORAN MOR, GLASGOW, 31ST OCTOBER 2007
Got up at around 8.45am or SOMETHING like that. Heard James talking in the hall and saying that he�d recently been in hospital for ten days with pancreatitis. When I left the flat, I had a posh crap in Oran Mor, looked in Oxfam Music, walked into town, bought �Uncut� for the Neil Young feature and tribute CD, had coffee and breakfast in the Edward Wylie, looked in Missing (which was full of tossers as USUAL), read the first 20 pages of a Henry Rollins book/diary in Waterstones, looked in Virgin and HMV and observed a massive queue outside Tam Shepherd�s Trick Shop (because it was Halloween, presumably). Then I went to the Old Printworks for a �1.50 pint of Velvet and a read of �Metro�, sitting in a booth. Looked at the NME in Borders then went for a Real McCoy ale in the John Moore. A table of Welshmen sat nearby. Got some reduced spring-rolls from Sainsbury�s then had a pint of �1.50 Miller in the Cellars then a pint of �1.50 cider in Nico�s. Ate a couple of spring-rolls standing on a bridge overlooking a motorway then went to the Captains Rest for a pint of John Smiths. The disinterested barman had his girlfriend to distract him tonight. He doesn�t GIVE a shit! Then I got a bottle of Blackthorn cider and walked back, had a shit and dumped my bag before heading out again. Had a pint of cider in Curlers as some video channel played REM, Radiohead, Britney etc, and watched all the fancy dressers go by. Saw Scooby Doo! Just before I left, I heard someone call my name and it was Erren and her mate, dressed as Latino gang members, complete with plastic guns. They were getting drunk before going to see Too Many DJs. I was in Oran Mor for 8pm. It was all done up with fake cobwebs and shit. I decided against the special �2 Halloween punch and had a �2.90 pint of cider instead. Support act Graham Ryder endeared himself to the assembled throng by telling a story about how some guy bumped into him at the bar and told him to �Watch it, speccy. Do you think you�re up on stage tonight or something?� Then he said �Yeah, here I am! Fuck you, ya cunt!� BRAVE! I got another pint and moved down the front for Kozelek. He came on dressed in a ghost mask (sort of like the one from the film �Scream�) which he kept on for about the first HOUR. People were getting annoyed and a few yelled for him to take it off, which caused the famous Koz stroppiness to rear its ugly head � �I�ll lose the mask if you lose the fuckin� accent�, etc. Oooh! The music was lovely, it was just a bit strange when you realised it was coming out of a guy wearing a silly mask. He eventually took it off and I realised that he was a dead ringer for Russia�s chessboard killer, who was convicted earlier in the week! Apart from the first song and encore numbers, he was accompanied by a guy sitting on a chair playing another guitar, though he didn�t seem to be adding much to the mix. Or maybe it was just where I was standing. Anyway, it was a great gig and he played for nearly two hours. The new songs were beautiful, especially the very last one of the set. I was out of there just before 11pm. Crowds of dressed-up students passed me as I walked home along Queen Margaret Drive. I was back in my room six or seven minutes later. Checked the mini disc recording I made of the gig, which sounded okay, and had my last two spring-rolls, a packet of Space Raiders and some cider. Went to bed around 12.40am.
GREAT LAKE SWIMMERS/WILL JOHNSON � ADMIRAL BAR, GLASGOW, 26TH NOVEMBER 2007
Got the 11.40 bus to Lanark and made an appointment at the opticians for Friday afternoon. Got the 12.15 bus to Glasgow and walked back in the rain. Lunched on a reduced veg samosa, crisps and choc milk and changed into my new boots, �cos my OTHER ones were letting in water. Walked into town again (saw a dog get hit by a car, which was horrible) and attempted to use a voucher for a free pint of Heineken in Yates�s on Sauchiehall Street but the barmaid informed me that they only accepted them in England and �they won�t allow us to give away free alcohol here� (even though I had a free pint in the very same pub about 3-4 years ago!) Went to the Brunswick instead and had a �1.50 pint of Miller. Some drunk dick from East Kilbride was talking to me about his stupid job with Rock Steady and asking me what the best pub was in St Georges Cross. So, of course, I told him the WORST one. Then he was boring the bar staff with talk of his fave music (Wet Wet Wet, Spandau Ballet and Janet Jackson). What a PRICK! Then I went to the Society Room for a �1.29 pint of Abbot ale. Ate a Mean Bean tortilla wrap I�d got from Greggs and spilled spicy sauce all over myself. My phone displayed a couple of missed calls but they were from James so I just assumed he wasn�t going to meet me as usual in the Horseshoe. I went there anyway and was surprised to see him there. He had a cold but decided to come out despite that since he didn�t get me on the phone. I felt guilty but only for about a second. He was coughing and spluttering even more than USUAL. Spoke briefly to art gallery Alan, who said he was at Michael�s 50th the other night and that the birthday boy was currently on holiday in Berlin. Had five pints of Velvet and some chat with James and left at 8.30 for the Admiral. I�d only been there once before, YEARS ago, with James M. and Stephen, but the gig was in the downstairs bit which is nice and spacious. I got myself a sexy refreshment (pint of Miller) for �2.50 and stood awkwardly at the bar for a while. I wasn�t the ONLY saddo there on my own but that didn�t make me feel any better about it, really. At 9pm, Will Johnson ambled onstage looking just like your average local drug dealer in baseball cap, beard and jacket. He treated us to half an hour of songs played on a semi-acoustic from which he wrung some impressive ache courtesy of one of those repeating FX pedal thingies. He did a few songs that I knew and a few that I didn�t. �Catherine Dupree� was especially nice and he promised to bring his band Centro-Matic to town sometime next year. Can�t wait! Great Lake Swimmers appeared as a four-piece, with the singer/acoustic guitar-slinger rocking the hunger-strike look, all jutty out cheekbones and big beard. The other guitarist/banjo-plucker also had a beard but, thankfully, the female one-fingered-keyboardist (I mean, she PLAYED with one-finger. She ACTUALLY had a few more digits than THAT) and occasional flutist/backing-warbler was clean-shaven. Who CARES what the DRUMMER looked like? He didn�t exactly give Keith Moon a run for his money at any point. During the Swimmers� fluid (HA!) set, which lasted about an hour and 15 minutes, I drank three pints of cider. All the songs were taken from their three excellent-for-falling-asleep-to albums, so I was pretty much in slow-core heaven, especially during �Song for the Angels� (although it would have sounded better being played with the full band rather than during the singer�s solo ego-interlude). Walked back and bought some too-expensive crisps.
