It wiz fat Malky, who noticed the windae o’ The Jaguar Club, wiz open. How he spotted that, god only knows, ‘cause his eyesight’s aboot as bad as Mr Magoo’s. The lenses oan his specks ur so thick, it takes aboot three minutes fur daylight tae reach hes eyeballs. An’ a kid ye no’, that windae wiz only open a tiny wee peep. Jist a toattie, wee gap, maybe enough tae squeeze a coupla fingers through. A hud a go at first, masel, seein’ us am only a wee skelf, no’ goat a pick oan me, ye see. No’ like Malky, who’s a big fat basturt, goat hauns oan ‘im like a bunch a’ Chiquita bananas. But naw, the bugger widnae budge, stuck tight it wiz, wi’ layers an layers a Dulux. Desperate we wur a naw tae get intae that pub. Wanted tae get wan ower that manky bugger, Crosby, who ran the shoap. Wee arsehole hud us barred fae that boozer last year fur tryin’ tae sell eccies in the function suite tae sum Maws and Das, during a christening do. Hypocritical, wee fud. Tries tae make oot he runs a clean shoap, but if ye wur tae take hauf the twenties oota hes till an’ gie them a wee shake it would be like snow shooers in Sunny Govan, aw that coke residue comin’ aff them. Naw, whit bothered that wee tadger wiz that he wisnae gettin’ his cut. So noo, brekkin intae his gaff wiz ower opporchancity tae get some payback oan the wee jobby. Hate that wee Crosby wan. Weird friggin’ colour he is. Either he slaps oan that fake bake, like he’s pittin’ oot a fire, or he belongs tae some strange race o’ people wi’ bright orange coupons. Crazy wee fuck’n Oompah Loompah that he is!
But credit tae fat, Malky, never wan tae gie up too easy. He’s doon oan he’s knees, crawlin’ aboot. At first ah thought, he’s doon there prayin’, cos, you know, he’s wannae them, ‘a left fitter’. But naw, he’s oan the grun lookin’ fur somethin’. A says tae him, “Malky, fuck you daein?” “Tryin’ tae find summat tae wedge the windae.” He explains, voice aw herniated. “Well, move it pronto,” ah says, “afore some bugger decides tae pit in an appearance!” “Hah, fun somethin!” He squeals. In hes haun he’s haudin a coaper pipe, big cheesy grin oan he’s fizzer. “Jist needs a wee bit a’ adjustin.” An starts wackin’ it aff the kerb. Daft basket. “Christ oan a bike!” Ah screams at him. “Malky, you, waantin’ tae wake up the whole street?” “Calm doon, Davy,” he says, aw attitude, “A’m finished. Jist keep the edgy while ah dae this?” His face aw determination, Malky, he slots the flattened end o’ the pipe intae the gap and pulls his full weight doon ontae it. Which is quite a loat a’ weight a’ kin tell ye! Jist a wee groan it furst, but finally the windae gave wey, wi’ a loud crunch, n’ a shooer o’ cracked paint. Fur a heavy bloke, Malky sure goat his big carcass ower that windae sill an’ inside sharpish. “Come oan, Davy boy,” he shouts back, aw gallus, “Hurry the fuck up!” Which is easier said than done, as it wiz a big friggin’ drap doon tae that flair, an’ a’ve only goat these wee tiny legs. Normal sized boadie, but toattie legs. Jist aboot reach up tae ma waist n’ nae mair.
