The Sesh

After not having posted on here for a while, I thought it was overdue to update this blog with some writing news. Between moving to London last September, focusing on finding a job and gigging in my spare time, writing didn't exactly get demoted but the 'short format' took necessary priority. Mostly poems, songs, and journalling.

In February I signed up for a short story competition, hosted by my old reliables NYC Midnight. I was a little hasty, and didn't realise this wouldn't be the usual short format of 500 words or so, this time it was 2,500: a proper short story, but long enough to really sink into some world building, character development, engaging plotting. The good stuff. Unlike most other entries where I'd been writing dramatic, or scary stories, I was called on to write a comedy. The subject was 'bridging the gap', and it had to feature a character described as a 'fair weather friend'. Immediately, my mind went to growing up in a wee Scottish village and that weird twilight zone bwteen adolescence and young manhood when you're too big for the rural incubator, and not quite ready for the big, bad world beyond.

This was a breeze to write, and the gamble paid off: it was nominated in the top of its group by the judges. Round 2 incoming... Until then, I hope you enjoy this daft wee story of growing sideways before up.

~

'The Sesh'

Alan had been driving for about 10 minutes before Graham wondered why he wasn’t looking out the windscreen. Or why they were only doing 20mph on a national speed limit country road. Alan’s 1997 Vauxhall Corsa fell slightly short of the noble steed Graham envisioned when all his friends started driving. Right wing mirror held on by duct tape, window lining full of dust and tobacco, constant musk of ganj. It was a shiter. And it suited Alan down to a T.

The mystery distraction soon became evident. Alan had been trying to fix some banging tunes on the iPod plugged into the tape deck by cable. So far Graham had been regaled with some of the highlights of Abba’s Greatest Hits, a hardstyle EDM demo of some wide-o dissing his classmates and teachers (“Yer da’s goat 3 inch specs, yer sistah looks like fuckin’ Shrek”), and an old Daft Punk track.

“Mate, fucksake, gonnae drive properly? I’ll put the choons oan. If I have to listen to One More Time wan mare time, I’ll fling yer iPod oot the windae.”

In the end, they somehow settled on Men Without Hat’s “Safety Dance”. A fitting soundtrack to their preposterous odyssey.

As they turned around that familiar country road the low summer sun tippled over the old Kilpatrick Hills, Ben Lomond’s shoulders resplendent, towering over the rippling Clyde estuary, Dumbarton Castle sitting stoically in the summer sun. They had been smoking a cheeky J on the way. And they were both, as usual, absolutely banjaxed. Alan methodically began executing a 27-point turn parallel to a potholed ditch at the side of the road while Graham watched the sun setting, red eyes lit up with glaikit wonder.  

Alan finally reversed right into one of the more profound potholes with a very definite thump. They both turned round to view each other and burst into gales of laughter which sounded like an engine failing to start. Graham’s shaggy brown hair wobbled around his face as he clutched his belly. Alan flashed his big set of skew-whiff, tombstone teeth as he thrust his head back into the headrest in hearty appreciation of his own incompetence. Nineteen years old. Their whole lives ahead of them. They didn’t have a fucking clue what they were doing.

It had all started quite well for Graham.

The long, idling afternoons of school days now seemed like a bygone era, days of myth and wonder. School had been easy enough. Between getting drunk in fields at the weekends with his self-styled ‘mad skwad’ pals, he had somehow managed to pick up a cool set of exam results. He had won a place at university, up in Dundee studying English Lit. Unfortunately, he was just smart enough to pass the standardised numpty check of school exams but not brilliant enough to do the same at uni. He had lasted only a couple of months before succumbing to the dreaded phenomenon known locally as ‘lazyitis’.

Fresher’s Week set a precedent that was impossible to sustain. By late October, the haze of boozy delirium and sweaty one-night stands brought that dull realisation: he was bang average. He sank into himself, sitting in tutorials and listening to boring, entitled wankers droning on and on about pathetic fallacy and the subversion of the three-arc structure while he reverted into a primary school version of himself, staring out the window. They didn’t have the language of mental health in those days, so he covered up his depression with more drinking, more getting stoned.

All he knew was he couldn’t be arsed to get up and go to lectures or muster the energy to care much about anything at all, not least his studies. Once upon a time, not too long ago, Graham had felt genuine purpose which had sustained him through the clear hurdles set before him. He considered many of the tantalising and lucrative career prospects after graduation, from Burger King to retail manager. All that drive had got him nowhere.

Anywhere but here. He thought.

