The Guru an Zander

It’s doon tae the Sou’side tae meet this fuckin Archie cunt again at his gaff, a flat just aff Kilmarnock Road in Shawlands. He’s a mad yoga guru - gies it aw the patter aboot mysticism an white an red tantra; how wan is aboot yer sexual energy an helps create a deeper bond wae yer partner an that, an the other is aboot huvin a deeper bond wae yersel. Shaggin or wankin if ye ask me, an there’s nae need tae apportion mysticism tae it, know whit ah mean?

Ah’ve goat ma reservations aboot his claims, an efter oor first meetin, placed him firmly in the fuckin sexual deviant category. Just somethin aboot the lecherous cunt makes ma skin crawl. Ah’ve seen him leerin at some ay the wee burds that come an go when ah’ve been doon tae see him. Ah imagine he’s only too keen tae help bend them intae numerous contortions in the name ay health an well-bein.

That, an the fact he takes a hauf ounce every week regular as clockwork lead me tae ma conclusion. Ah mean, it cannae be that good, the auld tantric sex vibe if he’s snortin his waiy through that every week, know whit ah mean?

He’s dain somethin right though as he’s goat a steady stream ay fuckin daft cunts wae mare money than sense appearin at his door aw day, every day, willin tae part wae their cash, ready tae be enlightened wae whitever spiel he’s goat lined up that day. He in turn, parts wae a lump ay said cash every week tae get ripped tae the tits oan charlie.

The interior ay the close instantly lets ye know yer in a mare affluent area ay the city. The smell ay pish is replaced wae the aromatic smells ay spices an exotic, middle-class dishes bein prepared. The close still retains the ornate tiles fae when the buildin wis constructed an aboot a third ay the waiy up the waw, they mark the break between a rich jade green gloss paint below, an soft, eggshell emulsion above. Impressive stained gless windaes meet ye at the landins oan the waiy up the stairs wae wee tables wae decorative adornments oan them, sittin safe an undisturbed.

His wife opens the door as ah get there. She’s usherin an overweight, middle aged cunt oot. He’s aw flushed lookin, whit’s left ay his barnet stuck in wet strands tae his heid. The grey sweatshirt he’s wearin’s dark in patches acroass his chist an underairms fae his yogic exertions. ‘Thank you so much for coming Mr. Faraday, Guru Dhadakata dil looks forward to your next session. Namaste.’ she sais, claspin her hauns an dain a wee bow.

‘Namaste’ sais the guy an awkwardly bows his heid afore waddlin away doon the stair.

‘Is the eh. . . Guru in?’ ah sais tae her. Nora, her name is. A wee waif like wummin wae long, silver hair that draps doon her back tae the waist ay the tie-dyed, woven hemp tunic she’s wearin.

‘Ah, of course, Stevie, is it?’ she asks again, like she has every time ah’ve been. Ah nod an smile at her an she gestures fur me tae go wae her intae the flat. She’s wearin they Jesus sandle numbers aw these hippy cunts seem tae dig, only they’re no the usual fuckin Roman lookin efforts ye’d expect. They’re they mad Clarks nubuck, cushioned wans; hideous lookin, but ah take it they’re made fur comfort - certainly no the climate, man. ‘Stevie! How are you? Come in. Sit down.’ he sais as we enter the lounge where he does his stuff. Nora does her wee bow again an leaves the room, shuttin the door behind her. He’s sittin oan the flair wae his legs croassed, nae shirt oan, gien it the full routine. ‘I was just about to meditate there. Forgot you were coming.’ he sais, kiddin himsel oan.

‘Aye, ye’d be as well gettin a bit ay that in the noo. Ye’ll be dain fuck all meditatin efter ye get this up yer schnozzle.’ ah sais, haundin him the freezer bag wae his gear.

‘Ah, excellent.’ he sais, takin it fae me an placin it in a wee widden box he pulls oot fae a sideboard. He goes intae another drawer an pulls oot a wad ay dough, leafin through it.

‘So Archie. . . or is that Guru Dai - quiri?’ ah sais, smugly.

‘No Steve, that’s a rum based cocktail. My yogic name is Guru Dhadakata dil.’ he sais, derisively.

‘Aye, that’s it.’ ah sais, unimpressed that ma patter’s been dismissed so abruptly. ‘Whit’s that mean then?’

‘It can be approximately translated as Beating Heart.’ he sais, dain his best tae appear earnest.