You know, maist folk think break’n enterin’ is a dawdle. They assume that wance you’ve done the break’n, it’s jist a matter a the enterin’. But naw, there’s a loat mair tae it than that. The place your tannin’ might huv a crackin’ security system or in the case a’ The Jaguar, a big, mad, bad-assed dug. Tyson wiz hes name. Hauf Dobermann, hauf Clydesdale. The biggest, scariest, friggin’ devil dug a’ve ever seen. Maist crims, the amateurs, wid faw doon at this first hurdle. Quick trip tae the Southern wi’ chewed up legs an’ a coupla bizzies staunin’ at the fit o’ their bed, ready tae ask some awkward questions. But no’ us boays, we’ve come prepared. Two rump steaks nicked oota Aldis, laced wi’ ma maw’s seroxat. A, fling them doon n’ then we wait. Stauning there in the dark, pure statues, scared tae move, shittin’ wurselves tae even breathe, waitin’, jist waitin’ fur the sound of a two hunner pound killin’ machine tae pad through the pub towards us, lookin’ fur blood. But, nothing, nae dug. Cannae believe it. Maybe he’s hud tae go tae the vets, emergency appointment. Some auld jakies fit stuck in its throat or summat? Efter aboot five minutes we felt it wiz safe tae turn oan a light switch. Wance wur eyes ur adjusted tae the brightness o’ whit a 60 watt bulb kin gie ye, we hud the battle ship grey tiles and mustard coloured ceilin’ tae contend wi. Nae taste, that Crosby wan. Nae fuck’n taste at aw. The Jag hudnae hud a lick a paint since about 1968. Must have thought when he took ower the gaff, ‘great paint joab, why chinge a winnin’ formula?’ Such a tight wad, wee bawbag. Then I realised, the room we’d jist broken intae wis actually the wummin’s toilet. I’d never had the pleasure a bein’ in there afore. Compared tae the Gents, it wiz a wee palace. Nae cracked mirrors or tiles. Nae menchies oan the wa’. Nae ankle deep, pools of pish tae huv tae circumnavigate. Almost perfect apart fae wan wee solitary detail. Some filthy bugger’s gone n’ left a durty big toaley, in the middle of the lavvy flare. You know, ah kinda feel sorry fur people who shite oan toilet flairs. Must be dead frustrating fur them, managing tae get aw the wey tae the bog, but the lavvy pan itself, is just so teasingly oot a reach. A perfect example of ‘so near, yet, so far.’ Me, a like tae get it straight intae the pot, nae touchin’ the sides. Cos that’s the kinda guy am ur. A love a challenge.
Big Malky though, he’s makin’ a chokin’ noise. An am thinkin’ the smell a that toaley’s caught his throat or somethin’, cos oor Malk’s goat an awfy weak stomach, onything gies him the boak. But as a follow his eyeline, a realise somethin’ else is botherin’ him, somethin’ far mair serious. Wan a the cubicles is occupado. That’s like French, fur occupied. At first glance, in the hauf light, ah thought it might be auld Agnes, the pub cleaner. Occasionally when she’s on duty, she likes tae help herself tae a few glesses a Bristol Cream or a wee Malibu, or maybe something a bit stronger like a boattle a windolene. Then efterwards she hus tae sleep it aff somewhere. But then a takes another wee swatch an’ a realise it isnae Agnes oan the crapper a taw, it’s some bloke, n’ whit’s strange aboot it is, he’s goat his hauns an’ hes feet tied up wi’ rope, an ower his heed there’s a poly bag, an’ am thinkin’ ‘Jeezus, does this guy think he’s a Tory MP or summat?’ “It’s Crosby!” whimpers, Malky, his voice aw trembly like a big Jessie. N’ so it wiz. It’s the daft wee Oompah Loompah, stone cauld deed he is oan his ain porcelain! Whit a cerry oan! Here a wiz, the first time in a wummin’s toilet, n ave goat an unexpected wee stiff that a just don’t know whit tae day wi’. Dae a phone the Polis, n’ get maself implicated in the murder o’ this wee dwarf, or do I just leg it oot a there an’ hope that naebody finds him fur the rest a the weekend, so a’ve goat time tae come up wi’ a plausable alibi? Decisions, decisions. It’s like wan a the moral dilemma thingies. Like, if ye saw a traffic warden and a lawyer droonin’ in a swimming pool, which wan would ye laugh it first?
