Daft Wee Stories (2 page)

His name was Paul. What had happened was that there was this wee party – it was his mate's birthday – and there at the flat was the usual crowd, as well as the familiar faces of acquaintances that he sometimes saw at weddings. But there was the odd person he'd never met before, and he'd be introduced. On this occasion, he was introduced to the birthday boy's cousin and her husband. The first thing he noticed was that the husband was considerably better-looking than the wife, and he couldn't let that go without remark. ‘I'll tell you something,' he said to her, in front of everybody within earshot, ‘you've done pretty well for yourself, considering you're one ugly bastard.'

So, what d'you reckon? What d'you think of Paul? A bit cheeky, definitely, but what else would you say? Sexist? Misogynistic? He didn't think so. Far from it. Paul thought he was brand new. A feminist, even.

He thought, well, if it had been the other way around, if it had been the husband that was the ugly one, he'd have said the exact same thing – to the husband, of course. It was a bit rude, but it was a funny thing to say, and something that most men laughed off. He'd seen it for himself. He'd seen the same sort of thing said to many men for as long as he could remember, right in front of the woman, and more often than not they'd both smile and nod in agreement. He'd even seen it on prime-time telly, on game shows, the type where they'd have a married couple on, like
Family Fortunes
. The host would say to the guy, ‘Bloody 'eck, you're punching above your weight, ain't ya?' then everybody in the audience would have a right good laugh, as well as the millions at home, at just how unattractive the guy was.

So what was the difference in saying it to a woman? Why was saying it to the man all right, but saying it to the woman was bang out of order? If the host in one of these game shows said the same thing to the wife, well, it would be a career-ender, wouldn't it? But why? Paul's theory was thus.

All throughout history, men have imposed their values upon women using their physical strength. Back in the cavemen days, men would get what they wanted simply through force, no need to reason or explain. As things became more civilised, the use of force started to seem a tad lowbrow, with most men preferring to use words and intellect to put women in their place. If women disagreed, convincingly, by using their own words and intellect to greater effect, it was always understood that muscle would make the final decision, one way or another.

The power that men gained over women through brute force – or the threat of brute force – was then used to gain power over their minds, by excluding women from education, from voting, from many of the rights and expectations that men take for granted. After time, the values of heterosexual men, written by men, distributed by men, have become values for all people, both men and women alike. And with these men placing little value on a woman's intellect or self-determination, only one other aspect of the woman remains: her body. Her beauty. If there is no beauty, there is no worth.

And that, Paul thought, is what women have been taught to believe. After thousands of years, enduring scores of patriarchal cultures serving the base desires of heterosexual men, women have taught themselves to believe that their beauty is paramount. He knew that was wrong. He believed that men were able to laugh off criticism of their looks because deep down they knew they had so much more to offer. He felt that many women were unable to laugh off similar criticism because, deep down, whether they were aware of it or not, they had been programmed to believe that what they had to offer in compensation for any physical shortcomings was not as much as the male.

He simply couldn't go along with that. He felt that to crack a joke about the looks of a man, but not of the woman, was to validate and perpetuate the inequality. And that is why he called her ‘one ugly bastard'.

Anyway, she got her husband to put the prick in hospital.

There once was this lassie, Lesley, and she was boarding a flight to Australia, at long last. She couldn't believe this was happening. This was the plane she'd been dreaming about stepping onto for over five years now, ever since she first thought about emigrating. It started as a trivial remark about wanting to get away from Scotland, because of the weather. It's cold and wet, summer lasts a week, no wonder we're all alkies and junkies, it's fucking miserable – all that. And like anybody thinking about getting far away, she thought about the other side of the world. She was only thinking about a holiday at first, but as time went on, she started to dream bigger; she started to think about maybe spending a whole month there, or even travelling around for a year. Then she finally decided to fuck off for good.

She sat down and buckled up. It really was happening. As she watched the other passengers getting on, she could hear Australian accents all around. It made the dream more real, it made her feel like she was almost there already. But she'd have to wait a bit longer for the real thing itself. Just over twenty-two hours. Or just under twenty-four hours, if you want to look at it that way. Almost an entire day, sitting in one place. Christ, if she was stuck in the house for that long, she'd go off her nut.

Here, she thought. Imagine you wanted to get off. Imagine you started feeling pure claustrophobic and wanted to get off, but you couldn't. Imagine that.

She smiled, nervously. She wasn't claustrophobic, but she imagined what it would be like if she was. Wanting to get off but not being able to, like if she was in a submarine at the bottom of the ocean. That would be quite scary. No, she wasn't claustrophobic, but she was starting to feel scared of being claustrophobic. Claustrophobicphobic, haha.

These seats didn't give you a lot of room.

She took a deep breath and told herself not to be scared, and that surprised her. In fact, it scared her. It scared her that she was beginning to feel scared. That was something she could really do without, especially at the start of a twenty-four-hour flight. She was scared of being scared of being scared of being trapped in a plane for twenty-four hours with no way to get off. Claustrophobicphobicphobic, haha.

And that scared her. It scared her that she was beginning to lose track of what she was scared of. It scared her that she didn't know what happens when you can't take being that scared any more. It scared her that if she got in whatever state that was and people asked what was wrong, she wouldn't be able to tell them what it was she was scared of. Claustrophobicphobicpho … Fuck it, she got off.

She just got off. An air hostess asked her where she was going. ‘I'm just …' was all Lesley said, and then she was gone.

I last saw her in Paisley. She was waiting outside a chemist, at eight in the morning.

It was pishing doon.

She looked freezing.

