pulling a lager and a Heavy.
'OK. And yourself?' I said.
'Getting along, getting along, You still wanting bottles?'
'No, thanks. I've got enough for my home-brew now.'
'We'll still see you in here, though, will we?'
'Oh, yes,' I said. Duncan reached up to hand Jamie his pint and I took mine, putting the money down at the same time.
'Cheers, lads,' Duncan said as we turned and went back to the pillar.
A few pints later, when the Vomits were doing their first encore, Jamie and I were up dancing, jumping up and down, J amie shouting and clapping his hands and dancing about on my shoulders. I don't mind dancing with girls when it's for Jamie, though one time with one tall lassie he wanted us both to go outside so he could kiss her. The thought of her tits pressed up against my face nearly made me throw up, and I had to disappoint him. Anyway, most of the punk girls don't smell of perfume and only a few wear skirts and even then they're usually leather ones. Jamie and I got pushed about a bit and nearly fell down a couple of times, but we survived through to the end of the night without any scrapes. Unfortunately, Jamie ended up talking to some woman, but I was too busy trying to breathe deeply and keep the far wall steady really to care.
'Yeah, I'm going to get a bike soon. Two-fifty, of course,' Jamie was saying. I was half-listening. He was not going to get a bike because he wouldn't be able to reach the pedals, but I wouldn't have said anything even if I could have, because nobody expects people to tell the truth to women and, besides, that's what friends are for, as they say. The girl, when I could see her properly, was a rough-looking twenty, and had as many coats of paint over her eyes as a Roller gets on its doors. She smoked a horrible French cigarette.
'Ma mate's got a bike - Sue. It's a Suzuki 185GT her brother used tae have, but she's saving up fur a Gold Wing.'
They were putting the chairs up on the tables and wiping up the mess and the cracked glasses and limp crisp-bags, and I still wasn't feeling too good. The girl sounded worse the more I listened to her. Her accent sounded horrible: west coast somewhere; Glasgow, I shouldn't wonder.
'Naw, I wouldn't have one of those. Too heavy. A five hundred would do me. I really fancy a Moto Guzzi, but I'm not sure about shaft drive...., Christ, I was about to do the Technicolor Yawn all over this girl's jacket, through the tears and rusting her zips and filling her pockets, and probably send Jamie flying across the room into the beer-crates under the speaker stacks with the first awful heave, and here were these two trading absurd biker fantasies.
'Want a fag?' the girl said, shoving a packet up past my nose towards Jamie. I was seeing trails and lights from the blue packet's passing even after she brought it back down. Jamie must have taken a cigarette even though I knew he didn't smoke, because I saw the lighter go up, igniting in front of my eyes in a shower of sparks like a fireworks display. I could almost feel my occipital lobe fusing. I thought of making some smart remark to Jamie about stunting his growth, but all lines to and from my brain seemed to be jammed with urgent messages coming from my guts. I could feel an awful churning going on down there, and I was sure it would only end one way, but I couldn't move. I was stuck there like a flying buttress between the floor and the pillar, and Jamie was still gibbering away to the girl about the sound a Triumph makes and the high-speed runs she'd done up the side of Loch Lomond at night.
'You on holiday, like?'
'Aye, me an' ma mates. Ah've got a boyfriend but he's oot on the rigs.'
'Aw aye.'
I was still breathing hard, trying to clear my head with oxygen. I didn't understand Jamie; he was half the size I was, half the weight or less, and no matter how much we drank together he never seemed to be affected. He certainly wasn't dumping his pints on the floor on the sly; I'd have got wet if he was. I realised
'OK. And yourself?' I said.
'Getting along, getting along, You still wanting bottles?'
'No, thanks. I've got enough for my home-brew now.'
'We'll still see you in here, though, will we?'
'Oh, yes,' I said. Duncan reached up to hand Jamie his pint and I took mine, putting the money down at the same time.
'Cheers, lads,' Duncan said as we turned and went back to the pillar.
A few pints later, when the Vomits were doing their first encore, Jamie and I were up dancing, jumping up and down, J amie shouting and clapping his hands and dancing about on my shoulders. I don't mind dancing with girls when it's for Jamie, though one time with one tall lassie he wanted us both to go outside so he could kiss her. The thought of her tits pressed up against my face nearly made me throw up, and I had to disappoint him. Anyway, most of the punk girls don't smell of perfume and only a few wear skirts and even then they're usually leather ones. Jamie and I got pushed about a bit and nearly fell down a couple of times, but we survived through to the end of the night without any scrapes. Unfortunately, Jamie ended up talking to some woman, but I was too busy trying to breathe deeply and keep the far wall steady really to care.
'Yeah, I'm going to get a bike soon. Two-fifty, of course,' Jamie was saying. I was half-listening. He was not going to get a bike because he wouldn't be able to reach the pedals, but I wouldn't have said anything even if I could have, because nobody expects people to tell the truth to women and, besides, that's what friends are for, as they say. The girl, when I could see her properly, was a rough-looking twenty, and had as many coats of paint over her eyes as a Roller gets on its doors. She smoked a horrible French cigarette.
'Ma mate's got a bike - Sue. It's a Suzuki 185GT her brother used tae have, but she's saving up fur a Gold Wing.'
They were putting the chairs up on the tables and wiping up the mess and the cracked glasses and limp crisp-bags, and I still wasn't feeling too good. The girl sounded worse the more I listened to her. Her accent sounded horrible: west coast somewhere; Glasgow, I shouldn't wonder.
'Naw, I wouldn't have one of those. Too heavy. A five hundred would do me. I really fancy a Moto Guzzi, but I'm not sure about shaft drive...., Christ, I was about to do the Technicolor Yawn all over this girl's jacket, through the tears and rusting her zips and filling her pockets, and probably send Jamie flying across the room into the beer-crates under the speaker stacks with the first awful heave, and here were these two trading absurd biker fantasies.
'Want a fag?' the girl said, shoving a packet up past my nose towards Jamie. I was seeing trails and lights from the blue packet's passing even after she brought it back down. Jamie must have taken a cigarette even though I knew he didn't smoke, because I saw the lighter go up, igniting in front of my eyes in a shower of sparks like a fireworks display. I could almost feel my occipital lobe fusing. I thought of making some smart remark to Jamie about stunting his growth, but all lines to and from my brain seemed to be jammed with urgent messages coming from my guts. I could feel an awful churning going on down there, and I was sure it would only end one way, but I couldn't move. I was stuck there like a flying buttress between the floor and the pillar, and Jamie was still gibbering away to the girl about the sound a Triumph makes and the high-speed runs she'd done up the side of Loch Lomond at night.
'You on holiday, like?'
'Aye, me an' ma mates. Ah've got a boyfriend but he's oot on the rigs.'
'Aw aye.'
I was still breathing hard, trying to clear my head with oxygen. I didn't understand Jamie; he was half the size I was, half the weight or less, and no matter how much we drank together he never seemed to be affected. He certainly wasn't dumping his pints on the floor on the sly; I'd have got wet if he was. I realised
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