Craig
by Lee Carrick
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A shitload of strong ones.
Description: Meet Craig. He's a moron. But he nahs a canny lot aboot footie.
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Summer transfer window 2011 last day; most exciting day of the year for me. The January window is canny good n’all. Ah couldn’t believe it when they managed t get thirty-five million for Carroll last January. Sometimes ah think managers look too much at form and not enough at stats. All the toon fans were laughing al owa their faces at them daft suits running Liverpool. Poor Scouse twats didn’t have a scooby doo what they were getting themselves into. For a city that prides itself on its thieving ability, they got robbed royally off the Geordies. Ah feel canny sorry for them to be honest, Torres on his worst day is better than Carroll on his best. The lanky fucker has done fuck all since signing for them, saying that, Torres has done even less. Sky Sports News tried to be positive about it but ah could see it in that Kirsty Gallagher’s face that she knew it was a daft idea.
It’s canny easy to get excited on when the deadline’s due like, loads gan on. Nae one else here seems that bothered aboot what’s gan on, call themselves toon fans, they’re more interested in Ronnie turning up and the sniff on the table than they are about their team. Ah cannit really blame Dean though, nowt much to get excited about if you’re a Hibs fan, nowt much gans on owa the border unless you’re a Celtic or Rangers supporter. Dean telt iz that most cunts in Edinburgh support one of the Glasgow teams, even though they’ve got Hearts and Hibs to choose from, nae wonder Scottish football is in the state it’s in. I tried talking to him about it, but it seems to dishearten him, either that or he just doesn’t wanna talk to iz like. Who nahs.
Am canny happy Ronnie’s turned up too, but its bad timing, there’s still last minute news coming through on tele. He’s not interested in the footie though so al probs give him an update on what’s been gan on since he’s been away, that fat cockney twat running wor club has got a lot to answer for. Al talk t um later though, I’m still waiting on my first lifter, JD’s knocked them up but ah cannit take me eye’s off the tele. On top ah that Ronnie’s talkin aboot yoga and tai chi n all that shit. He reckons going to India didn’t change him, but it did. Nae proper lad from Shields would be talking about yoga at a party, ah mean what’s the point in yoga anyway, standing on y fuckin heed while suckin on ya big toe. Never understood them people like. Although ah daint take the piss oot them like, live and let live n that, ah just cannit be interested, not when there’s proper sports like footie.
Am ganna have t have that line like, everyone else has had one now and they’re all talking away, it’s making me canny paranoid cos ah feel a bit left oot. If a daint get involved now ah never will, ah cannit interrupt people once they’re talking, a daint like feeling like am stopping they’re flow, a guess it’s a lack of confidence maybe, or something like that, a daint want t kill their buzz talkin aboot the footie, but a daint really nah much aboot anything else. “Here Dean is that my line?” Ah have to snort through my left nostril, my right one isn’t wide enough at the top, the bone in my nose leans that way after Dean heed butted iz that time cos a was trying to talk to um when he was chatting up some lass, she fucked off and he said I’d fucked it up for him, ah tried to protest and a got little butt on the nose, he didn’t put all his force into it like but still, the fucker’s been bent ever since. He said sorry later like, he’s not all bad, he acts the big lad in front of people but he’s alright really. Its JD y need to watch oot for, he can be nice as pie one minute but when he snaps it’s all owa. Date Rape got a serious kicking off him once, I’m surprised they’re still mates.