‘You’re huvin a fuckin laugh Archie. Beatin heart?’ ah sais, noddin tae the sideboard. ‘You’ll know aw aboot that ma man.’ he laughs in a reluctant acceptance an pulls the box oot. ‘It’s an image ah’m conveying here Steve. . .’ he sais, openin it an settin a couple ay lines up oan the lid. ‘. . .more than that, in truth - it’s a lifestyle. The punters go in for it in a big way. What do you think carries more mystique and reverence, Guru Dhadakata dil or Archie bloody Hamilton?’ he sais tappin his temple an snortin a line, offerin me the lid wae a neatly chopped Patsy oan it which ah duly blast up ma beak. Fuckin nae flies oan this cunt, know whit ah mean? A sleekit, snake oil salesman is Archie, ay the auldest kind. Only it’s Eastern enlightenment an tantric well-bein he’s puntin.

Ah leave him dain his stretches - the Prayin Mantis an aw that shite - in preparation fur the next mug that comes through the door an head off, illuminated as tae the extent tae which cunts will go tae turn a coin in Archie’s case, or in the case ay the punter - tae enrich their lives.

Nora lets me oot an ah’m fuckin sure she gies us a wink as she does the wee Namaste bit again. Fuckin wide-os the pair ay them. Who’s fuckin kiddin who, know whit ah mean?

Ah get back tae the motor an drive alang the leafy, tree lined street lookin in the big bay windaes ay the grun flair flats, checkin oot the gaffs. A better quality ay tenement doon this waiy. It’s the details man. Aw the immaculate cornicin an plasterwork. Ye don’t get craftsmanship like that anymare.

The van’s horn blastin at me brings ma attention sharply back tae the road ahead ay me. The driver’s goat his hauns up in front ay him as if tae say whit ye playin at? Ah roll the windae doon an stick ma heid oot. ‘Ah wis here first, ah’ve goat right ay waiy. Ye’ll huv tae reverse.’ ah shout oot wae confidence, projectin ma open haun oot at him tae illustrate whit reversin entails.

He blasts his horn again an does his ain bit ay haun signals, wan taewards the One Way sign pointin away fae him, an the other a loosely clenched fist, movin up an doon, repeatin it in quick succession.

Aye, a wanker’s right enough, an ah concede defeat, stickin it intae reverse an sheepishly steerin the motor back alang the road.

There’s a beat copper staunin in the road behind me, wavin me taewards him. Ah reach oer tae the passenger side an discreetly drap the holdall to the flair. He taps the roof as ah draw up. ‘Any reason why you were driving the wrong way up this one-way street pal? Ah presume that’s why you’re reversin down it now?’

‘Eh. . . Loast ma bearins mate, wis this street always wan waiy? They’re forever chaingin it. . .’

‘It’s been like this as long as ah’ve worked this beat.’ the polis sais, impatiently, then looks tae the van, an the line ay briefs behind - some ay them blastin their horns - an shakes his heid. ‘Right, ah’ll guide ye out. Watch where you’re gaun in future.’ the copper sais an gies the roof a bang, steppin away.

He strides confidently oot oantae the main road, stoappin the double decker bus that’s comin, an waves me oot. Ah clock the bag oan the flair again as ah draw oot next tae him an gie him a wave. Ah’m pushin ma luck here man. Fuck sake Stevie, get a grip son.

 

The next drap is back in the East End, some new build estate oot by Mount Vernon. This cunt - Zander’s his name - he’s intae another gemme aw thegither. Fitted Kitchens.

Goat a fleet ay vans aw kitted oot, manned by fitters aw oot there oan the road, batterin aw manner ay worktaps, integrated oven and hob combinations an bespoke, made-tae-measure units an drawers intae a gaff near you. Fuckin loaded, the cunt an likes a sniff an aw, ah’ll tell ye. Cuts aboot wae some dodgy types, know whit ah mean?

He’s yer classic fuckin nouveau riche local boy done good. Ye might think that ah’d get oan wae him then, another workin class guy fae the east end?

Well ye’d be wrang. The trouble wae cunts like him is they put too much effort intae remindin every cunt how loaded they ur. That Derek, the computer cunt’s bad enough but at least wae the middle classes, they ostensibly, lack the necessary self-awareness tae register how much ay a smug prick they’re bein. Ye know whit tae expect wae them at least.

Cunts fae the scheme that make a load ay money, they’ve goat nae aff button, it’s like they cannae help it.

Zander Paterson’s wan ay they cunts.

 

The driveway’s full ay motors an there’s mare parked oan the street ootside so ah park up alang the road an walk back.

His gaff’s wan ay they new build kit hooses they fling up these days; a five bedroom example, Zander’s - as he’s telt me oan mare than wan occasion. Looks the part but ah widnae paiy the money. Ah’ve worked oan they sites. Ye could fuckin spit through the waws in them, know whit ah mean?

