You know what they say about wankers? All wankers are liars and all liars are wankers. So what are you? My dad asked me that when he was drunk one Sunday afternoon when I was fourteen. My mum told him to give over. Well I should have told him then and there.
I’m both. I use my right and left hand for wanking and lie through my back teeth. As well as being ambidextrous, I cheat the system anyway I can and rob people blind by selling fish. Never did like the job, but that’s just what it is and with this miners’ strike on well you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. Robbing might be the wrong term for that. More like con them out of their money. Well, if they’re stupid enough to give their money away then great: keeps me in a job.
What I generally do is go to the workies in County Durham and sell fish to the old farts who sit there and collect dust. I know the regulars. They’re like the fucking furniture. Imagine that they pop their clogs and it’s like ‘What the fuck happened here?’ Complete change of scenery.
‘How you doing Terry?’ A rheumatic neck would creak and Terry’d say something. Wouldn’t have a clue what the fucker was saying but I think he knew my game.
Like an actor on a stage, I’d enter basket in hand and shout, ‘Cod, Salmon, Crab sticks, Eel.’
Until this one time I happened upon four youths. I call them youths because, while they were my age they were a quarter of the age of some of the regulars here. I also knew I was in for a good kicking. These type generally do it for the high of smashing their boots into somebody.
‘Cod? Which sea did you catch that from?’ One of snarled at me. There was something in his demeanour that put me on edge. I was ready to turn about. This was Wheatley Hall and it had a reputation. No I said to myself, I’m staying to get rid of my last fish.
‘North Sea. Where we get all our Cod.’ I’d had this from another Colliery and the fuckers broke my nose. Not this time, not this time.
‘Which fucker’s been wanking in the bog! Dirty bastard. Gonna ring the cunt’s neck!’ Sam the local nutter was harassing the locals brandishing a porn mag in their faces. He was a huge roll of flesh and tattoos . ‘Was it you? You? I bet it was you, you dirty fucker!’ The Escort magazine wagging offensively in front of a cowering old age pensioner.
‘Sam! Sam! Leave it out! What the fuck would he want to do with a porn mag!? He can hardly get it up!’ Linda was half the size of Sam, but she had a voice that could quieten down any bar. Thank fuck for that. Nothing like taking the heat off me.
‘Yeah go on how much for crab sticks.’ The scrote-bag with a Sunderland tattoo on his neck asked.
I sold him the last of my crab sticks. He staggered off to his corner where the remainder of the boys kept a low profile, they peered over to where Sam had begun to grapple. The large man had somebody in a headlock, ‘It was you wasn’t it? Eh?’
‘Sam. Get your fucking hands off him now.’ The bar hushed down to a low murmur. The woman held a wooden rolling pin in her hand. Sam’s shovel like hands patted down the victim as he released the lock. The victim crawled off.
‘Come here. Come here!’ Sam, like a naughty schoolchild gingerly approached Linda. She lunged for him and pinched his ear, then led him behind the bar.
Wheatley Hall. Yeah, full of nutters. These old farts were nutters too. The silent types propping up the bar, bags of bones were once, my age and after a skinfull liked nothing more than cracking a few heads. I reckon some of these old ‘uns must have robbed old people when they were younger. If they did, then you’d them to think they were fair game now, but I bet they don’t. Hypocritical bastards.
Bollocks to this for a game of soldiers. I’m knackered. No fish left to sell. I’ll have to see Ray for another lot tomorrow. I decided to grab a pint and stare at the paisley pattern on the wall. I urged the pattern to shift like a Salamander. When it did I switched my gaze to Terry. I definitely needed a rest. I could have probably sat there all day and I wouldn’t have got a word out of Terry. I was about seven metres from the guy and he didn’t acknowledge me. You had to work the conversation out of the fellah. Mind you I’d say it was a waste of time, the only thing he’d come out with was: it’s not like the old days, things don’t change much around here, or he’d blow out air and stare at the barmaid’s tits.
This place was usually my last stop, the fish being completely sold. The locals were usually plastered by now and they were the best customers. As for the masturbation in the bog, that was sick, but not as sick as wanking in the McDonald’s bogs though. Now that’s sick. Not that I’m talking from experience like.
Oh shit. One of the lads made a beeline for me. He’s just clocked that I’m still here.
‘Thought I recognised you. Aren’t you that cunt from Seaham?’ The cigarette wagged up and down, somehow he’s managed to keep it in his mouth and speak. Must have done that before.
‘Nah, not me mate. From Shotton colliery me mate,’ I uttered and it came out a little too high pitched like I was shiteing myself. I thought he could smell the fear. He looked like he was feeding on it.
He took out the stub and flicked ash, ‘Where’s your dope? Got any gear?’
‘I’ve got an ounce.’ Fuck. Rule number one, don’t admit you’ve got anything! So much for being a liar.
‘Give us it. I’ll pay yer back.’ He turned to his mates, who all sniggered. I thought I could see one of them reading a porno mag. There was definitely pink on pink on each of the tattered pages.
‘Well?’
I fumbled for it and found I couldn’t find it. My heart lurched and I knew this guy would stick the nut in. The garbage smell of his breath nearly turned my stomach. Being a non-smoker was a strange phenomena for many people when buying off me. They couldn’t fathom it: somebody who sells dope and doesn’t smoke the drug. I got to spend my money on my hobby which was Dungeons and Dragons.
The shift in his facial expression said it all and I remember falling on the table, the drink spilling onto the floor. I heard the hiss of the cigarette, landing next to me.
‘Fucking lying twat!’ I curled up to received the kick. It didn’t come.
‘Here y’are son. Got you another pint. Now get back up.’ Terry stooped over me, a wrinkly hand feebly lifting my arm. He was like the arch angel Gabriel, with that light above his head. It had a halo effect on his balding head.
‘Aye. Thanks Tel.’
Liquid ran down my face, my jeans were spattered with droplets of blood. The burning sensation above my left eye confirmed a cut. I sat back down, sort of flopped out on the chair and lifted the nectar to my lips. I grinned at the foursome who glared at the Escort magazine, unaware of Sam. His eyebrows moved up and down for a second then stopped. His eyes acquired the lock-on which only a heatseeker missile could have.
I savoured the Lager, its taste coppery with my blood which ran into the glass as I drank. I savoured the sweet revenge that Sam obliviously exacted upon them on my behalf.
‘Was it youse fuckers!? Wanking! Wanking in the workies!! Fer fucksake!!’
As Linda came out with rolling pin I left the bar with its screams and accusations. So my question to you is. Are you a wanker or a liar?
© Craig Douglas 2008