poodles… they fuckin’ bite tae!

40 minutes to kill

Glenrothes. February. this town slips beneath the dark cloak of night early this time of year. shadows seep into each other under the sodium light. it is from beneath this cloak of darkness that the creeps and freaks emerge. the air is cold, and bristling.

the bus station is central to the town centre. Glenrothes Town Centre.

Glenrothes is an ugly town. its centre was born inside out. winning The Carbuncle, for being Scotland’s shame, seems easy for Glenrothes Town Centre, having won this culturally prestigious award for being an architectural eye-sore not once but twice.  visitors to the town, arriving at the centre, are greeted by the backsides of brown unsightly shop units.

welcome to Glenrothes… or Glenrotten, as its down-trodden inhabitants refer to their home town as.

outside of the, marginally warmer, fluorescent-lit interior of the bus station waiting room, i stand and watch the freak show. the people shuffle around, avoiding eye-contact with each other, avoiding perceived hostility and expected confrontation. the people stand, heads bowed in submission. submission to their pitiful existence. submission into accepting their lot. these people are sad. i feel their sadness. i grew up in Glenrothes but had since moved away.

the people continue to shuffle beneath the artificial light. they group, re-group and break away to board their chosen bus. their chosen bus to take them somewhere better. somewhere where there is hope, or at least hope of hope.

anywhere is better than here.

still they stand, heads bowed, staring at the ground or staring at their phones.  for many, this is their escape. where they can abscond their self-abasing shame to the clutches of social media, where they can pretend to be happy, pretend to be pretty, pretend to be something else, something more.

my chosen bus will not arrive for another forty minutes. i wait. i watch.

i watch as the freak show begins.  my ticket cost £1.75 for a front row seat.  no usherettes with cigarettes, ice-cream and popcorn, however.

i watch as the ‘show’ begins.

it is tragic.

but the moon is new and shiny, a crescent-shaped sliver of silver slung low in the sky. i watch it rise, with each exhalation that hangs like a faint smog in the bracing night air. i watch the moon rise, slowly, with my breath, above the Club 3000 Bingo Hall.

a mullet-haired man laughs maniacally at the moon. just then, his reverie is spoiled as two cops jog past wearing fluorescent jackets, chasing down a group of teenagers.

The Mullet Man reels in his muscle-dog:

“RIZLA!!!” he roars.

i stand outside Stance 5, waiting. watching the freaks.

a toothless, hapless drunk staggers up to me. his breath reeks of stale ale and cheap tobacco.

“any spare change?” he grunts.
“no, i’m sorry…” i reply, in all honesty.

he dips below the norms of common civility by muttering “fucking cunt!” under his breath. i hear him, but i do not retaliate. i do not bite back. i merely breathe in deep and let it go…

buses arrive from the cities. Edinburgh. Glasgow. Dundee. smiling people alight these buses with their little cases with extendable handles and small plastic wheels that click across the pavement as they stride out towards the taxi rank.

[yeah… keep moving]

these people are soon unsmiling. it is best that they keep moving. if they stop, their smiles may never return.

the ‘loitering’ teenagers appear from hiding and the Hapless Drunk begins to dance. laughing, the teenagers mock him. they dance with him, they laugh at him.

one bleached-blonde pony-tailed girl called ‘Laura’, with eyebrows pencilled in with unnerving severity and precision, films their performance on her phone.

meanwhile, The Mullet Man, with muscle-dog, sparks up a joint.  i can smell it.  and, once again, he laughs maniacally to himself, looking at the palm of his left hand.

the teenagers sit on the seat next to where i stand: four pony-tailed girls in sweat pants and two plooky-faced boys with breaking voices and more testosterone than the National Sperm Bank. they continue to mock the Hapless Drunk, encouraging him to dance. encouraging him to perform, like a circus sea lion.

and this is a circus.

the teenagers’ conversation turns to sex and how a ’69’ is ‘the best ice-cream cone ever!’.

one of the young boys proclaims he’s ‘got a boner’, and tries to dry-hump the Hapless Drunk, who tries hard to hump back, but can barely stand.  it’s tragic.  but the kids have an audience. once again, Blondie films it.

[poor bastard]

The Hapless Drunk then throws a question out into the ether:

“fuck knows!” he bawls. “whut’s tha’ aw aboot?”

the teens laugh.

“ah mean. who the fuck is Fuck?” he asks, with genuine concern, “‘n’ whut duz he ken, ken?” he asks, with staggering sobriety.

the teens laugh. again. and, once again, i am filled with sadness.

the two teenage boys peacock and parade for the pony-tailed girls. they vie for their attention by splashing each other in the puddles.

a new boy arrives, eating a ’69’ ice-cream cone. he is with a pretty brunette, who he introduces to the group as ‘Karen’.  she is the only girl without a pony-tail or sweat pants. predictably, the Pony-Tailed Girls eye her up and down in judgement.

suddenly, more and more teens arrive. as does my chosen bus.

[i’m out of here…]

i board the bus and sit at the front.

i watch as the maniacal Mullet Man with the muscle-dog and funny left hand boards the bus and joins a group of three other Mullet Men, sat at the rear. he swaggers along the aisle, allowing his dog to sniff its way along. a well-dressed woman frowns in embarrassment and disgust as the dog hungrily sniffs her crotch.

“RIZLA!” he yells, as he yanks the dog’s chain.

the dog obeys his master and jumps up on his knee.

the bus driver yells “can ye keep yer dug on the flair, please!”.

The Mullet Man duly shoves the dog off his lap, onto the floor.   [poor mutt…]

the bus is quiet. i sit and listen to the Mullet Men’s conversation: a conversation about the controversy of ‘Devil dugs’ being in the hands of ‘wrang wans’:

“is she a pure bred Staffy, aye?”
“aye.”
“a bet she’d be worth a load ay money tae some junkie cunt, eh?”
“aye… a suppose so”
“ah bet her jaws lock tight as fuck eh?”
“aye… ye wouldnae want a bite fae her likes”

[silence]

4 minutes of uncomfortable silence is then broken by:

“POODLES!” one of the Mullet Men roars, excitedly.  “aye… fuckin’ poodles… they fuckin’ bite tae, but you never hear o’ tha’ eh!?”
“Ken.”

the original Mullet Man, with the funny left hand, alights four stops into the journey. i jump, startled, as the others bang on the window and yell “cheerio, Rizla!”.

Rizla, in complete oblivion, pisses on the pavement outside.

i sit and gaze out of the window into the night. the moon has risen above all this and looks comfortably reclined in the sky, enviably oblivious to the lunacy downstairs.

i will soon be home, where i can close the door to the madness of this town.

 

(c) Kat McDonald 2014