One Day In The Life Of Derrick Mooney
by Douglas Lloyd
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: One day in the life of a parasite.
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Surfacing at one pm. Bursting for a shite – something to do with the ridiculous amounts of Guinness imbibed last night. Who am I to refuse free drink from friends with jobs? Somehow manage to traverse the luxury pile landing carpet to park myself on the toilet. Straining, but to no effect. Must be something to do with the ridic... hang on. Stand up, stare at the countenance in the mirror above the washhand basin. Eyes puffed and bloodshot, freckles a paler shade of whatever. First wank of the day.
That eased the blockage.
In the kitchen the cupboard is bare. And of Mother Hubbard you’d think she could at least look into Asda on her way home, fill up a trolley with butcher meat then pap the lot into the car boot to be transferred under internal combustion power to the house and thence to the deep freeze compartment of the refrigerator. But no. It’s not that I’m asking her to cook the stuff! Christ, I’m not handless. She could, alternatively, if she’s pushed for time, leave money on the kitchen table and I could get the provisions in myself. This unforgivable lack of breakfast fries I will not leave uncommented upon. Have to make do with the powdery Frosties from the bottom of the packet with semi-skimmed milk. A cardboard meal. The unwashed bowl left in the sink in registration of protest.
Back to the bedroom to don the day’s garb. Frock coat, plus 4’s, and hiking boots. I am a singer/songwriter of spiralling reputation and am therefore inclined/expected/obliged to wear clothes of an outlandish nature, without fear of ridicule. ‘Aye, that’s him.’ I fix them with a stare. This may of course be construed as a look of derision, but inwardly it pleases me immensely. I crave the recognition, the applause. It is for me, mine. I aim to create a musical ensemble whose name will bear testament to my life of ribald debauchery at the same time making mention of the length of my erect member, which is almost nine inches. I strive daily.*
* Derrick Mooney and his band, ‘Large One, Derrick’, are currently on a tour of the larger fishing villages on the east coast of Scotland.
Outside and the driveway is empty. The bastard wee brother has taken the spare car to drive to work again. Lamentable excess when the train station is but a ten minute walk away. And I must sign on – half an hour ago. Tell them I was looking for a job but it won’t wash. They know who I am. The clerk is a regular of the pub I frequent – hopefully she will not blether, but such is rest room banter I would imagine. The price of fame, perhaps a tinge of notoriety. I pull up the collar of my coat, borrowed from... Borrowed from. It is a woman with whom I have breakfasted on occasion. And the name – Carol, Caroline, Cynthia – she was the one who would not consent to anal sex. I recall that our relationship ended after, what, four weeks. One should not waste time between affairs. This is the advice I give to jilted friends: What do you do when your dog dies? You buy another dog. In analogy we may find truth.
The street to the DHSS checkout is wide and windy. It is home. I write of the important things, the people and the sulphurous smell in the air. It is part of me. The dialect I relish; by no means the ‘Scots’ that is peddled in Edinburgh, nor the pervasive Glaswegian, but the true dialect of this area, this town of East Central Scotland. My town, it is my dialect, one which I use daily. And as I enter the dole office I greet the counter clerk, thankfully not the girl from the pub, with an ‘Awright?’ and a stare.
Yes, I know I am late and I sign my name. And what is this – a summons to a Restart interview. I knew it was imminent. I will roll with the punch and attend. Next Wednesday. I have a singing appointment in Fife next Tuesday night, but I will be here at this office on the Wed. a.m. at 10.30. Thanks. See ye.
And there is the rub. One sometimes has to take the rough with the smooth. It is expediency, I know. I do not want to risk having my money cut. One has to develop a thick skin, become wise. Unlike my friend, sensitive budding poet that he is, who is currently undergoing an induction course in primary school teaching in the west of the country. He succumbs to our taunts of his being a child molester, which we know is by no means the case. His visits to the pub have become less frequent, and I do not blame him, he has cause. He is a thin fellow who does not like being in the vicinity of drunk rugby players when our abuse begins. He is visibly afraid. It is no coincidence that the municipal rugby pitches surround the kiddies’ swing park. But such is the price one pays for position in society. As for me, I like the tender meat. I have no scruples on this score. If they are old enough to bleed et cetera. One of my latest deflowerings was of a young girl of local stock who I believed to be of an age of six/seventeen. Just prior to ‘going down for my breakfast’ she confided that she was in fact of a slender 14 years. It was then that I achieved 8 ½ inches for the first time. Indeed I wrote a song about it – needs must. Duly recorded on the four track and the cassette lodged in a sealed/stamped envelope in the bank for safe keeping. The music business is a risky one, full of sharks as we all well know, so one must take precautions. The song is one of my more personal efforts, it has been pigeonholed as ‘Dylanesque’ although I prefer the epithet ‘Dylanish’ as it in no way tries to mock the man or his style. And how could it? It is not about Dylan, although I do look to him for inspiration. As the saying goes, one must sing the life one lives and live the life one sings. I write of personal themes.