Ah’ve had that line now and it’s just hit the back of me throat, that thick bitter sweet taste that crawls doon the back of y throat making its way to y lungs and into the blood stream. It’s the best bit aboot doing lines, that’s when you get to taste the quality and I always feel a lot better aboot me sel cos a know the rush is coming and the confidence soon after, then I’ll be able to get involved in the craic more withoot feeling nervous n that. All these fuckers in here are confident withoot the sniff, especially Ronnie and JD, but ah need it like. They’re all deep in conversation now like, so a better get involved. “Lads, lads. Can yiz name all the English players who’ve scored one hundred goals or more in the premiership? There’s fourteen in total.” I bet they cannit, I’ve got them all in me heed though. There’s not much a daint nah aboot football, it’s my forte. The lads take the piss oot of iz cos a nah all this shit and read the sports page of every paper every day on the Internet, they say am a puff for reading the Independent and the Times, but they just daint get it, that’s where y get the real info and the facts, not this opinionated bullshit you get in the Sun and the Mirror. And even though they rip me for it, every lad likes to think they nah aboot footie, and they’re easily hooked in at this early stage of the sniff match.
Ronnie jumps in with the obvious ones, it’s all aboot quantity with him, but fair play to um he gets the convo going which makes iz feel better cos it was a fifty-fifty as to whether I was going to get told to fuck off: “Alan Shearer, Andy Cole, Michael Owen and Les Ferdinand, all former toon players I might add.” He’s right so far. Everyone is rattling their brains noo, except Dean that is, he’s racking up more lines. “Reet,” JD says, “Teddy Sheringham, Jermaine Defoe, Frank Lampard, eh Matt Le Tissiier and James Beattie.” “Four oot a five, not bad,” a say. JD’s face twists and he’s staring at me. “What the fuck d y mean four oot of five, they’re all right.”
I’m a bit hesitant now cos a nah he’s got a temper. “Nah mate, eh James Beattie’s only scored 90 goals in the league, but he’s canny close to breaking it like.” Now I’ve pissed him off and he’s shouting at me, When JD wants to win an argument he just gets louder until the other cunt backs doon. “Has he fuck,” he screams in my face, “he’s defo over one hundred like.” I’ve got two options now, I can get the net up on me IPhone and prove him wrong, or I can just agree with him, appease him so he doesn’t get the hump and give me shit all night. “Aye maybe yer right mate, sorry.” Ah can see Date Rape trying think of names of footballers that he nahs but he’s not really into it, he’s just trying not to look like a dick in front of everyone else. “Ryan Giggs,” ee says. The Room gans up with laughter and Ronnie is right there to chop the poor cunt down. Ah feel a bit bad for him like cos ees just trying to get involved. Now it’s Tatey’s turn, he’s usually quite good at this. “Reet y thick cunts, this is easy, what we got? Eight so far, and how many is their Craig? Fourteen you said, so that leaves six more, reet: Robbie Fowler obviously, Ian Wright, Fat Emile Heskey, Paul Scholes, Granny Shagger Wayne Rooney and eh....Fuck who’s the last one?” Ah love this bit cos no one ever gets it and now everyone’s heeds are battered and I’m sitting here in the know. Nae one is gonna get it. “D yis want a clue? He’s a striker, played for Man United and he’s black.” Ah dee this on purpose cos the Man U bit always throws them, he wasn’t famous for playing at Man U. Ha ha this is class. “How’ay then tell iz,” Tatey says, impatient as always. “Dion Dublin,” Ah tell um with a big smile on me face.
“All your dreams are made, when you’rr chained to the mirror and the razor blade”. Am singing at the top of me voice, the toot has really got a hold of iz now. Usually if ah was this loud JD would go mental but am singing Oasis so he seems not to care about the volume. Ah wasn’t allowed to listen to this kind of stuff at home, me da said it was all shite and made me listen to Elvis and Otis Redding instead, ah wasn’t even allowed to by the CD’s. Ah always felt a bit left oot when all the lads were away to the concerts in the nineties. Am the oldest cunt here, got five years on Ronnie, he was still a bairn when Oasis broke and he still nahs more aboot them than me. Ee says the British music scene is dead now, nothing really happened since that Libertines band broke up. When he talks aboot it ah just nod and agree.
Ronnie is chatting away and then I hear my name amongst the machine gun fire.
