Twa Men Deid
by Brendan Gisby
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: When straying into the wrong pub becomes a sobering experience.
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: When straying into the wrong pub becomes a sobering experience.
New Year’s Day. A grey morning in a grey wee toon in the East of Scotland. Having seen the New Year in at a pal’s flat, Jukes and I were at that dangerous transitional stage between still being drunk and on the verge of suffering the mother of all hangovers. The only cure, we knew, was to down a few more beers as soon as possible and hence prolong our mellow state for at least a bit longer. So we went out looking for a pub. The first one we found open was less of a pub and more of a lounge with soft lighting and upholstered seating. It looked inviting, though, so we went in, bought a couple of pints and sat down in an alcove that faced the bar.
The place was almost empty to begin with, but it soon began to fill up. A succession of customers, men exclusively, entered singly or in twos and threes. In each case, the new arrivals greeted those already there, bought their drinks and then stood in the floor space in front of the bar, as if they were waiting for something to happen.
That was when we discovered our mistake. We saw that virtually all the customers were wearing the colours of the Heart of Midlothian football team, mostly in the form of scarves and bunnets, with the odd top among the younger men. And we noticed that the walls were plastered with framed team photographs, shields and other Hearts FC regalia. Somehow, us two dyed-in-the-wool Celtic men had strayed into a Hearts supporters’ pub!
“I shouldnae hae worn ma hoops tap,” Jukes whispered to me as he zipped his jerkin right up to the neck.
“I tellt you no’ tae,” I whispered back. “No’ in foreign territory.”
Then the penny dropped. New Year’s Day. These supporters would be gathering before they went off to the Hearts v. Hibs derby game in Edinburgh. It wouldn’t be long before they left for the match, though. We could relax again. So long as we kept ourselves to ourselves in the meantime. If only.
The pub’s double swing doors suddenly shot open and in stormed a man-mountain. Big Airchie. Well, we didn’t know his name, of course, but we referred to him as Big Airchie afterwards. And big he was. Standing at least a foot above everyone else, built like a brick shithouse, and with a voice so loud it bounced off the walls and ceiling. It was the voice that caused the trouble.
After Big Airchie boomed his greetings to the fellow-members of the supporters’ club, it became clear that he was the boss, the organiser of the club’s outing that day, when he announced to the pub, the toon, the world, “The bus’ll be here in hauf-an-oor. So noo’s the time to refill yer glesses afore we go.”
The trouble began when Jukes and I caught each other’s eyes. The hints of smiles on our faces suddenly broadened. Little sniggers escaped our mouths, followed by louder giggles. And the latter would have erupted into full-blown belly laughs had we not had the presence of mind to stifle the laughs in our throats.
“Noo,” Big Airchie continued, “could yous aw jist check ye’ve gote yer tickets wi’ ye. There’s still time tae get yer erse back hame fur them if ye huvnae.”
We couldn’t stifle the laughs this time, but we managed to clamp a hand over our mouths before it was too late. And we ended up spluttering into our hands – noisily.
Then it happened.
“There’s twa men deid here,” thundered Big Airchie, staring straight at us and giving us the deadeye.
My heart stopped. “Oh, fuck!” I heard Jukes exclaim under his breath. We looked at each other and shrugged, resigned to our fate.
Big Airchie returned his attention to the assembled supporters. “Aye, twa men deid,” he repeated. “Twa guid men fae the club whae passed durin’ the past year. Wee Sandy Anderson. An’ auld Jimmy McLuckie. Let’s hae a meenit’s silence fur them.”
By the time the minute was up, Jukes and I were breathing again. And we were both stone-cold sober.
The place was almost empty to begin with, but it soon began to fill up. A succession of customers, men exclusively, entered singly or in twos and threes. In each case, the new arrivals greeted those already there, bought their drinks and then stood in the floor space in front of the bar, as if they were waiting for something to happen.
That was when we discovered our mistake. We saw that virtually all the customers were wearing the colours of the Heart of Midlothian football team, mostly in the form of scarves and bunnets, with the odd top among the younger men. And we noticed that the walls were plastered with framed team photographs, shields and other Hearts FC regalia. Somehow, us two dyed-in-the-wool Celtic men had strayed into a Hearts supporters’ pub!
“I shouldnae hae worn ma hoops tap,” Jukes whispered to me as he zipped his jerkin right up to the neck.
“I tellt you no’ tae,” I whispered back. “No’ in foreign territory.”
Then the penny dropped. New Year’s Day. These supporters would be gathering before they went off to the Hearts v. Hibs derby game in Edinburgh. It wouldn’t be long before they left for the match, though. We could relax again. So long as we kept ourselves to ourselves in the meantime. If only.
The pub’s double swing doors suddenly shot open and in stormed a man-mountain. Big Airchie. Well, we didn’t know his name, of course, but we referred to him as Big Airchie afterwards. And big he was. Standing at least a foot above everyone else, built like a brick shithouse, and with a voice so loud it bounced off the walls and ceiling. It was the voice that caused the trouble.
After Big Airchie boomed his greetings to the fellow-members of the supporters’ club, it became clear that he was the boss, the organiser of the club’s outing that day, when he announced to the pub, the toon, the world, “The bus’ll be here in hauf-an-oor. So noo’s the time to refill yer glesses afore we go.”
The trouble began when Jukes and I caught each other’s eyes. The hints of smiles on our faces suddenly broadened. Little sniggers escaped our mouths, followed by louder giggles. And the latter would have erupted into full-blown belly laughs had we not had the presence of mind to stifle the laughs in our throats.
“Noo,” Big Airchie continued, “could yous aw jist check ye’ve gote yer tickets wi’ ye. There’s still time tae get yer erse back hame fur them if ye huvnae.”
We couldn’t stifle the laughs this time, but we managed to clamp a hand over our mouths before it was too late. And we ended up spluttering into our hands – noisily.
Then it happened.
“There’s twa men deid here,” thundered Big Airchie, staring straight at us and giving us the deadeye.
My heart stopped. “Oh, fuck!” I heard Jukes exclaim under his breath. We looked at each other and shrugged, resigned to our fate.
Big Airchie returned his attention to the assembled supporters. “Aye, twa men deid,” he repeated. “Twa guid men fae the club whae passed durin’ the past year. Wee Sandy Anderson. An’ auld Jimmy McLuckie. Let’s hae a meenit’s silence fur them.”
By the time the minute was up, Jukes and I were breathing again. And we were both stone-cold sober.
About the Author
Brendan Gisby is McStoryteller-in-Residence. He's the author of four novels, three biographies and several short story collections.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar. And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar. And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.