I stand outside the new supermarket and count my money. I have seven pounds and fifty four pence. Although hungry, I will not venture within and purchase consumables. It being the last Thursday of the month, the matriarch will probably get it together to buy some groceries. I shall starve till tea time. Also, the bastard wee brother will have been paid and may bring in fish suppers.
Mid-late afternoon and the reference section of the library is almost devoid of oldsters. There is one. Him with the immaculate C&A trenchcoat, who reeks of Aramis. He sniffs continuously. I watch him sideways from the pages of ‘Q’ magazine. And here’s a surprise. He is not sniffing, he is snorting. But that is not the word, it implies reverberation. This is a sniffing sound, but he exhales. I want to tell him to be quiet, but one cannot. Perhaps he does not realise he is doing it. Maybe suggest he goes home to masturbate, a sure cure for any blocked passage. They say it has something to do with the endorphins. Oh to feign injury to be pumped full of the morphine. Who was that guy with the kid-on abscess and the ether? It makes you think.
Returning ‘Q’ magazine to the rack I notice the quarterly Edinburgh poetry magazine with which I have frequently tried my luck. To my surprise I see my student teacher/poet friend’s name on the front. I open it to pages 16/17 and recognise his work immediately. Borrowing a pen from the library assistant I deface his offerings with the word ‘KNOB’. He will know it was me: my sense of humour. Perhaps this is going over the score. Besides the slagging I, we give him, I think he suspects I slept with his burd. Well, she wanked me off one night after he yet again left a party in the huff. I took my chance. She was willing, which is immaterial. Fat George and his bint were banging away at it in the next bed. So I slipped the mitt, big deal. She used to drop him home after the pub and drive round to my place for blow jobs. One thing my friend was right about – her tits were like vinegar bottles. Thank you, Lloydy, one day I will immortalise you in song. Prior to this I will buy you a pint in the pub at the weekend and ask you if you’ve seen your poems down the library.
I have written elsewhere that I have the morals ‘of a coo’.
It is now 5.30 pm i.e. tea time and it is obvious mother has been home seeing that her briefcase sits atop the kitchen table. A good sign is that her car is not in the driveway. Perhaps she has gone for food – the fridge is still empty. And the cereal bowl still lies in the sink. I will not wash it. I do not yet know if she has seen it. I will delay comment until she makes the first move – either when we are both in the kitchen or after it has disappeared to the cupboard. Either way makes no difference to me. The important thing is that its presence will have been noted.
The front door bangs and the smell of food wafts into the kitchen. The bastard wee brother has returned with fish suppers as anticipated. One plate, one knife and one fork are arranged neatly on the table, the briefcase having been moved to the shelf with the empty breakfast cereal packets.
‘And what is this?’ I ask.
‘My tea,’ he replies. The selfish get has ferried nothing from Gino’s for me. I stand in the doorway and watch as he thickly butters moist slices of pan bread, a loaf of which he has also brought in. The chips tinkle down onto the plate, and he removes the succulently pliable piece of fish from the wrapper with thumb and index finger. Slivers of batter peeling away, left sticking to the paper, which he crushes up and deposits in the pedal bin. Brown sauce now liberally applied to the meal. He commences to eat, daintily, with the knife and fork. Me pinching a chip from his plate is not going to happen. It is a habit of certain of my friends which I abhor. I have stuck cutlery into the backs of thieving hands because of it. I have strict standards pertaining to some things, and having food removed from my plate whilst I am eating is one of them. A Christian tenet, the reciprocity, to be observed at all times. The present impeccable table manners on his part are solely for effect. Rooting pigs live in awe of the bastard wee brother. I will not let it get to me.
He has left his jacket hanging on the stair post. I remove the car keys from the pocket with a noisy chink-chink and I am out the door. No need to take a coat. And mother pulls into the driveway, blocking in the spare car. She gets out and she is not removing message bags. We stare in greeting. She marches past me and the front door clicks shut. And now I must return to the lobby to don the frock coat because there is no way I am asking her to move her car, it would only instigate questions about petrol money. Better still ask to borrow her motor! Nevertheless I have the keys to the spare car – I will use it later when she has gone to her Cliff Richard appreciation club. For now, though, I must walk for food.
