few times: police will come to the door for Dad and Uncle Danny or looking for some of his other mates. I’m dying to tell them that he’s torturing me every time they come, but I know he won’t be done for it, as he always seems to slither his way out of it, using me as an excuse. And when someone tells you they’ll kill you, you kind of learn to keep your trap shut.
Sometimes Dad goes for a party at different mates’ houses and I have to go with him if he has no babysitter. He always takes the car with him, even though he’s banned and is obviously going to get drunk.
It’s a couple of days before New Year’s Eve and his mate Hatchy is having a shindig at his house in Ardler. There’s a big long row of flats behind the shops – I think everyone Iknow lives in flats behind shops. Hatchy lives bottom left in the middle one. His house is quite smart for an Eighties’ pad – it’s clean, shall we say.
The good thing about being a nipper with an alcoholic dad is that when you’re dragged to some house party, you can wander about doing what you like, as the grown-ups are that hammered that they don’t give a shit.
The party’s going fine for the first few hours, then the usual riots start.
‘Yi owe me a tennar frae last week,’ says Dad.
‘I gave that back on Tuesday or Wednesday,’ replies Hatchy.
‘No yi fuckin never.’
‘Ah shut yir puss you two,’ someone pipes in.
‘Wha er you talkin’ ti, yi prick?’
‘Oh are yi goin’ ti start trouble we a drink on yi again?’
‘Keep yir fuckin nose oot o’it, it’s fuck all ti dae we yo.’
It calms down for a minute and then Dad starts up again.
‘Dinna try and embarrass me again in front o’ company or I’ll belt yir puss.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Jock. Forget aboot it.’
‘Ney wonder, fuckin’ half-wit.’
‘Wha’s a fuckin’ half-wit?’
The next moment four fully grown paralytic Scotsmen are in what looks like a scrum, falling over the settee and television, knocking over the plants and sending a table full of drinks flying as they all go through it.
Meanwhile I’m standing there, a nine-year-old kid, leaning against the door with someone’s can of Export, dying to join in. And with Hatchy’s wife screaming, ‘
Stop it yi fucking idiots, there’s kids here
.’
It’s more of a wrestling match than a fight – every man for himself. They are that drunk that by the time it has all calmed down they never have a clue about what they’ve just been kicking lumps out of each other for.
‘
Get oot this fucking hoose the lot o yi!
’ screams Hatchy’s wife who is going mental, but nobody’s listening. They just put the music back on – it’s ZZ Top – open another can and start trying to dance around all the broken glass, ’cause every girl’s crazy ’bout a sharp dressed man.
It’s now three in the morning and Dad decides that he has to get home. He gets up off the couch, checking his pockets for the car keys and swaying from side to side then back and forward, eyes half-closed and a line of blood on his white shirt pocket from earlier, someone else’s I think.
‘Come on, Charlie, get your coat.’
Everyone else is sleeping except Hatchy.
‘I’ll get you a taxi, Jock,’ he says.
‘No, no, no, no. I’m alright, I’m alright, I’ve got transport.’
Dad’s slurring his words even more now as it’s getting later and he’s getting more tired.
‘I’m off, come on Charlie.’
‘See ya Hatchy,’ I say with a yawn.
‘See ya, wee man.’
I walk behind Dad as he sways from side to side, walking in the opposite direction from where his car is.
‘Dad, it’s this way.’
‘I ken war my fucking car is.’
He obviously doesn’t as it’s right outside the door on the left and he’s turned right, but I’m not gonna argue.
‘Some bastard’s moved my car. I parked it over here.’
‘It’s back there, Dad look.’
‘I canna believe some bastard’s moved my car,
bastards
.’
He turns
Sometimes Dad goes for a party at different mates’ houses and I have to go with him if he has no babysitter. He always takes the car with him, even though he’s banned and is obviously going to get drunk.
It’s a couple of days before New Year’s Eve and his mate Hatchy is having a shindig at his house in Ardler. There’s a big long row of flats behind the shops – I think everyone Iknow lives in flats behind shops. Hatchy lives bottom left in the middle one. His house is quite smart for an Eighties’ pad – it’s clean, shall we say.
The good thing about being a nipper with an alcoholic dad is that when you’re dragged to some house party, you can wander about doing what you like, as the grown-ups are that hammered that they don’t give a shit.
The party’s going fine for the first few hours, then the usual riots start.
‘Yi owe me a tennar frae last week,’ says Dad.
‘I gave that back on Tuesday or Wednesday,’ replies Hatchy.
‘No yi fuckin never.’
‘Ah shut yir puss you two,’ someone pipes in.
‘Wha er you talkin’ ti, yi prick?’
‘Oh are yi goin’ ti start trouble we a drink on yi again?’
‘Keep yir fuckin nose oot o’it, it’s fuck all ti dae we yo.’
It calms down for a minute and then Dad starts up again.
‘Dinna try and embarrass me again in front o’ company or I’ll belt yir puss.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Jock. Forget aboot it.’
‘Ney wonder, fuckin’ half-wit.’
‘Wha’s a fuckin’ half-wit?’
The next moment four fully grown paralytic Scotsmen are in what looks like a scrum, falling over the settee and television, knocking over the plants and sending a table full of drinks flying as they all go through it.
Meanwhile I’m standing there, a nine-year-old kid, leaning against the door with someone’s can of Export, dying to join in. And with Hatchy’s wife screaming, ‘
Stop it yi fucking idiots, there’s kids here
.’
It’s more of a wrestling match than a fight – every man for himself. They are that drunk that by the time it has all calmed down they never have a clue about what they’ve just been kicking lumps out of each other for.
‘
Get oot this fucking hoose the lot o yi!
’ screams Hatchy’s wife who is going mental, but nobody’s listening. They just put the music back on – it’s ZZ Top – open another can and start trying to dance around all the broken glass, ’cause every girl’s crazy ’bout a sharp dressed man.
It’s now three in the morning and Dad decides that he has to get home. He gets up off the couch, checking his pockets for the car keys and swaying from side to side then back and forward, eyes half-closed and a line of blood on his white shirt pocket from earlier, someone else’s I think.
‘Come on, Charlie, get your coat.’
Everyone else is sleeping except Hatchy.
‘I’ll get you a taxi, Jock,’ he says.
‘No, no, no, no. I’m alright, I’m alright, I’ve got transport.’
Dad’s slurring his words even more now as it’s getting later and he’s getting more tired.
‘I’m off, come on Charlie.’
‘See ya Hatchy,’ I say with a yawn.
‘See ya, wee man.’
I walk behind Dad as he sways from side to side, walking in the opposite direction from where his car is.
‘Dad, it’s this way.’
‘I ken war my fucking car is.’
He obviously doesn’t as it’s right outside the door on the left and he’s turned right, but I’m not gonna argue.
‘Some bastard’s moved my car. I parked it over here.’
‘It’s back there, Dad look.’
‘I canna believe some bastard’s moved my car,
bastards
.’
He turns
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