HAPPY NEW YEAR, YA CUNTS!

Dead or Alive

2005

Big Harold McKenzie is a bear. He’s git a Celtic badge tattooed on his chest. There’s eld IRA wans anaw, a sunburst n EIRE wae a masked gunman wae a rifle on his arm n shoulder. He’s worked on the roads his full life in a tarring squad n kicks aboot in rigger boots n a hi-vis vest constant. Harold is always tanned n built solid cos ae it, wae a big baldy napper n aw muscle mass n a thick neck. The big man enjoys a bottle ae wine just as much as us n there’s always a Club cigarette hangin oot the corner ae his mouth. They’re strong fags n if he took a Mayfair aff yi, he always complained that he couldnae git a draw ae it. He’d rip aff the brown filter n stick the tightly rolled end in his mouth n spark the other raggedy side. A’m no sure where he came fae originally but he’s git CYT tattooed on his arm under wan ae his Republican tattoos. He hud been hard on Big Kenzie as a wee boy, n as a result Tam ended up tough as nails. They hud been softer on Wee Kenzie n he hud never amounted tae the fame ae his brother. Maybe it’s hereditary or maybe it’s genetic. Nature n nurture n that. Fuck knows.

Big Harold is rootin aboot in the shed, blindin n cursin as he rattles eld paint tins n brushes n shovels. A see a spade n a hoe fallin on his builder’s arse n him cursin like fuck at it. Me n the two brothers ir standin tryin no tae laugh. Their shed is a treasure trove ae gardenin n work materials procured fae a variety ae places and in creative ways. The lawnmower’s wire is tangled roon the extension cable n is formin an orange web. Harold is the big juicy fuckin fly caught in the middle. ‘Cumeer, ya bastard!’ he says without pausin. There’s an almighty crash fae the shed. A go tae poke ma heed roon the wee wooden door, Big Kenzie shakes his heed n lights two fags in his mouth n passes us wan. ‘THEREYIRTHERE,YAWEECUNT,’ Harold says aw in the wan word. Another crash n bang. He pulls oot a brown can ae creosote, two big thick brushes n two pairs ae red plastic gloves wae a material bit on the bottom. He sticks them in a bin bag n gives them tae me.

‘Cheers fur that, Harold,’ A say, lookin at his big red face fae bendin.

‘Nae bother, son. They’re wee cunts dain that. Git yir arses up there n git it sorted.’ He hands us a hard wire brush. ‘Mind fuckin brush it furst, eh? Dinnae be tryin tae paint over it, it’s only a varnish creosote but it’s aw A’ve goat.’

We aw nod a thanks n start walkin up tae the top park. There’s nuhin tae it really. Just two swings n a wee chute. This isnae our real haunt. The weans ae the scheme tended tae huv this park tae themselves n yi often seen a squad ae maws wae prams here natterin n smokin fags. Yi used tae git told aff fur wrappin the swings roon the frames when yi wur a bit younger n hunted fae hangin aboot this wan. We aw shifted doon the bottom park after that. Yi love yir wee park n dens when yir a wee guy but suhin changes when yi enter yir teenage years n yi just wanted tae smash them up.