Across the arcade from the dole office, and chip shop assistants are an unhealthy looking lot. Too much grease on the fingers and hanging about in droplets in the air. Continuously wiping sweat/chip fat off their foreheads. I’m all for eating it, not wearing it. Still, I take pleasure in ordering a smoked sausage with two pickles and a sachet of tartar sauce from the pale, almost pubescent serving girl. The humour is lost on her as I ask her to squirt on the sauce for me as I’m going to be eating the food outside directly. And was that an embarrassed keek in my direction as she ran a darting little tongue along the inside of her index finger to remove the excess relish?! Probably. I will not stay and chat to her as I eat the food. Too much grease, I am beginning to want to rub my face.
Back at the house the mother imparts the information that Lloydy phoned, leaving a message that it was ‘important’. I inwardly chuckle as I know what it is:
1) he found his poems
2) scribbled on
I cannot return the call, since he has no phone. If he did, I would not, anyway. I like to let people simmer. If he calls again I will not answer my mother’s shout up the stair. She will tell him that I am out, one advantage of her willingness to do bugger all for me.
The breakfast bowl has been washed, dried and returned to the cupboard! And the shelf restocked with divers cereals. Plus turkey drummers in the fridge, two of which I now insert under the grill. Kettle filled and switched on, thick slices of Mighty White generously buttered. And me carrying these delicious pieces plus mug of piping hot tea, on a tray, into the living room to sit in the company of mother and the telly. The remote control conveniently on the arm of my chair, so we will watch TOTP. She wants to see it too, so no points being scored here.
‘Is that turkey drumsticks I smell?’ she asks. Here it comes.
‘That depends,’ says I.
‘They were for my tea you know.’
‘Oh aye, well I didnae fancy black bread and cabbage soup again.’
‘If you’d looked, there’s a steak at the bottom of the fridge.’
‘Good, I’ll have it later.’
Secretly, she enjoys our conversations. In her eyes I am the epitome of the starving artist who needs looking after. Plus the element of parental obligation. I am doing her a favour by living here.
The phone goes later as I am upstairs occupying myself with a Kleenex fantasy. Staring at Orion’s big dick on the ceiling. He reminds me of me. Mother answers but I refuse to be put off my stroke by her summons. I shuffle my way to the door, jeans and shorts at my ankles, and listen. Just as the distant voice in the hallway says, ‘He must be sleeping,’ I come into my hanky.
The mound of cardboard tissues between the bed and the bedside cabinet will have to be cleared out.
Time for the pub, and I have pulled on the good hiking boots. They make no sound as I stomp into the living room.
‘Where’s the car?’ I demand.
‘Grant took it,’ says mother, looking up from the Woman’s Weekly. I momentarily do not understand. Then I remember the spare set of keys she carries about in her purse.
‘And since when was it Grant’s car?’ I say.
‘I’ve told you, Derrick, you can use the car when you put petrol in it.’
‘But ye ken I’m no working!’ This last was unfortunate in the way it so easily slipped off the tongue, although she did not jump on the chance to further verbally berate me. No. She just raised her eyebrows.
She is standing at the living room window as I walk past. She’s got her coat on, getting ready for her ageing rocker society. Through the double glazing I hear a muffled ‘Lloydy phoned again!’
Stark is sitting at a table in the corner, on his own. He has a pint and a short in front of him. And a face like a burst ball.
‘Awright, Stark,’ I say. ‘How’s it going?’
He looks up. ‘Aw, no so good, Derrick. That’s the auld dug away. We took him up the vet the night. Fifteen year, Christ.’
‘Ach, never worry,’ I say. ‘Ye can always buy another yin. Drink?’
‘Naw, naw, I’m fine here. Sit down, Derrick, it’s my shout.’ He goes to the bar and soon returns with a lovely pint of black beer. Breaking with custom, I do not draw a face in the creamy head. Instead, I draw a wee dog.
‘Here’s tae Rover,’ I say.
‘Aye. Cheers.’ He has tears welling in his eyes. For fuck’s sake.
Enter, grim, Lloydy. Could it be that he has seen his poems and does not appreciate my scribblings? He approaches and Stark is already up and walking to the bar. Lloydy touches him on the arm. Words are exchanged. Stark orders more beer. Lloydy squeezes in behind the table.
‘Stark tell you about his dog?’ he says, full of concern.
I raise my glass and sip froth, squinting at him. With the glass still to my lips I say, ‘Do you think he’ll buy another dog?’ Lloydy shakes his head, is smiling because he knew I was going to say it. The fact is that he wanted to say it but is too polite. ‘You not supposed to be at the college?’ I say.
‘We’ve got a holiday tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I thought I’d come back for the weekend.’