After dropping out that ‘anywhere’ became, inevitably, returning to the village. All he’d ever known. Now a big, oversized fish in an increasingly small and polluted pond, working as an usher in the local cinema. The thought of the local alkies hingin’ off the edge of the bar at the pub gave him a brief glimpse at his future. Once that would have scared him. Now, he embraced it.

If that’s my fate, then screw it. I’m a fuck up. Make mine a fuckin’ treble.

So here he was, getting bonged and hanging around with one of the local ne’er do wells he was unfortunate enough to call his only real pal. They both doubled down and dived headlong into the session, a.k.a. The Sesh, and its perennial charge into oblivion by whatever means available as often as possible. Alan was the ultimate Sesh Casualty, the village space cadet. Potentially brilliant, but with no discernible purpose or direction. At least he didn’t make Graham feel the awkward social pressure of trying to better himself.

Occasionally, Graham brought Alan home for a pitstop, a.k.a. a big munch. His mum would greet them both with a pained expression, something between a forced smile and barely concealed distaste. Quietly, after Alan had left, Graham would get the same lecture as always.

“That boy doesn’t look like he cleans himself more than twice a week. Is that what you want to become?!”

Graham always treated these tirades as a condemnation of his own choices and responded like the wise old head on young shoulders he was.

“Och Mum, leave me alone. Alan’s a really smart guy and he’s nice when you get to know him.” He went in for the sympathy angle, hoping that would work. “He’s my only real pal in the village.”

“Aye, you’ll have no pals left soon after they’ve all ran away from his stench. Gads.”

When he levelled with himself, he had to admit that he and Alan really were just stuck together through circumstances. Somehow, he still loved the smelly bastard.

“D’ye want some horrible juice?” Alan suggested, reaching behind the driver’s seat to thrust his hand into the usual pile of crisp packets, empty bottles, McDonald’s wrappers and other discarded paraphernalia. One of Aldi’s counterfeit finest – ‘Explosade’. The lacklustre, watery hiss when Alan’s clunky hands undid the cap told a story of many previous openings, and a shoogly journey rolling around the footrest of the back passenger’s seat had extracted much of its considerably weak oomph. Graham took a generous swig. His face took on a pained expression.

“How’s the horrible juice?” Alan leered.

“Aye, pretty horrible mate.”

After pissing into the field and enjoying their fifth joint, the two grinning loons looked back towards the car and, in the low red light of a midsummer sunset, saw the pothole had put a pretty significant dent into the back left tyre. It wasn’t quite flat, but it was well on its way.

“We should probably take it to the garage, mate.” Graham suggested, feeling every bit the sponge of fun. The police of laughs. Then he relapsed. “Could be worse, man. Better than that time you realised that the horn went aff every time you turned left.”

“Aye, I thought someone was following me for about two months.”

The laughter, this time sounding like a drain clearing after a heavy downpour, gave way to an uneasy silence as the pair realised that this meant there would have to be a course of action taken. This meant responsibility, a concept which both explained away as tantamount to oppression.

There was some decidedly deliberate deliberation. The decision was passed around like a ticking time bomb. Steely looks exchanged, or maybe just confused ones. It was quite hard to tell, to be honest. Eventually they decided on a sensible course of action.

“D’ye want tae go to the pub?”

“Aye, awrite.”

The drive to the pub was soundtracked by The Safety Dance’s twee, bassy synth hooks and an offbeat, low frequency chundering hum. The former was their uninspiring music choice, the latter the punctured tyre. The stars started to come out, shining above their wee rural haven. Graham looked up in unrestrained wonder, beyond the spindly branches of trees, the rolling hills, the distant orange blobs of lit up towns nearby that make up the sprawl of greater Glasgow. There, up in the great firmament, was Ursa Major’s tail, The Big Dipper. Drawing a line from its right side up, up, upwards to the Polar Star Graham sat in stoned wonder, his mind full of the possibilities of this life, of all the potential futures which lay before him. Just for a second, he forgot about this limbo and allowed himself to dream. The usual nihilism crept back in shortly thereafter, and he allowed it to pull at him. Nothingness suited him quite well. Expectations lowered, Graham was ready for whatever this night would throw at him. Which was fortunate because the village was always full of surprises.

They arrived in the pub car park like some Mario Kart outcast. Their fanfare was the bawdy cheer of the punters in the smoking area, including some distinctly mental members of the local Young Team. They found great amusement in commenting on the tyre which was now almost entirely flat. Shouts of annoyingly quick wit pelted through the shoogly window.

“Shaggin’ wagon!”, “Mystery machine!”, “The fuckin’ Venga Bus is coming!”