It was just one of those days. It was one of those crazy, hazy days of summer. Something about that heat just goes straight to your head, doesn't it? Puts your brain in holiday mode, makes you think that you're a thousand miles away without a care in the world. Aye, that's the best way I can put it. Your brain goes on holiday. It stops working!

That wouldn't have been a problem if I actually was on holiday with nothing to do, but as it turned out, I did have something to do. Well, not something I
had
to do, no way I was doing something I
had
to do on a beautiful day like that. It was something I
wanted
to do. Two things I wanted to do, to be precise.

The first thing I wanted to do was I wanted to thank the postman, for what he did. It was nothing, really. I'd been waiting for a parcel, recorded delivery, but I really fancied nipping over to the shops for a Solero. It's just one of those things I liked getting when the sun's out, I used to do the same thing with a can of Lilt, but I don't know if you get them any more. Anyway, the thing was that if I wasn't in to collect the parcel, well, it would get sent back to the depot and I'd have to walk there and back. Kind of defeats the purpose of getting something delivered, doesn't it? Plus I'd probably have had to search the house for my passport to show them at the depot. (And by the way, don't tell me you don't need a passport, a mate told me that once, but when I got to the depot they said that I did need it and I had to walk all the way back. I turned the house upside down looking for my passport, couldn't fucking find it. It was the last time I took that guy's advice, let me tell you.)

Anyway, that didn't matter, because of what the postman did. I nipped over to get a Solero, I just decided to go for it, I thought it'd only take a minute. But when I got there, I ended up getting caught up in this conversation with the guy behind the counter when I asked him if he had any Lilt. I don't even know if I wanted a can, I was just wondering if they still sold them. He didn't know what it was, so I was trying to describe it to him, it's harder than you think. (What does it taste like anyway, is it pineapple? I couldn't remember.) Anyway, I realised I'd been there for ten minutes or something, and I thought, Fuck! I nearly ran out without paying, then when I tried to pay, I dropped half my cash on the floor, I was all over the fucking place. That's what happens when you try to do something too fast sometimes, like trying to get your jacket zip down or untying your laces, you just get in a muddle and it ends up taking you longer. I managed to pay him, then I sprinted out the door. I was 99 per cent sure I was too late. I thought, well, I'll make a run for it, but I was pretty sure I'd be taking that walk to the depot anyway.

But listen to this, guess what happened? The postman stopped me outside the shop! He had the parcel on him and he asked me if I wanted to just sign for it right there and then.

I think that is brilliant. I think that's the mark of a good postman who's good at his job, when he actually recognises the people he delivers to and does things like that. He didn't have to do that, he could have just taken it back to the depot; it was my fault after all, diving over for the Solero and going on about Lilt.

Before I got the chance to thank him, he was off. But there was no way I was letting that go without giving him a hefty pat on the back. I told myself that when I got up the road I was going to phone his work to thank him and tell him how much I thought he was doing a cracking job. And fingers crossed that his boss was listening in. You know, so he got brownie points or a wee pay rise or whatever. He deserved it.

So that was the first thing I wanted to do.

The other thing I wanted to do that day was that I wanted to kill the guy that murdered my da.

They said it was an accident, they said it wasn't murder, but it fucking was. When you show that degree of negligence, you prove yourself to have no respect for the safety of another man's life. And to me, that's murder.

But here's the funny thing. I got mixed up!

It's like what I said about it just being one of those days. You see, what was in the parcel was the thing I was going to use to kill Craig Malloy, the guy that murdered my da. (It was a trench knife, a kind of spiked knuckle duster with a knife coming out the side. You can get them online.) When I took it out the box, I think I must have got too excited, just wanting to get on with it. It's like what I was saying about trying to do something too fast, you just get in a muddle. A trench knife for Craig Malloy in a parcel from the postman. Parcel, Craig Malloy, trench knife, postman, know what I mean? And if you keep in mind the heat of that day, that heat that just goes straight to your head, it was no wonder what happened.

Before I had time to know what I was doing, I chased the postman up a tenement close and stabbed the utter fuck out of him on the stairs. Can't remember how many times, it was a blur. All I remember is him shouting at me saying that he didn't kill my da, but all I was thinking was, Aye, you would say that.

Then I headed back to the house and gave Craig Malloy a phone. I told him that I thought he was cracking. Told him that I thought what he did was considerate and thoughtful and, oh my God, I can't even tell you the rest, what an embarrassment. I can feel my face going red.

But you've got to laugh, man. You've got to. If you don't laugh, you'll cry. I'm shaking my head just thinking about it. But what can I say?

It was just one of those days.

They were going to put an offer in for the house. It was perfect, a terraced house on a leafy street, the type with trees coming out the pavement. Nice and quiet, but only a short walk away from the hubbub of the city, if they ever felt like getting in amongst it. It had three bedrooms, a living room at the front, and another living room type of thing at the back. Tons of space for both of them. He'd always fantasised about having a games room, and with all this he could have a games room and a home cinema. She quite fancied a gym. And they both loved the back garden, perfect for when they wanted to start a family, and perfect for getting mates round in the summer, for barbecues and that. And best of all, the price was right as well. It was fucking perfect.

Aye, they were going to put in an offer. Until they saw that poster on their way back home, the one outside that new development.

‘Luxury apartments', it said.

Well, there was no point in having a look, the pair of them had already made up their minds about that terraced house, it was perfect. Mind you, the poster did say ‘luxury'. They thought they'd better check it out. And two months later, they had the keys. To their luxury apartment.

No, it wasn't as big as the house, quite cramped in fact, but the estate agent said that meant it didn't take as much energy to heat. And no, it didn't have a garden, but then you don't have the pain in the arse of having to maintain one. And maybe it was in the middle of nowhere, but the noise from the neighbours through the walls made you feel like you were close to the hubbub.