‘Heh,’ I say, ‘here’s me thinking you’ve returned to give moral support to the boy cos his mutt checked oot!’
‘You’re some man you, sir,’ he says, but the smirk has disappeared. Stark has brought over a pint of Guinness. He sits at the single chair facing the table. Obviously he does not want to make conversation, is staring at the floor between his feet.
‘Lloydy, you no shagging any wee boys at that primary school yet?’ I enquire, just loud enough so that anyone within a ten yard radius can hear. The side of Stark’s mouth that I can just make out curves upwards. A few heads turn.
Lloydy looks at the ceiling and exhales. ‘Jesus Christ, Derrick!’ he shoutwhispers.
‘Whadye mean, “Of course!”?’ I bellow.
He tries to explain. ‘Look, Derrick, it would only take for one of these guys in here to be some child’s cousin . . .’
‘What’s wrong with ye?’ I say. He seems to be taking it very seriously. Indeed Lloydy has almost caved in in his seat. ‘Aw come on, I’m only kidding,’ I laugh. Stark’s face has resurfaced. It looks like he’s going to join in. But enough slagging for now. I don’t want to go over the score.
‘You’d never make a teacher,’ Lloydy says to me.
What!? A laugh almost erupts, but I restrain myself from spraying beer all over the shop. I pretend to be insulted.
‘You know how?’ he continues. ‘You wouldn’t know when not to be the centre of attention.’
The salvo is unleashed and Mooney goes down in flames.
‘Lloydy,’ I say, ‘ I wouldnae send my kids to school if I was the fucking teacher!’
‘No,’ joins in Stark, to Lloydy. ‘The difference between you and Mooney is that he would be up their arses.’
I laugh. It’s probably true. Lloydy’s no amused. In fact he’s started in on a story about a wee boy he’s teaching who lived the life of a dog until he was seven years old, the bedroom door opened every other solar eclipse or some shite and a plate of toast left on the carpet et cetera. This is me getting my wrist slapped by the teacher! And they are now getting into a discussion on the education of our treasured 8 - 11 year olds. What can be said by me on the subject? Not much.
Ten to ten and Fat George has just joined the company, with beers for the thirsty lads. I am now into my fifth free pint. Heh, they’re offering! And I am to rejoin the banter. It will now regain personal interest because tongues are being loosened in alcohol and Fat George has also been going down on Lloydy’s burd. Poor Lloydy – we all know and he doesnae! We also all know about me and Lloydy’s burd and, because it will be good fun, we shall now determine whether he is at all in the picture.
‘Heh Lloydy,’ I say. ‘What’s the most interesting place you’ve ever had a blow job?’
All eyes on the poet as he performs Comedy Workshop looks-over-the-shoulder to give his yarn the big build up. ‘Get this,’ he says. ‘Mind that party you had?’
‘What, the Good Taste party,’ I say, ‘where you went away in the cream puff?’
‘No, not that yin,’ he says. ‘It was a fortnight before – the National Anthems yin, mind?’
Fat George and I exchange a wink, but Stark’s gaze is on the table top.
‘Well,’ says Dug, ‘me and Gertrude...’
‘What the burd with tits like vinegar bottles?’ I say.
‘... aye, we stayed the night in your music room?’
Aye.
‘Well, on your sofa-bed,’ he says. ‘Hah! Aye, we used Hagar’s Afghan coat for a blanket. Christ, it was like a lump of furry cardboard in the morning!’
This of course is of no news to me – Gertrude told me about it. But let’s humour the guy. Or, no. Let’s not laugh in a way that might suggest it’s a good story. It’s an old story, we all knew the punchline. Lloydy’s looking a wee bit embarrassed. He deflects this with, ‘What about you, Derrick?’ At which point both Fat George and I disintegrate into whoops of laughter, me throwing in a crow-caw-caw for good measure. You’ve got to laugh. Lloydy joins in too, like the newly arrived foreigner who doesn’t yet understand the language but wants desperately to feel part of the company. On yersell, Lloydy. I won’t answer your question, though. How blind you are. We’re laughing, but you’re beyond a joke. It’s like you’re impervious to all that’s happening around you. Like a lump of rock, inert. A Standing Stone. A Standing Joke! A Laughing Stock!! With charity, I won’t mention your poems – you obviously don’t know about them, either. I’ll buy you that beer all the same. You’re what I would call ‘good value’. Then I’ll have to be on my way. I’m long overdue for a wank.
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: One day in the life of a parasite.