- Here Tatey remember that time we told Craig ees ma and da had been killed in a car crash? Ah naw that was me and Date Rape wan it? Can y remember that Dave? Wey listen lads, we were driving doon Temple Park road, aboot four months ago, me n Dave in Dave’s car, we were just dodging aboot bored oot our tits. We pulled up to the traffic lights and Craig’s folks were in the other lane. N ye lot nah Date Rape, ees got a disgusting mind when it suits um like. Just came oot with it. Here lets bell Craig pretending to be the busies and tell um ees ma n da are dead.
So Date Rape took a left at the round-about and headed towards the hospital, pulled up in a bus stop, got ees phone oot, changed the settings so the phone call would be from a witheld number and called Craig. Is that Mr Craig Jones?....Of twenty-three Mulberry Crescent?.... Son of Michael and Evelyn Jones?.... This is PC Elstob... Ok sir are you somewhere where you can take a seat, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.... Your parents were involved in a road traffic accident this morning.... I’m sorry to tell you that they were both killed in the collision.... I’m sorry son.... Come on now, I’m sure your parents wouldn’t want you to be crying down the phone to an officer of the law.... can you meet me outside the accident and emergency department of South Shields General Hospital.... Yes son straight away. So me n Dave drove rund to the A&E and sat ootside in the car waiting for Craig to turn up, the cunt took ages getting there man, at one point ah thought that maybe it hadn’t worked. After aboot half an hour we saw him running up to the front doors, the stupid fucker was still in his pajamas, crying his eyes out. He was in the hospital aboot an hour before he came out, wish ah could have been a fly on them walls like. Ye’d think he would have tried calling ees ma and da before out else but not Craig.
I knew it was them, they were just having fun I guess. Ronnie and Dave aren’t bad lads really.
Swearwords: A shitload of strong ones.
Description: Meet Craig. He's a moron. But he nahs a canny lot aboot footie.
_____________________________________________________________________
Summer transfer window 2011 last day; most exciting day of the year for me. The January window is canny good n’all. Ah couldn’t believe it when they managed t get thirty-five million for Carroll last January. Sometimes ah think managers look too much at form and not enough at stats. All the toon fans were laughing al owa their faces at them daft suits running Liverpool. Poor Scouse twats didn’t have a scooby doo what they were getting themselves into. For a city that prides itself on its thieving ability, they got robbed royally off the Geordies. Ah feel canny sorry for them to be honest, Torres on his worst day is better than Carroll on his best. The lanky fucker has done fuck all since signing for them, saying that, Torres has done even less. Sky Sports News tried to be positive about it but ah could see it in that Kirsty Gallagher’s face that she knew it was a daft idea.
It’s canny easy to get excited on when the deadline’s due like, loads gan on. Nae one else here seems that bothered aboot what’s gan on, call themselves toon fans, they’re more interested in Ronnie turning up and the sniff on the table than they are about their team. Ah cannit really blame Dean though, nowt much to get excited about if you’re a Hibs fan, nowt much gans on owa the border unless you’re a Celtic or Rangers supporter. Dean telt iz that most cunts in Edinburgh support one of the Glasgow teams, even though they’ve got Hearts and Hibs to choose from, nae wonder Scottish football is in the state it’s in. I tried talking to him about it, but it seems to dishearten him, either that or he just doesn’t wanna talk to iz like. Who nahs.
Am canny happy Ronnie’s turned up too, but its bad timing, there’s still last minute news coming through on tele. He’s not interested in the footie though so al probs give him an update on what’s been gan on since he’s been away, that fat cockney twat running wor club has got a lot to answer for. Al talk t um later though, I’m still waiting on my first lifter, JD’s knocked them up but ah cannit take me eye’s off the tele. On top ah that Ronnie’s talkin aboot yoga and tai chi n all that shit. He reckons going to India didn’t change him, but it did. Nae proper lad from Shields would be talking about yoga at a party, ah mean what’s the point in yoga anyway, standing on y fuckin heed while suckin on ya big toe. Never understood them people like. Although ah daint take the piss oot them like, live and let live n that, ah just cannit be interested, not when there’s proper sports like footie.
