Archives for the month of: November, 2011

It was never going to be pleasant.

As the boat grumbled to a stop a ruddy faced, middle-aged man appeared and threw a wet rope at Clive – he dropped it. After that Georgie Delaware was not what you might call friendly. When Clive offers his hand, Georgie ignores it and responds with a gruff nod before he grunts that their gear ‘issnae gonna load itself.’

It takes Clive a few moments to realise what he means, then half an hour to persuade the lads to help, during which he suffers verbal abuse revolving around the size of his penis and the fact that Fingers slept with his wife. On the journey over to the island Clive is grateful for the roar of the engine. When they land Georgie lends a hand to unload and reload onto a trailer because he ‘cannae stomach anymore of tha’ bullshit’, but it takes longer than it should due to the presence of a fucking huge and overly curious saddle back pig.

‘Tis only Ruby, says Georgie by way of explanation slapping her playfully on her flank.

It is dark by the time Clive climbs clumsily into the trailer with the gear and the lads to be hauled by tractor to the big house, which is large and no longer grand. The lads, despondent at the state of the place, slouch into the huge drawing room, skin up and snap ring pulls off the ‘settling in’ cans of bitter that Clive is thankful he packed. Georgie shows him the generator and he’s given the briefest instructions as to how to operate it. There are the gas lamps for light, the bedrooms are cold and musty, the woodpile is stacked for one night. When Clive asks how much Georgie charges to replenish it Georgie says he doesn’t charge and adds that he doesn’t replenish it either, pointing out an axe next to the door, for the guests use in the abundant woods beyond. There is no phone, intermittent mobile reception, no internet, no island shop, no boozer; no one else in residence. There is a dinghy for guests to utilize once they sign a waiver and a small shop twenty-five minutes across the water.

“Check the forecast,” Georgie adds because the crossing is unpredictable, he’s lost guests to it more than once.

“Great,” Clive mutters, “really great Georgie mate.” But the dour man mutters great or not it’s no bother to him. “Right-O,” laughs Clive nervously, his perky smile fading into something more desperate.

It is freezing. Clive makes a fire in the vast fireplace while the lads huddle on dilapidated sofa’s, passing joints and exchanging glances which turn into giggles.

“Were tha’ pig a bird pig?” Betty sniggers then adds, “there yer go Fingers mate, sumt t’poke if yer get restless.”

“Fookin’ hell,” snorts H Butt, “yer wouldn’t take a dip in that would yer luv?”

Betty smirks, “that there’s a legend, known for screwing a semi-frozen chicken, KFC with extra sauce.” Fingers kicks Betty.

“Fuck off Betty luv, Cy fucking wagered me to do it yer bastard…” And then nods over at Cyclon. “He’s doin’ the math,” Fingers says. “Alrite Cy? What’s Brenda gone and took us to this house’a’horror Scottish shite hole for eh luv? He needs his head kicking in.”

Clive glances warily up from his task and seeing the look on Cyclon’s face he stands slowly affecting nonchalance.

“You lying cunt this ain’t Indonesia!” Roars Cyclon launching himself at Clive who races across the space, down the dark hall, into the larder off the ill equipped kitchen. He locks the door just in time to hear Fingers say with faux innocence –

“Look Cy mate, ‘appens there’s an axe…”

 

To be continued…


Advertisements

A band, a pig, sex and death…what more could you ask for in black comedy?

A man with a plan and a van.

Clive Brendon is in a fix. It’s bloody desperate. The record company will drop GOLIATH if they don’t produce an album soon. Clive’s got a month to show them all he’s promised; if he fails the bastards will wrench back the advance; the trouble is Clive spent it.  If he can’t get those little fuckers off their god-damned-lazy drug and sex-fuelled arses he’s up shit creek. So he’s come up with a plan, take them where there are no distractions and the boredom might just turn them back to their music. He’s got to admit it’s a long shot, but it’s the only sodding shot he’s got. He’s found an isolated island off the coast of Scotland and hired, using his personal fucking credit card, the old Lairds house for one month.

To get the lads up and into the van was a mission that started at 2pm, one at a time, involving trickery and coercion of the kind Clive would not normally condone. Fingers was signed out of rehab and tempted into the vehicle by a well-known groupie; Clive had to endure the sounds of intercourse all the way to Cyclon’s place, where Fingers fell asleep and the groupie was put into the care of Cyclon’s Mum. Cyclon was off his face as expected and was convinced to get in the van only by improvising a story about a trip to Indonesia to find Jesus. Betty (nee Bart) Grabo acquiesced due to the fact his girlfriend was in the middle of throwing him out – a lucky co-incidence – H. Butt had to be carried and Will got in just because everyone else was present.

By the time they arrive at the remote quay Clive has lost his sense of humour and Goliath are fucking well doing his head in. He sits a little way off chain smoking and shivering and trying not to show how much he hates being called ‘Brenda’ – squinting now and then over at the pretty wild looking island and checking his watch. Finally, he sees a boat cutting across, slicing through the icy calm water. He stubbs out his fag amongst the five already dead and stands…

To be continued…