Portishead, Bristol.
The day had begun innocently enough. He was 15. His Dad had done the runner ages ago. His Mom didn't care a piss about him. The slapper was sitting cozy in Scotland with that wanker! And of course his bro, cuzz me, the half-brother...the dirty filthy copper, what a tosser he was!
He opened the fridge and there sat the lagers waiting for him. 3 perfect lagers - cold and the taste just the right hint of bitter. He didn't think too much about it- just grabbed them off the shelf and ran off to meet Jimmy. Jimmy was his best mate- always ready for taking the piss.
Jimmy met him near the corner store run by the currywalahs. The smell permeated the whole street. Every time, he entered the shop, he tried to nick something. They always knew he stole things but were afraid of him - the blue eyes always glittered in contempt . The brown eyes didn't have the strength to match the sneer etched permanently on the chicken pockmarked face.
Jimmy saw the lagers in his hand and knew that today would be a good day. They both ran towards their favourite hangout - the parapet near Mrs Brown's house- where they sat and stared at all the posh girls from the private schools. Taunting remarks from the parapet were always met with studied silence from the girls.
They started on the first of the cans, gulping it down with relish. 20 minutes was all it took. The cans lying abandoned on the road - not even an attempt to place them in the garbage bin near Mrs Brown's house.
They were walking down the street - happy- the lager lay warm in their stomachs- when they heard the first of the sirens wailing....
This not-so-good story was inspired by a true life story which be read here. Some of the slang which I had forgotten comes from here.
1 comment:
Lovely stuff, the story.
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