My point is, that’s what he was like in Glasgow in 1977, I saw him then as he was in his hospital bed, with his heart raging and his dick like a fucking radio transmitter, sending distress calls out to the world at large. Because Glasgow was a challenge to him. New rules. We’d be walking about the streets and seeing things like punk rockers for the first time. Here we were, just getting over hippies, and there would be these guys with the torn clothes and the dyed hair and the safety pins. And some of the birds looked rougher than the men. Total fucking culture shock, my friend. And here’s Tommy, like one of them rare fucking birds dancing with the big swollen chests on the telly, the fucking mating ritual of the lesser spotted wee hardman, with his poor fucking heart stretched all till its limits.

*

The place we were staying at was on the hill running up from Charing Cross to the School of Art, this cheap bed-and-breakfast place, no stars, plenty of vacancies, you do the sums. Renfrew Street was what you called it. This young couple runs it, this bird what looks like a worn-out Mary Millington porn star: blue eyeshadow, red lips, blonde hair like she’s something out of Charlie’s Angels, is the look. And her husband has got the porn moustache and the greasy, curly hair. Tommy is all over her like a rash, even though she’s rough as a badger. Outside of Patricia his taste in birds was excruciating, I have to reveal.

So as it’s the Jubilee. And we’re buying all this stuff to take back with us, fucking biscuit tins with the Queen’s face on it, fucking shortbread tins with the Queen’s face on it, fucking plates with the Queen’s face on it. Sure, your ma’ll love those, Tommy says to me. We’re coming back to the B&B with all this stuff under our arms and the fucking seventies porn star chick, maybe her name was Yvonne, it might have been Yvonne, this bird Yvonne, she says to us, are youse two neighbours?

Now that’s a fucking scary word. I feel the hair on the back of my arms rising up, like a cat, just at the thought of it. But Tommy’s right in there. Sure, we’re neighbours, he says to her. Are the two of youse from Belfast? she says to us. Naw, Tommy says to her. Sure, we’re from Birmingham. That was always a good bet: lots of Micks in Birmingham. Do youse get over for the parades? she says to Tommy. Oh aye, he says to her, oh aye. I send them money every year, he says to her.

I cannot fucking believe what I’m hearing. She’s looking at Tommy like he’s a big shot, like he’s a player behind the scenes, only on the other side. She’s impressed; she’s obviously a Hun. We’re having some drinks later, she says to him, having a few people over. You and your friend here are welcome to join us. I’m reduced to the fucking friend already. Sure, Tommy says to her. That would be lovely. Lovely, is it? This guy would do your fucking chump in.