There’s a bar ay yella light, beamin oantae the drive fae below the quarter open garage door. Ah pull it open tae a squad ay cunts huvin a party. Every wan ay which ur noo lookin at me. There’s empty boatles ay beer an that fuckin Smirnoff Moscow Mule lyin aboot the flair an tables, Daft Punk - Around the World comes oot the stereo. ‘Stevo! Whit ye all about man? Ah just aboot shat masel there!’ Zander sais, walkin taewards us wearin a pair ay three-quarter length cargo troosers, boatin shoes an a blue Paul & Shark polo shirt.

‘The door wis open a bit so ah. . .’ ah begin.

‘. . .Just thought ye’d announce yer arrival? Jesus man! Ah telt yous no tae open that!’ he sais tae his girlfriend, Sarah who’s shakin her heid alang wae her pal, tryin tae protest. ‘AH DON’T WANT TAE HEAR IT!’ he shouts oer her. ‘Stevie. . . forget it ma bro-ski. No your fault, mone in.’ he sais, pattin ma back while lookin shiftily oot tae the street afore pullin the door back doon wae a screetch. ‘Ye want a drink or that?’ he sais, walkin me oer tae the bar he’s goat in the next room. He’s knocked a section ay waw oot, openin up the double garages intae wan space.

‘Just a can ay coke fur me if you’ve goat wan mate. Goat some mare runnin aboot tae dae.’

‘Good joab ye came, every cunt’s like a burst couch in here. The gear ran oot hours ago. They’ve been burstin ma baws man.’ he sais, gien us a cauld can oot the fridge. It’s only noo ah realise, this soiree is in its second night. Ah knew there wis a bit ay a deflated bouncy castle vibe aboot the pitch when ah came in but ah just put it doon tae ma entrance. ‘Whit took ye so long? Ah messaged ye. . .’ he makes a show ay lookin at his Rolex watch. ‘. . .an hour an a half ago.’

That much is true but ah elected tae go tae the Guru’s first. Fucked if ah’m chaingin ma plans fur this prick.

‘Goat held up elsewhere, ye know how it is.’ ah sais, evasively.

A haun oer his gear an a few cunts come hoverin aboot the bar, like flies roon shite man. They’re aw wired lookin, that waiy ye get when ye’ve been on it fur 24 hours. ‘You the guy wae the gear then?’ the biggest wan ay the group sais. They’ve aw goat the uniform ay casual leisure troosers an polo shirts oan, a size too small, bein the preference.

‘Aye.’ ah sais, annoyed that ah huv tae explain. ‘Zander, you goat the paper fur that?’

‘Must be a lot ay money yer carryin?’ the big cunt sais, fuckin starin me doon, aw intense as fuck, the veins oan his heid pulsatin. The cunt’s mad vibes seem tae envelope the room an they’re aw starin at me waitin oan confirmation. These cunts ur far gone man, unhinged.

‘Coln, behave yersel. Huv a line. Stevie, come wae me.’ Zander sais, comin fae behind the bar, puttin his hauns oan ma shooders an usherin me oot. The big cunt eyeballs me aw the waiy, through the other partygoers in the next room an intae the hoose. ‘Wait here.’ Zander sais tae me in the hallway afore disappearin up the stairs.

Ah’m oan edge, like ah’m bein set up for somethin an ah peer back through the kitchen tae see every cunt kerrien oan, music turnt up, gettin back oan it. ‘Sure ye don’t want tae stay a bit?’ Zander sais, creepin up behind me. ‘Here, it’s aw there.’ he sais, tuckin the cash intae ma haun.

‘Naw, ah need tae get oan. Whit’s that big cunt’s problem in there?’ ah sais, fannin the notes oot quickly.

‘Who, Coln? don’t mind him. He’s just oot ay it. Disnae know whit he’s sayin.’

‘Colin? Is that his name?’

‘Naw. It’s Coln, wae nae i. He’s wan ay ma associates, fae the traveller community. An it’s mibbe better he disnae know who you’re workin wae. Think it would be for the best.’ he sais, conspiratorially. ‘Ye kin leave this way.’ he sais openin the front door, an leadin me oot tae the porch. ‘Watch the Beemer, as yer passing, we just got it.

‘Aw aye, suits you sir.’ ah sais, like they cunts oan The Fast Show but the dozy bastart just stares at me.

‘Fifty grand, just oot the wrapper.’ he sais, his boastful compulsions, intact. ‘Oh, an Stevie, don’t have me waitin like that again.’ he sais, shuttin the door.