If We Found the Next Pele

 

 

‘Hey, Wullie, hev ye seen yer bairn’s wains, since… aw this shite?’

Wullie shifted in his seat. It was uncomfortable after so long out of the ‘Rest. The leather was the same, cracked and scarred like the skin on a boxer’s face, but – how could it be narrower, how could yer erse not fit on a bench-seat you’d sat in every day for fifty years?

Dougie gave Wullie a nudge.

‘Did ye no hear me, Wullie?’

‘Aye, ah heard ye right enough.’

‘Whit aboot an answer, then?’

Wullie drained his glass and pushed it towards Dougie, ‘a hauf ‘n’ a hauf, since yer askin’.’

Funny how Dougie always bought the whisky. Still, “Doctor’s Orders”. Almost. A whisky every other beer, wiz that no yer consumption cut in half? Or hauf. Maybe he’d try that one on Wullie, later. Or not. It might be too English a joke. Douglas Hamilton was a Scot. Of course he was. Despite the Anglo accent, although he toned that down — no, affected his father’s — especially in the ‘Rest.

 

The latest student behind the bar had enough piercings to fuck up a compass. In the toon, on Argyle Street, he or she would insist on ‘they’. Not in Partick. Not in The ‘Rest. The pub had signed up to an armistice in the culture wars. Wullie and the rest of them would whisper too loudly occasionally, but Senga would bar them for a week. It usually took a week to either persuade the offended to stay or find a replacement. Dougie thought about Bugis Street half a century ago and sailors, who’d be Wullie’s age now, declaring any hole a goal. Travel broadens the mind, people said. Not permanently in Dougie’s opinion. He picked up the drinks, using a technique he’d learned in the Navy. Thumbs through the handle of the half-pint mugs three fingers around the outside, one shot glass held against the underside of each half-pint pot with an extended little finger. Years of practice east of Suez, where the booze was cheap, a loss leader for more physical pleasures.

Shots down on the table first, very carefully nowadays, then the graceful placing of the mugs behind them. Not a drop spilled. Wullie spilled a drop or two of whisky on picking his up. Maybe it was just as well he never bought any.

 

‘Are ye votin’?’ Wullie said.

‘Aye.’

‘Whit for?’

‘Greens.’

‘Ah said “whit” not “who”.’

‘Ah-body but the nippy sweetie.’

‘Are ye no for independence?’

‘Naw. But it’s no just that.’

‘Why not tho?’

‘It’s like. Wull, say yer a club like The Jags.’

Wullie rolled his eyes.

‘Naw, listen but. So, ye get invited intae the European Super League along wi’ all thae English clubs wi aw the money.’

‘So?’

‘But ye hafta leave the SFA and the Scottish Championship.’

‘We just got back!’

‘Aye but still… ye’ve tae show on yer books ye can afford tae be in the European Elite. Tae run yer club in fit and proper manner. That ye can make a profit. That ye benefit the Super League and ye willnae be a burden. ’

‘Hahaha, as if. We couldn’t make a profit if we got Messi on a free and found the next Pele.’

‘An dinnae forget we were going to be a ‘fan-owned’ club. Imagine Wee Shug McTavish getting tae say wuther we need a new pitch or anither pie van? There ye are then.’

‘Whit?’

‘Scotland is broke, busted. We need the English money.’

‘Get away! Whit aboot aw the tax and shite?’

‘That’s no enough for us tae be in the black as it is.’

‘So we’re stuck wi’ the English bastards?’

‘Aye, wull, mebbes they’d say they’re stuck wi’ us.’

‘If ah wisnae sae fuckin’ auld ah’d hev ye.’ Wullie smiled, finished his whisky and took a gulp of his beer.

‘Ye mean it’s like I get whisky, but ye pay for it? But ah’ll no get any if ah go tae anither bar?’

‘More or less.’

‘So as long as they’ll let me in, mebbes ah’ll get someone tae pay.’

‘Not in Argyle Street.’

‘So, like good Catholics, we cannae get a divorce?’

‘Ye mebbes could, ‘cause it’s like being married to a Billy Boy. So youse dinnae even recognise the marriage.’

 

Wullie looked over at the bar. The student was filling bottle shelves. Hopefully, they’d stay. Werenae many who’d think tae be daein’ somethin’ when there were nae customers. Wullie pulled a ten-pound note from his wallet and laid it flat on the table next to the empty whisky glasses.

‘So this is just a nonesense.’ He pointed at the Scottish note.

‘Smoke and mirrors, Wullie. Smoke and mirrors.’

‘Get them in, Sassenach, get them in.