Am jist aboot tae suggest tae Malky, that perhaps we should retire for the evening, when a great big paw of a haun clamps doon oan the back a ma neck, n’ squeezed it like it wiz a bit o’ wean’s play doh. Ah yelped like a wee dug in heat, n’ hauf turned tae see that the haun belonged tae mad ‘Toe’ Elliot. Am no feart tae say ma heart nearly stoapped right there when a saw he wiz wi’ his mate, Jimmy ‘Bananas’. Everybody in Govan knows ye don’t mess aboot wi’ they two bampots. Cos usually when they’re finished batterin’ ye aboot, you either end up deed or huvin tae pick oot a nice wheelchair wi’ the help a yur guide dug. These two heed the baws must huv been the wans tae day wee Crosby in. I’m no’ ashamed tae admit that ma furst response seein’ them wiz tae leg it back oot that windae again. But instinctively Toe second guessed whit a wis think’n and squeezed even mair tightly, damn near seperatin’ ma heed fae ma shooders! “No’, so fast wee man,” he sneers it me, “Don’t be a party pooper. You’ve jist arrived. Stey an’ huv a wee drink wa’ us?” Aye right, a thinks, the only drink we’re gonnae get oota this pair is a lung fu’ a durty watter fae the bottam o’ the Clyde! But before we huv a chance tae even open wur mooths, withoot ceremony, we’re bein’ hauf cerried, hauf dragged, through intae the lounge. Oan the wey in ma poor heed musta hit the flair mair times than Jordan’s knickers. It wiz loupin by the time they flung us doon n we started untangling oorselves fae a heap next tae the bar. Malky in hes ain inimitable style, tries tae plead wi’ oor captors, “Let us go mate, we never saw nuttin?” His voice aw up n’ doon as if someday’s goat a haud a hes RS McColls, n’ they’re giein them a squeeze like a pipin’ bag. “We’ll no’ tell anybody we wur in here, Jimmy!” But Jimmy Bananas jist laughs it the big streak a pish n’ says, ‘A, think it’s a bit too late fur that boays!’ His voice aw cauld, nae emotion. Withoot a wurd ah a lie, a felt a wee dribble a pee running doon ma leg when he said that. Leavin’ ma trousers lookin’ like an ordinance survey map a The Ooter Hebrides.
A might huv been a tad scared, but big Malky wiz brickin’ heself. He wiz aw peely-wally, n’ sweatin’ buckets. A knew fae previous experience that Malky, when scared, spews his ring everywhere. N’ the wey Jimmy Bananas wiz shakin’ im aboot like a weans rattle, am sure there wiz a few pineapple chunks bein’ loosened aroon inside that big Buddha belly o’ his. N’ true tae form, Malky bent ower in gastric distress ready fur eruption. Jimmy Bananas, thinkin’ Malky’s up tae somethin’ got up tae im tae even closer. Big mistake, fur the next hing he knows, Malky’s blowing oot hes technicolour yawn aw ower Jimmy’s Adidas Gazelles. N’ am no’ jist talkin’ aboot normal spew, this wiz full oan exorcist type, projectile vomitin’.
Good auld Malky, if hes coupon wisnae full o’ last night’s biryana, a would huv kissed him, ‘cos while hes deliverin’ pavement pizza n’ distractin’ oor hosts, a notice wan o’ the doors at the front o’ the pub is opened a wee peep. Wan o’ these two wallopers hus slipped up there, a thought. So while the two a thems preoccupied stamp’n oan ma mate’s heed again n again, a took ma chance and made a brek fur it. By the time the two bampots hud realised they were wan stool pigeon short ah wiz legging it doon the street like Usain Bolt oan acid intae the Elder Park. Aw they could dae wiz shout abuse. How they were gonnae get ma name aff ma mate, then find me. But that didnae worry me in the slightest. cos I reckoned the wey they hud set aboot Malky, pannin the melt oot his napper, he widnae remember his ane name, never mind mine. Am a ashamed aboot running away, leavin’ ma comrade tae his fate and the hands of these nut jobs? Should a huv no been the better man n gone back tae gie ‘im hauners? The answer wid huv tae be naw. Am no Rambo, an’ this isnae Viet-friggin-nam. This is Govan, wur it’s every bam fur himself!
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