ZINES
IDWAL FISHER issue 8 (PO Box 147, Cleckheaton, West Yorkshire, BD19 6WY)
Ah, �Idwal Fisher�. Bands I�ve never heard of being described in glowing terms. All very confusing if you�re not a noisenik (and, on the whole, I�m NOT). He makes you jealous with reviews of Jap record shops and gigs in New York and reports on entertaining-sounding gigs by Smell and Quim and Throbbing Gristle but it�s the bits about buying records in charity shops that are the most entertaining of all.
DDDD issue ? (Marleys, Minstead, Hants, SO43 7FY)
Thought this zine had ceased to be about five years ago and was only alerted to its continued existence by a review in the aforementioned �Idwal Fisher�. Well, it�s good to see that SOME things never change, �cos �DDDD� is still writing laugh-out-loud-funny reviews (although there�s now a heavy emphasis on DVDs as well as music), rants about the government/the Taliban/Asda, etc, all banged-out on old typewriters with a passion that is sadly lacking in the vast majority of what passes for journalism these days. �DDDD� is also one of the VERY few publications that has NO internet presence and that really IS saying something in this day and age. Treasure them.
BOOKS
GEORGE BEST � BLESSED: THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY (EBURY PRESS)
Read this during a recent two-day spell of being ill in bed. The bits about footie failed to excite as I don�t really �get� sport but obviously it was a huge part of Bestie�s life and his passion shines through the ghost-writing (courtesy of Roy Collins). Obviously, the main reason for reading this is to get the first-hand gory details about one of the UK�s most-loved alkies and any boozer
will be able to relate to a lot of the tales here (well, apart from all the swanky hotels and Miss Worlds and shit). It�s revealing, and also very sad, considering the upbeat title and ending. Sad because GB died only three years after the book came out. A sobering read, if you�ll pardon the (crap) pun.
JASON PEGLER � A CAN OF MADNESS (CHIPMUNKAPUBLISHING)
Another autobiog about boozing yourself into oblivion though, here, that�s merely a side dish to a main course of severe manic depression, which Pegler describes in scary detail. During his journey to recovery (if you can EVER truly �recover� from such an illness), he deals drugs, fucks loads of �birds�, beats people up in pubs and is obsessed with crappy rave music. Oh, and he thinks that he�s God on a mission to save the world from nuclear war (with the help of Snoop Doggy Dogg, natch) and does things like washing his hair in tomato soup and painting his landlord�s carpet blue. This is a commendably honest memoir but I could have done without the bits where Pegler brags about how clever he is. Just in case this fact escapes your attention, he peppers his text with references to Greek literature and obscure poets and all this gets a little bit tiresome after a while: He�s great at sport, he was the brainiest in his whole school, a local chess champion, etc. More worrying is his disgustingly casual misogyny and propensity for violence. It�s not that he doesn�t have plenty of self-awareness - frequently describing himself in unpleasant terms and pondering whether his illness is genetic, a result of his parents� divorce or his own teenage drink�n�drug abuse - it�s just that he often comes across as a bit of a twatty show-off and that�s a shame because this is a pretty good read otherwise.
OUT ON THE WEEKEND
After work, Marshall would often come round to the place where I was living. It was a four-storey house that had been converted into bedsits and my friend Cliff was renting one of the other rooms. One particular Friday evening, the three of us were in the local supermarket loading up our baskets with tequila, sherry and beer.
�She wouldn�t let me into the house.�
Marshall was talking about his girlfriend. They were in the midst of splitting up.
�She was talking to me from out of her bedroom window, leaning out. I knew she had someone in there. I tried to get her sister to let me in but she said she was in the bath.�
We were still in the booze aisle and Cliff was in the vitamin section. He was a bit of a health freak.