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Surfacing at one pm. Bursting for a shite – something to do with the ridiculous amounts of Guinness imbibed last night. Who am I to refuse free drink from friends with jobs? Somehow manage to traverse the luxury pile landing carpet to park myself on the toilet. Straining, but to no effect. Must be something to do with the ridic... hang on. Stand up, stare at the countenance in the mirror above the washhand basin. Eyes puffed and bloodshot, freckles a paler shade of whatever. First wank of the day.
That eased the blockage.
In the kitchen the cupboard is bare. And of Mother Hubbard you’d think she could at least look into Asda on her way home, fill up a trolley with butcher meat then pap the lot into the car boot to be transferred under internal combustion power to the house and thence to the deep freeze compartment of the refrigerator. But no. It’s not that I’m asking her to cook the stuff! Christ, I’m not handless. She could, alternatively, if she’s pushed for time, leave money on the kitchen table and I could get the provisions in myself. This unforgivable lack of breakfast fries I will not leave uncommented upon. Have to make do with the powdery Frosties from the bottom of the packet with semi-skimmed milk. A cardboard meal. The unwashed bowl left in the sink in registration of protest.
Back to the bedroom to don the day’s garb. Frock coat, plus 4’s, and hiking boots. I am a singer/songwriter of spiralling reputation and am therefore inclined/expected/obliged to wear clothes of an outlandish nature, without fear of ridicule. ‘Aye, that’s him.’ I fix them with a stare. This may of course be construed as a look of derision, but inwardly it pleases me immensely. I crave the recognition, the applause. It is for me, mine. I aim to create a musical ensemble whose name will bear testament to my life of ribald debauchery at the same time making mention of the length of my erect member, which is almost nine inches. I strive daily.*
* Derrick Mooney and his band, ‘Large One, Derrick’, are currently on a tour of the larger fishing villages on the east coast of Scotland.
Outside and the driveway is empty. The bastard wee brother has taken the spare car to drive to work again. Lamentable excess when the train station is but a ten minute walk away. And I must sign on – half an hour ago. Tell them I was looking for a job but it won’t wash. They know who I am. The clerk is a regular of the pub I frequent – hopefully she will not blether, but such is rest room banter I would imagine. The price of fame, perhaps a tinge of notoriety. I pull up the collar of my coat, borrowed from... Borrowed from. It is a woman with whom I have breakfasted on occasion. And the name – Carol, Caroline, Cynthia – she was the one who would not consent to anal sex. I recall that our relationship ended after, what, four weeks. One should not waste time between affairs. This is the advice I give to jilted friends: What do you do when your dog dies? You buy another dog. In analogy we may find truth.
The street to the DHSS checkout is wide and windy. It is home. I write of the important things, the people and the sulphurous smell in the air. It is part of me. The dialect I relish; by no means the ‘Scots’ that is peddled in Edinburgh, nor the pervasive Glaswegian, but the true dialect of this area, this town of East Central Scotland. My town, it is my dialect, one which I use daily. And as I enter the dole office I greet the counter clerk, thankfully not the girl from the pub, with an ‘Awright?’ and a stare.
Yes, I know I am late and I sign my name. And what is this – a summons to a Restart interview. I knew it was imminent. I will roll with the punch and attend. Next Wednesday. I have a singing appointment in Fife next Tuesday night, but I will be here at this office on the Wed. a.m. at 10.30. Thanks. See ye.
And there is the rub. One sometimes has to take the rough with the smooth. It is expediency, I know. I do not want to risk having my money cut. One has to develop a thick skin, become wise. Unlike my friend, sensitive budding poet that he is, who is currently undergoing an induction course in primary school teaching in the west of the country. He succumbs to our taunts of his being a child molester, which we know is by no means the case. His visits to the pub have become less frequent, and I do not blame him, he has cause. He is a thin fellow who does not like being in the vicinity of drunk rugby players when our abuse begins. He is visibly afraid. It is no coincidence that the municipal rugby pitches surround the kiddies’ swing park. But such is the price one pays for position in society. As for me, I like the tender meat. I have no scruples on this score. If they are old enough to bleed et cetera. One of my latest deflowerings was of a young girl of local stock who I believed to be of an age of six/seventeen. Just prior to ‘going down for my breakfast’ she confided that she was in fact of a slender 14 years. It was then that I achieved 8 ½ inches for the first time. Indeed I wrote a song about it – needs must. Duly recorded on the four track and the cassette lodged in a sealed/stamped envelope in the bank for safe keeping. The music business is a risky one, full of sharks as we all well know, so one must take precautions. The song is one of my more personal efforts, it has been pigeonholed as ‘Dylanesque’ although I prefer the epithet ‘Dylanish’ as it in no way tries to mock the man or his style. And how could it? It is not about Dylan, although I do look to him for inspiration. As the saying goes, one must sing the life one lives and live the life one sings. I write of personal themes.