In amongst them Graham spotted Darren Mckechnie, a.k.a. Darn (pronounced with the uvular ‘r’, in one quick, uppercut of an exclamation). The king of the neds. Leader of the heiders. He shuffled in amongst his pals, mean wee face contorted around his Mayfair cigarette, parka proclaiming his dominance like a lion’s mane. Alan sank into the driver’s seat.

“Fucksake man, I’ve bought so many drugs aff him.”

On the way through the smoking area, they had to muscle through Big Tam, Jai, Jay, Jobby and Joe Mckenzie, a.k.a. Mighty Joe Young. Of course, no one called him that to his face. The last guy who did got nutted so hard his nose was broken. Safe to say, Graham’s vision was fixed firmly at his feet. Alan was equally timid. They were a who’s who of the local bams.

“Haw you’s” It was Darn.

Shite, thought Graham.

“Ur ye’s havin’ a big wan the night? Ah’ve goat some swedgetables, if yes’re interestit.”

Say what you like about Darn, the man has a brass neck so polished you could see the wrinkles in your reflection. Never had Graham heard ecstasy pills so poetically described. He allowed himself a nervous but genuine laugh. They mumbled some protest under their breaths, shuffled past, and up the stairs to the livelier part of the pub.

On arrival they found that the local MC, Johnny Renfield, was halfway through a particularly rowdy pub quiz evening. He always dressed obnoxiously over the top for the event, standing on ceremony between some cheap-o party light fixtures, tuxedo and slicked back hair on point. Alan shuffled into a booth, trying to hide from the Young Team who swaggered in shortly thereafter.

“Get us a voddy coke.” Alan instructed Graham. What he made up for in wit, he lacked in charm.  

Johnny’s peculiarly nasally voice rang through the tinny PA system announcing the points for the preceding round. The team names, as always, were a riot. Johnny was clearly having an absolute ball, trumpeting each word through his nose.

“Quiz Team Aguilera got 7 outta 10 in the last round, that puts them up tae 22 in total.”

“The Glencoe Massacre got 9 outta 10. You’re now well out in the lead wi’ 25. You go Glen Coe Coe!”

(Hysterical laughs from that team. No one else).

“Why Won’t The Screaming Stop? Got 4. Come on, everyone, ye’s need to up yer game.”

(A surprisingly quiet team given the name)

Johnny then pointed over to the corner with the Young Team. They were each drinking a pint of neon green liquid, known as a ‘Venom’ made up of spiced whisky liqueur, blue alcopops, and orange juice. It looked, and tasted, like face meltingly alcoholic liquid sugar, and it made you go ballistic.

“And finally, Shag My Arse and Call Me Joe have gained a grand total of 2 points this round.”

Even louder cheers. Grunts of joy. Venom thrown in the air.

“That puts you well in last place at 11 points. Might as well just give up now, lads.”

Graham’s phone buzzed in his pocket – an SMS. He looked down to see it was a message from Rachael.

Hey. R u @ pub quiz?

His heart skipped a beat. He responded like the dashing romantic he was.

Yeh. Want 2 come down?

He’d kissed Rachael a few times since moving home. She was a couple of years below him in school, but clearly years beyond him in the maturity stakes. She’d already been accepted at Edinburgh Napier to study linguistics and translation, and had her life quite well planned out. The last time he’d seen Rachael had been a drunken argument a week ago where she’d pulled him over the coals for not having any career ambition, for just wanting to get drunk and stoned with Alan. This was not strictly true. He also enjoyed playing Fifa.

He had to admit to himself, though, that Rachael had a point. And he was, in fact, miserable. A lingering unease crept into his mind when he reflected on the fact he had achieved very little since dropping out of uni. At times, the dam felt fit to burst. He knew he had to find a way to get out, to grow up, to bridge the gap. But honestly, he just couldn’t be fucked.

Graham arrived back at the booth with two triple vodka cokes and two shots of Aftershock. Alan took out a pack of Rennie’s soft chews from his pocket. Heartburn medicine: a sure sign of an alki in the making. He flashed the packet at Graham like they were sweeties.

“Ever tried wan o’ these?”

“Ehh, naw.”

“Well, let’s get Rennie to rumble!”

Graham laughed in spite of himself, then surveyed the room. The dim lights, some chart topping shite music blaring through the speakers by yet another industry plant with a name like Will.I.Am(Not.Impressed.) The next table was all middle-aged women who worked with his mum at the nursery, all steaming, yapping away and beginning to make seriously inappropriate eyes at the group of boys in their 20s sat across from them. At Alan, so young, so much potential yet already showing the tell-tale signs of excess: red eyes, bloated features. And the question began to form in Graham’s mind, slowly at first, but then emerging from the fog and musk of darkness so clearly that it loomed incandescent at the forefront of consciousness like a beacon.

Is this it?