Am ganna have t have that line like, everyone else has had one now and they’re all talking away, it’s making me canny paranoid cos ah feel a bit left oot. If a daint get involved now ah never will, ah cannit interrupt people once they’re talking, a daint like feeling like am stopping they’re flow, a guess it’s a lack of confidence maybe, or something like that, a daint want t kill their buzz talkin aboot the footie, but a daint really nah much aboot anything else. “Here Dean is that my line?” Ah have to snort through my left nostril, my right one isn’t wide enough at the top, the bone in my nose leans that way after Dean heed butted iz that time cos a was trying to talk to um when he was chatting up some lass, she fucked off and he said I’d fucked it up for him, ah tried to protest and a got little butt on the nose, he didn’t put all his force into it like but still, the fucker’s been bent ever since. He said sorry later like, he’s not all bad, he acts the big lad in front of people but he’s alright really. Its JD y need to watch oot for, he can be nice as pie one minute but when he snaps it’s all owa. Date Rape got a serious kicking off him once, I’m surprised they’re still mates.
Ah’ve had that line now and it’s just hit the back of me throat, that thick bitter sweet taste that crawls doon the back of y throat making its way to y lungs and into the blood stream. It’s the best bit aboot doing lines, that’s when you get to taste the quality and I always feel a lot better aboot me sel cos a know the rush is coming and the confidence soon after, then I’ll be able to get involved in the craic more withoot feeling nervous n that. All these fuckers in here are confident withoot the sniff, especially Ronnie and JD, but ah need it like. They’re all deep in conversation now like, so a better get involved. “Lads, lads. Can yiz name all the English players who’ve scored one hundred goals or more in the premiership? There’s fourteen in total.” I bet they cannit, I’ve got them all in me heed though. There’s not much a daint nah aboot football, it’s my forte. The lads take the piss oot of iz cos a nah all this shit and read the sports page of every paper every day on the Internet, they say am a puff for reading the Independent and the Times, but they just daint get it, that’s where y get the real info and the facts, not this opinionated bullshit you get in the Sun and the Mirror. And even though they rip me for it, every lad likes to think they nah aboot footie, and they’re easily hooked in at this early stage of the sniff match.
Ronnie jumps in with the obvious ones, it’s all aboot quantity with him, but fair play to um he gets the convo going which makes iz feel better cos it was a fifty-fifty as to whether I was going to get told to fuck off: “Alan Shearer, Andy Cole, Michael Owen and Les Ferdinand, all former toon players I might add.” He’s right so far. Everyone is rattling their brains noo, except Dean that is, he’s racking up more lines. “Reet,” JD says, “Teddy Sheringham, Jermaine Defoe, Frank Lampard, eh Matt Le Tissiier and James Beattie.” “Four oot a five, not bad,” a say. JD’s face twists and he’s staring at me. “What the fuck d y mean four oot of five, they’re all right.”