I stand outside the new supermarket and count my money. I have seven pounds and fifty four pence. Although hungry, I will not venture within and purchase consumables. It being the last Thursday of the month, the matriarch will probably get it together to buy some groceries. I shall starve till tea time. Also, the bastard wee brother will have been paid and may bring in fish suppers.
Mid-late afternoon and the reference section of the library is almost devoid of oldsters. There is one. Him with the immaculate C&A trenchcoat, who reeks of Aramis. He sniffs continuously. I watch him sideways from the pages of ‘Q’ magazine. And here’s a surprise. He is not sniffing, he is snorting. But that is not the word, it implies reverberation. This is a sniffing sound, but he exhales. I want to tell him to be quiet, but one cannot. Perhaps he does not realise he is doing it. Maybe suggest he goes home to masturbate, a sure cure for any blocked passage. They say it has something to do with the endorphins. Oh to feign injury to be pumped full of the morphine. Who was that guy with the kid-on abscess and the ether? It makes you think.
Returning ‘Q’ magazine to the rack I notice the quarterly Edinburgh poetry magazine with which I have frequently tried my luck. To my surprise I see my student teacher/poet friend’s name on the front. I open it to pages 16/17 and recognise his work immediately. Borrowing a pen from the library assistant I deface his offerings with the word ‘KNOB’. He will know it was me: my sense of humour. Perhaps this is going over the score. Besides the slagging I, we give him, I think he suspects I slept with his burd. Well, she wanked me off one night after he yet again left a party in the huff. I took my chance. She was willing, which is immaterial. Fat George and his bint were banging away at it in the next bed. So I slipped the mitt, big deal. She used to drop him home after the pub and drive round to my place for blow jobs. One thing my friend was right about – her tits were like vinegar bottles. Thank you, Lloydy, one day I will immortalise you in song. Prior to this I will buy you a pint in the pub at the weekend and ask you if you’ve seen your poems down the library.
I have written elsewhere that I have the morals ‘of a coo’.
It is now 5.30 pm i.e. tea time and it is obvious mother has been home seeing that her briefcase sits atop the kitchen table. A good sign is that her car is not in the driveway. Perhaps she has gone for food – the fridge is still empty. And the cereal bowl still lies in the sink. I will not wash it. I do not yet know if she has seen it. I will delay comment until she makes the first move – either when we are both in the kitchen or after it has disappeared to the cupboard. Either way makes no difference to me. The important thing is that its presence will have been noted.
The front door bangs and the smell of food wafts into the kitchen. The bastard wee brother has returned with fish suppers as anticipated. One plate, one knife and one fork are arranged neatly on the table, the briefcase having been moved to the shelf with the empty breakfast cereal packets.
‘And what is this?’ I ask.
‘My tea,’ he replies. The selfish get has ferried nothing from Gino’s for me. I stand in the doorway and watch as he thickly butters moist slices of pan bread, a loaf of which he has also brought in. The chips tinkle down onto the plate, and he removes the succulently pliable piece of fish from the wrapper with thumb and index finger. Slivers of batter peeling away, left sticking to the paper, which he crushes up and deposits in the pedal bin. Brown sauce now liberally applied to the meal. He commences to eat, daintily, with the knife and fork. Me pinching a chip from his plate is not going to happen. It is a habit of certain of my friends which I abhor. I have stuck cutlery into the backs of thieving hands because of it. I have strict standards pertaining to some things, and having food removed from my plate whilst I am eating is one of them. A Christian tenet, the reciprocity, to be observed at all times. The present impeccable table manners on his part are solely for effect. Rooting pigs live in awe of the bastard wee brother. I will not let it get to me.
He has left his jacket hanging on the stair post. I remove the car keys from the pocket with a noisy chink-chink and I am out the door. No need to take a coat. And mother pulls into the driveway, blocking in the spare car. She gets out and she is not removing message bags. We stare in greeting. She marches past me and the front door clicks shut. And now I must return to the lobby to don the frock coat because there is no way I am asking her to move her car, it would only instigate questions about petrol money. Better still ask to borrow her motor! Nevertheless I have the keys to the spare car – I will use it later when she has gone to her Cliff Richard appreciation club. For now, though, I must walk for food.
