Time passes but A’ve lost the concept ae its construction. Minutes ir hours n hours ir minutes n seconds ir days n days ir aw the ages of men. A hear everywan screamin. We both know wit’s happnin. Ferry Corsten is startin in the main arena. This wee room led intae it. A wee smile crosses Emma’s face n she cuddles intae me. We’re both trance lovers n fanatics tae our ravin religion n we’re missin it cos ae chasin this chemical happiness. It’s aw synthetic, no even real.

‘Where yi fae?’

‘Coatbrig.’

‘Awright, Emma. Half an hour in the main arena n A’ll drop yi aff in the mighty brig. Time tae boost this fuckin roost.’

A smile crosses the wee blonde’s face. ‘Right then, Azzy.’

A stand tae ma feet as if A’m on a surfboard cos the room’s spinnin n the rockets ir dipped in acid, so rumour hus it. A extend a hand n pull hur up. A de-toga, swingin the red blanket over ma heed. A stand before the senate tae plead ma case. This will be a gouch couch ae the people, by the people – fur the people. Emma chucks hers over hur shoulder. We walk oot the-gither n back intae the jungle fur wan last game ae Jumanji. A’m holdin hur hand n we’re walkin towards the big hall. Our pupils don’t need tae dilate. It’s pitch black, Sunday morning. We know where we’re going. Through the defeated hordes headin towards the gates n a thousand buses n taxis, we’re pushin onwards, loyal and true tae our cause. The cult hus us noo n they welcome us home. Intae the main arena in the Highland hall. Our god, at the front, wae his hands raised. We follow the lead. Take our place in the middle tae worship wan last time. Ferry Corsten, ‘Punk’. The lights ir blue n purple, lasers green. Emma holds me tight n pulls me closer towards her lips n A think, just fur a moment, that it could be love.

PART IV

Corroded

85M BILL FOR CRIME IN THE BUCKFAST TRIANGLE

The local authority which is home to the ‘Buckfast Triangle’ spent a massive £85 million tackling alcohol-related crime last year.

Shocking new statistics found that North Lanarkshire recorded almost 6,000 offences involving drink last year, around one every two hours, costing almost £250,000 a day.

The area was found to be home to several of the worst eight areas for drink-related deaths, and incorporates the so-called ‘Buckfast Triangle’ of Coatbridge, Airdrie and Bellshill, where there are markedly high sales of the strong, caffeine-high tonic wine.

Dean Herbert, Scottish Daily Express

Chemical Unhappiness

2009

It aw starts as usual. A grab the bucket kit oot ma wardrobe n stick the socket in it, wan fur turnin hexagonal nuts wae a wrench. It’s git a thin layer ae mesh inside, a pipe screen, burnt black tae remove the gold coating n stop us gittin zinc flu. A pack the socket wae grass, White Widow, potent smelly shit. The lighter’s flame gits sucked doon the socket as A pull the bottle up, oot the water, n twist it tae cream it up properly. The green crackles on the way up n it’s a pure milk-bottle creamer. The arse ae the bottle emerges oot the water filled wae that ominous green smoke. The Irn-Bru label is peelin aff in the dirty oil-filled water. A toss the hot socket intae the ashtray n hold the bottle still tae no spill any smoke oot the top. A cup ma hand roon its hot neck n sook the thing in a wanner. There’s a wee bubble fae the water n that’s it, nae goin back. The thick smoke goes intae ma lungs n A breathe it oot. A feel the usual punch tae the lung n the strong bucket kick. Usually this fades in a second n a wee cough up n yir away, melted oot yir fuckin nut, but that’s no how A feel, troops. No at aw.