I’m a bit hesitant now cos a nah he’s got a temper. “Nah mate, eh James Beattie’s only scored 90 goals in the league, but he’s canny close to breaking it like.” Now I’ve pissed him off and he’s shouting at me, When JD wants to win an argument he just gets louder until the other cunt backs doon. “Has he fuck,” he screams in my face, “he’s defo over one hundred like.” I’ve got two options now, I can get the net up on me IPhone and prove him wrong, or I can just agree with him, appease him so he doesn’t get the hump and give me shit all night. “Aye maybe yer right mate, sorry.” Ah can see Date Rape trying think of names of footballers that he nahs but he’s not really into it, he’s just trying not to look like a dick in front of everyone else. “Ryan Giggs,” ee says. The Room gans up with laughter and Ronnie is right there to chop the poor cunt down. Ah feel a bit bad for him like cos ees just trying to get involved. Now it’s Tatey’s turn, he’s usually quite good at this. “Reet y thick cunts, this is easy, what we got? Eight so far, and how many is their Craig? Fourteen you said, so that leaves six more, reet: Robbie Fowler obviously, Ian Wright, Fat Emile Heskey, Paul Scholes, Granny Shagger Wayne Rooney and eh....Fuck who’s the last one?” Ah love this bit cos no one ever gets it and now everyone’s heeds are battered and I’m sitting here in the know. Nae one is gonna get it. “D yis want a clue? He’s a striker, played for Man United and he’s black.” Ah dee this on purpose cos the Man U bit always throws them, he wasn’t famous for playing at Man U. Ha ha this is class. “How’ay then tell iz,” Tatey says, impatient as always. “Dion Dublin,” Ah tell um with a big smile on me face.
“All your dreams are made, when you’rr chained to the mirror and the razor blade”. Am singing at the top of me voice, the toot has really got a hold of iz now. Usually if ah was this loud JD would go mental but am singing Oasis so he seems not to care about the volume. Ah wasn’t allowed to listen to this kind of stuff at home, me da said it was all shite and made me listen to Elvis and Otis Redding instead, ah wasn’t even allowed to by the CD’s. Ah always felt a bit left oot when all the lads were away to the concerts in the nineties. Am the oldest cunt here, got five years on Ronnie, he was still a bairn when Oasis broke and he still nahs more aboot them than me. Ee says the British music scene is dead now, nothing really happened since that Libertines band broke up. When he talks aboot it ah just nod and agree.
Ronnie is chatting away and then I hear my name amongst the machine gun fire.
- Here Tatey remember that time we told Craig ees ma and da had been killed in a car crash? Ah naw that was me and Date Rape wan it? Can y remember that Dave? Wey listen lads, we were driving doon Temple Park road, aboot four months ago, me n Dave in Dave’s car, we were just dodging aboot bored oot our tits. We pulled up to the traffic lights and Craig’s folks were in the other lane. N ye lot nah Date Rape, ees got a disgusting mind when it suits um like. Just came oot with it. Here lets bell Craig pretending to be the busies and tell um ees ma n da are dead.
So Date Rape took a left at the round-about and headed towards the hospital, pulled up in a bus stop, got ees phone oot, changed the settings so the phone call would be from a witheld number and called Craig. Is that Mr Craig Jones?....Of twenty-three Mulberry Crescent?.... Son of Michael and Evelyn Jones?.... This is PC Elstob... Ok sir are you somewhere where you can take a seat, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.... Your parents were involved in a road traffic accident this morning.... I’m sorry to tell you that they were both killed in the collision.... I’m sorry son.... Come on now, I’m sure your parents wouldn’t want you to be crying down the phone to an officer of the law.... can you meet me outside the accident and emergency department of South Shields General Hospital.... Yes son straight away. So me n Dave drove rund to the A&E and sat ootside in the car waiting for Craig to turn up, the cunt took ages getting there man, at one point ah thought that maybe it hadn’t worked. After aboot half an hour we saw him running up to the front doors, the stupid fucker was still in his pajamas, crying his eyes out. He was in the hospital aboot an hour before he came out, wish ah could have been a fly on them walls like. Ye’d think he would have tried calling ees ma and da before out else but not Craig.
I knew it was them, they were just having fun I guess. Ronnie and Dave aren’t bad lads really.
About the Author
Lee Carrick is in his twenties. Originally from South Shields, he now lives in Edinburgh. His biggest passions in life are writing and travelling, and he likes to combine the two. He has been writing poetry since he was 15, but only recently began to write fiction. He was inspired to write by Ian Banks' The Wasp Factory and Neil Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors. The Care Home, his first novella, is a McStorytellers publication.
Lee’s full profile can be read on McVoices.
Lee’s full profile can be read on McVoices.