NEWSLETTER

So she took his kex down. Just unzipped em an let them drop with his undies n all an there he is, tremblin like, bollocko, swayin either with terror or the bevvy or both like, this friggin shrivelled worm-thing between his legs, on show for all to see. Awful. Fuckin awful. An that Melody, she takes his knob an points it out at the audience an the crowd went even crazier, pissin themselves laughin, an the lad starts cryin but he’s just standin there, kex round his ankles like, fuckin humiliatin for the boy. Everyone’s laughin at him an Melody tips him on his back on the floor with his feet facing the crowd like an she gets on top of him an tries to shag him, I mean as I say she’s not fuckin shy that one, but Jeez... like tryna shove a marshmallow in a fuckin parkin meter. Pure fuckin embarassin it was. Bob an Willy an the rest of the lads, they’re in fuckin fits an I’m standin up, shoutin at the boy to fuckin give her one for me like but nowt’s happenin. Honest to God, hung like a Chinese mouse, him. Fuckin mortifyin, it was. An I weren’t gunna be showed up like that was I so I says fuck this an gets up on the stage meself, Melody’s squatting like with her back to the audience, can’t see me, an I gets into position behind her. Bouncer comes steamin over but he can’t get through the crush, an anyway I’m in the girl up to the friggin plums in a second. Gorra show the boy how to do it, like, haven’t I? Course I have. Retain some self-respect, like, innit? Pure fuckin embarrassin, that. Stepson or no, he’s associated with me, it was me who took him there. Makin me look a knob’ed, that. Melody’s now leanin forward on her hands like, hands an knees, straddlin the lad, an I’m givin it to her so friggin hard that I’ve pushed her forward an I only realize too late like that we’re both positioned over the boy’s face; I mean he’s still flat on his back on the deck, blubbin away like a ponce. No blood of mine in that boy, honest to God. But aye, he’s still in that position when I pull out so I couldn’t help where I friggin bloshed, could I? I couldn’t help where it went. Taught the softarse a lesson, anyway, didn’t it? If yer knocked over, get back up on yer feet. Fuckin end of lesson. Simple as. An if yeh can’t gerrit up yeh gerrout of there quickquick. Got things to learn, that boy, no fuckin lie.

So yeh, that was me; I did me thing then gave it toes. Too fuckin embarrassed to hang around, everyone there thinkin he was me blood relative, like. Mortified I was. Went off on a bender for a couple of days, gets home hungover to shite like and there she is, going on, what have I done to her son, in a terrible state, won’t come out of his room, locked himself in, all this shite. About a week ago this was an I haven’t seen the lad since. Not sure I want to, either, just yet, to be honest with yiz; I mean, right fuckin embarrassin episode that was. No son of mine who can’t gerrit up. Try an show someone a bit of heritage, get them involved like, try an include them in yer family’s history an what happens? See what yer get? A loader friggin grief, that’s what. Everyone laughin at yer on the shopfloor. Tellin yeh; next birthday, if we’re both still around like, he’ll get his friggin buke. Wish I’d never bothered now, to be honest. Fuckin farce, that’s what it was. Just embarrassin.

NIALL GRIFFITHS


Is the dialect in this story from Liverpool or Wales?

It’s halfway in between, I guess. Liverpool is very close to Wales.

Everyone in Britain is drunk all the time.

Yeah. It’s drinking with a real hysterical, desperate edge. Every town on a weekend night is just absolute pandemonium. It’s the willingness, the eagerness, to divest themselves of every last shred of dignity. And to end up in the gutter, the women with their tits hanging out in a pool of vomit, and men beating each other up and picking on the weak. Saturday nights are horrible in town.


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