Across the arcade from the dole office, and chip shop assistants are an unhealthy looking lot. Too much grease on the fingers and hanging about in droplets in the air. Continuously wiping sweat/chip fat off their foreheads. I’m all for eating it, not wearing it. Still, I take pleasure in ordering a smoked sausage with two pickles and a sachet of tartar sauce from the pale, almost pubescent serving girl. The humour is lost on her as I ask her to squirt on the sauce for me as I’m going to be eating the food outside directly. And was that an embarrassed keek in my direction as she ran a darting little tongue along the inside of her index finger to remove the excess relish?! Probably. I will not stay and chat to her as I eat the food. Too much grease, I am beginning to want to rub my face.
Back at the house the mother imparts the information that Lloydy phoned, leaving a message that it was ‘important’. I inwardly chuckle as I know what it is:
1) he found his poems
2) scribbled on
I cannot return the call, since he has no phone. If he did, I would not, anyway. I like to let people simmer. If he calls again I will not answer my mother’s shout up the stair. She will tell him that I am out, one advantage of her willingness to do bugger all for me.
The breakfast bowl has been washed, dried and returned to the cupboard! And the shelf restocked with divers cereals. Plus turkey drummers in the fridge, two of which I now insert under the grill. Kettle filled and switched on, thick slices of Mighty White generously buttered. And me carrying these delicious pieces plus mug of piping hot tea, on a tray, into the living room to sit in the company of mother and the telly. The remote control conveniently on the arm of my chair, so we will watch TOTP. She wants to see it too, so no points being scored here.
‘Is that turkey drumsticks I smell?’ she asks. Here it comes.
‘That depends,’ says I.
‘They were for my tea you know.’
‘Oh aye, well I didnae fancy black bread and cabbage soup again.’
‘If you’d looked, there’s a steak at the bottom of the fridge.’
‘Good, I’ll have it later.’
Secretly, she enjoys our conversations. In her eyes I am the epitome of the starving artist who needs looking after. Plus the element of parental obligation. I am doing her a favour by living here.
The phone goes later as I am upstairs occupying myself with a Kleenex fantasy. Staring at Orion’s big dick on the ceiling. He reminds me of me. Mother answers but I refuse to be put off my stroke by her summons. I shuffle my way to the door, jeans and shorts at my ankles, and listen. Just as the distant voice in the hallway says, ‘He must be sleeping,’ I come into my hanky.
The mound of cardboard tissues between the bed and the bedside cabinet will have to be cleared out.
Time for the pub, and I have pulled on the good hiking boots. They make no sound as I stomp into the living room.
‘Where’s the car?’ I demand.
‘Grant took it,’ says mother, looking up from the Woman’s Weekly. I momentarily do not understand. Then I remember the spare set of keys she carries about in her purse.
‘And since when was it Grant’s car?’ I say.
‘I’ve told you, Derrick, you can use the car when you put petrol in it.’
‘But ye ken I’m no working!’ This last was unfortunate in the way it so easily slipped off the tongue, although she did not jump on the chance to further verbally berate me. No. She just raised her eyebrows.
She is standing at the living room window as I walk past. She’s got her coat on, getting ready for her ageing rocker society. Through the double glazing I hear a muffled ‘Lloydy phoned again!’
Stark is sitting at a table in the corner, on his own. He has a pint and a short in front of him. And a face like a burst ball.
‘Awright, Stark,’ I say. ‘How’s it going?’
He looks up. ‘Aw, no so good, Derrick. That’s the auld dug away. We took him up the vet the night. Fifteen year, Christ.’
‘Ach, never worry,’ I say. ‘Ye can always buy another yin. Drink?’
‘Naw, naw, I’m fine here. Sit down, Derrick, it’s my shout.’ He goes to the bar and soon returns with a lovely pint of black beer. Breaking with custom, I do not draw a face in the creamy head. Instead, I draw a wee dog.
‘Here’s tae Rover,’ I say.
‘Aye. Cheers.’ He has tears welling in his eyes. For fuck’s sake.
Enter, grim, Lloydy. Could it be that he has seen his poems and does not appreciate my scribblings? He approaches and Stark is already up and walking to the bar. Lloydy touches him on the arm. Words are exchanged. Stark orders more beer. Lloydy squeezes in behind the table.
‘Stark tell you about his dog?’ he says, full of concern.
I raise my glass and sip froth, squinting at him. With the glass still to my lips I say, ‘Do you think he’ll buy another dog?’ Lloydy shakes his head, is smiling because he knew I was going to say it. The fact is that he wanted to say it but is too polite. ‘You not supposed to be at the college?’ I say.
‘We’ve got a holiday tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I thought I’d come back for the weekend.’
‘Heh,’ I say, ‘here’s me thinking you’ve returned to give moral support to the boy cos his mutt checked oot!’
‘You’re some man you, sir,’ he says, but the smirk has disappeared. Stark has brought over a pint of Guinness. He sits at the single chair facing the table. Obviously he does not want to make conversation, is staring at the floor between his feet.