�I think that�s us finished,� Marshall said, though I wasn�t sure if he was referring to our shopping excursion or his relationship. I had met his girlfriend a few times. Once, Cliff and I swallowed a load of her period pills when we were at a party in her house, before crashing out in her parents� bed. The next day, she kept saying we were both �weird� but we concluded that we would much rather be �weird� than boring and normal, which is how we regarded her.
Back in my room, the three of us drank and kept the talk pretty light. After a few hours had passed, Marshall and I volunteered to go out for chips. Cliff wanted to stay in and listen to something on the radio. Once out in the cold air, we decided to go to a nearby pub for a drink, which turned into two or three drinks. When we got back to the house, without the chips, Marshall fell down a flight of stairs due to drunkenness. The last thing I remember, before coming to on the bathroom floor the next morning, was talking to Cliff about UFOs.
Marshall and I kicked off our Saturday with snakebites and then moved onto red wine. We were watching a 1970s detective show on my portable TV.
�When�s she coming?� Marshall asked. I had invited my friend Lucy around for a few drinks.
�Soon. She was meant to be here ten minutes ago but she�s always late.�
Marshall and Lucy had met before, in a pub that we all used to go to. They had got on well and I�d taken a photo of them that everyone said made them look like boyfriend and girlfriend; they looked so comfortable, so compatible.
There was a knock on the door. It was Cliff and Lucy.
�What�s going on here?� I asked.
�We�re lovers,� Lucy said dramatically, putting her arm around Cliff�s shoulder.
�Actually, she met me coming back from Safeway, so I let her in,� Cliff said.
�Yeah, sorry I�m a bit late. Traffic was a nightmare.�
I poured everyone a drink, except Cliff, who began opening a tin of baked beans he had just bought. As the rest of us drank, he ate them straight from the can, occasionally swigging from a large bottle of mineral water. Health freak.
�What�s this shit you�re watching?� Lucy asked.
�Hey, it�s not shit,� Marshall said, �It�s �The Rockford Files�.�
�Looks like shit to me,� Lucy persisted. �Does anybody fancy going out tonight?�
It proved to be a really bad idea.
At around 9pm, the four of us were making our way to a dodgy pub in town called Bonkers. One of Marshall�s workmates was having a birthday party there and he said we could tag along. By then, we were all drunk enough to agree, even though it wasn�t the sort of place we�d usually be seen dead in. As we were walking through George Square, I hardly noticed the group of tracksuited teenagers drinking from wine bottles who were hanging around the war memorial.
�Give us a fag,� one of the young men said. He was talking to Marshall.
I didn�t hear the rest of the conversation but saw a knife being produced, which glistened beneath the bright lights of the square. In a quick movement, the blade was drawn across Marshall�s left leg then, all of a sudden, blood, a shouted exchange of words and Lucy and I running off up the street, losing ourselves in alleys, putting distance between us and the ugliness we had just witnessed. We didn�t stop running until we reached Nice �n� Sleazy, our favourite pub on Sauchiehall Street. It felt safe in there. The other people in the bar all looked like friends as they laughed and talked. Nothing ugly there. Safe from the violence of the night, we drank vodka until closing time, putting our drinks away with a weird frenzy and determination. We questioned each other about whether we had done the right thing by running. Probably not but you can�t always do the right thing, can you? Nonetheless, walking home, I began to feel guilty. Why had I run? Out of fear, nothing but fear. Pure and simple. What a great friend I was.
Early the next morning, I knocked on Cliff�s door. Sometime in the drunken haze of the previous night, we had planned to visit Marshall in hospital. Before getting the bus, we went to a supermarket and I bought four cans of very cheap, weak beer and a cucumber. I thought the cucumber would make Marshall laugh and that both of us could use the beer.
When we got to the hospital, we were struck by how depressing it looked. More like Dracula�s castle than a hospital. It took us a while to find Ward 17 but, even so, we were still told it was too early for visiting time. So we waited outside the ward and drank some awful vending machine coffee. When they eventually let us in, we walked down the ward looking for Marshall. Most of the other men who were lying around were in their fifties and sixties and Marshall�s bed was right at the end of the room.
�How are you?� I asked.
�Not bad. They�re letting me out later today.�
�I brought you this,� I said, producing the cucumber from a plastic bag. Marshall smiled.
�And these.� I showed him the beer.
�Nice one.�
We talked for a while about what had happened the previous night and Marshall told us about the doctor who had treated him.
�He asked me if I�d been drinking. I said �One or two pints� and I could see him looking at the nurse as if to say, �And the rest!��
�Are you getting them charged?� Cliff asked.
�Too right. They caught them. He�d stabbed six different people in the same night, in the same place! Can you believe that?�
�Obviously not too bright, then.�
�They were all on Buckfast and downers. By the way, you�ll need to give a statement to the cops. Is that okay?�
�Of course it�s okay,� I said. �It�s the least I can do after running off. I�m really sorry about that, by the way.�
�That�s alright. I�d have probably done the same thing.�
Somehow, I didn�t believe it.