‘Lloydy, you no shagging any wee boys at that primary school yet?’ I enquire, just loud enough so that anyone within a ten yard radius can hear. The side of Stark’s mouth that I can just make out curves upwards. A few heads turn.
Lloydy looks at the ceiling and exhales. ‘Jesus Christ, Derrick!’ he shoutwhispers.
‘Whadye mean, “Of course!”?’ I bellow.
He tries to explain. ‘Look, Derrick, it would only take for one of these guys in here to be some child’s cousin . . .’
‘What’s wrong with ye?’ I say. He seems to be taking it very seriously. Indeed Lloydy has almost caved in in his seat. ‘Aw come on, I’m only kidding,’ I laugh. Stark’s face has resurfaced. It looks like he’s going to join in. But enough slagging for now. I don’t want to go over the score.
‘You’d never make a teacher,’ Lloydy says to me.
What!? A laugh almost erupts, but I restrain myself from spraying beer all over the shop. I pretend to be insulted.
‘You know how?’ he continues. ‘You wouldn’t know when not to be the centre of attention.’
The salvo is unleashed and Mooney goes down in flames.
‘Lloydy,’ I say, ‘ I wouldnae send my kids to school if I was the fucking teacher!’
‘No,’ joins in Stark, to Lloydy. ‘The difference between you and Mooney is that he would be up their arses.’
I laugh. It’s probably true. Lloydy’s no amused. In fact he’s started in on a story about a wee boy he’s teaching who lived the life of a dog until he was seven years old, the bedroom door opened every other solar eclipse or some shite and a plate of toast left on the carpet et cetera. This is me getting my wrist slapped by the teacher! And they are now getting into a discussion on the education of our treasured 8 - 11 year olds. What can be said by me on the subject? Not much.
Ten to ten and Fat George has just joined the company, with beers for the thirsty lads. I am now into my fifth free pint. Heh, they’re offering! And I am to rejoin the banter. It will now regain personal interest because tongues are being loosened in alcohol and Fat George has also been going down on Lloydy’s burd. Poor Lloydy – we all know and he doesnae! We also all know about me and Lloydy’s burd and, because it will be good fun, we shall now determine whether he is at all in the picture.
‘Heh Lloydy,’ I say. ‘What’s the most interesting place you’ve ever had a blow job?’
All eyes on the poet as he performs Comedy Workshop looks-over-the-shoulder to give his yarn the big build up. ‘Get this,’ he says. ‘Mind that party you had?’
‘What, the Good Taste party,’ I say, ‘where you went away in the cream puff?’
‘No, not that yin,’ he says. ‘It was a fortnight before – the National Anthems yin, mind?’
Fat George and I exchange a wink, but Stark’s gaze is on the table top.
‘Well,’ says Dug, ‘me and Gertrude...’
‘What the burd with tits like vinegar bottles?’ I say.
‘... aye, we stayed the night in your music room?’
Aye.
‘Well, on your sofa-bed,’ he says. ‘Hah! Aye, we used Hagar’s Afghan coat for a blanket. Christ, it was like a lump of furry cardboard in the morning!’
This of course is of no news to me – Gertrude told me about it. But let’s humour the guy. Or, no. Let’s not laugh in a way that might suggest it’s a good story. It’s an old story, we all knew the punchline. Lloydy’s looking a wee bit embarrassed. He deflects this with, ‘What about you, Derrick?’ At which point both Fat George and I disintegrate into whoops of laughter, me throwing in a crow-caw-caw for good measure. You’ve got to laugh. Lloydy joins in too, like the newly arrived foreigner who doesn’t yet understand the language but wants desperately to feel part of the company. On yersell, Lloydy. I won’t answer your question, though. How blind you are. We’re laughing, but you’re beyond a joke. It’s like you’re impervious to all that’s happening around you. Like a lump of rock, inert. A Standing Stone. A Standing Joke! A Laughing Stock!! With charity, I won’t mention your poems – you obviously don’t know about them, either. I’ll buy you that beer all the same. You’re what I would call ‘good value’. Then I’ll have to be on my way. I’m long overdue for a wank.
About the Author
Douglas Lloyd was born and raised in Grangeburn. After studying Philosophy at the University of Scotland, he worked as a farm labourer. He has a PGCE from Williamount College, Glasgow, and a TEFL PrepCert from Travesty College, Edinburgh.
One Day In The Life Of Derrick Mooney first appeared in the October 1989 edition of Scottish Stories.
One Day In The Life Of Derrick Mooney first appeared in the October 1989 edition of Scottish Stories.