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roddy smith
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Towards the end of summer, 2007, I found myself waking up on park benches more frequently than usual, after my flatmate and I were forced to hurriedly leave our posh west end apartment so as to avoid arrest: our unrealistic and flamboyant indifference to the lack of squatters rights in this country did, after a few years, prove our undoing. This was fine. However, as winter drew in and Jack Frost’s Glaswegian cousin, Death, seemed somewhat optimistic at the prospect of he and I becoming better acquainted, I thought it best to relocate my jakedness indoors. Or at least up someone’s close, usually on the Southside. But that, unfortunately, couldn’t last either as my wee burgundy Baracuta was no match for the cold concrete landings of Glasgow’s traditional tenements and I would, after a while, find that although warmth actually grew from my vibrating, it wasn’t enough: action would need to be taken.
After much consideration I decided to declare myself an official Jake: a title not to be taken on lightly as heavy weighs the crown. This brought about much excitement in the shape of walking from one place to another, daily signing on and re-declaring my self a Jake until eventually I was awarded the esteemed position of a worthy and just Jake, in that I was given a bed in the Queens Park Hotel (do not be misled by the word “hotel”) where I found myself a near perfect fit amongst the sodden elderly, but a far cry from well placed amongst the young team: ned-hood being a culture I’ve always found both bemusing and intriguing - They’ll mug you but not take any money off of you, as that would seem beneath them but giving you a right good stabbing up is fine. But if they do stab you, its probably just to ensure that some 13 year old rotter will suck them off back at the park, so you shouldn’t take it too personally. I imagine something like this - “haw-haw, ye should eh saw the bold Div pure stabbin’ this fuckin’ mad dafty up doon the toon, pure fuckin’ all sorts ah mad mental so it wiz, man. Pure stabbed the cunt right up, haw-haw-haw. magic!” enter said wee hairy, moist at the thought of the bold Div’s knob in her mouth “haw, Div, ah pure fancy you. C’n ah gobble ye?”
Anyway, all this ‘slumming it’ would’ve been a great recreational experience and an amusing lesson in life had it not been for all the other times I’ve lived in homeless hostels during my stint down in England, where I found it to be quite different on account of most of the homeless people in England coming from Glasgow and tending to stick together, so I was kind of protected and didn’t get any shit. Actually, I got loads of shit but very little comparatively, as I was part of a larger group (whether I actually was or wasn’t didn’t matter) and Scottish, and its my belief that the English are at the very least unsure about how you might react in a violent situation if you’re Scottish. I experienced dozens of situations, both in homeless hostels and in pre-court shared cells, to support this theory. Unfortunately, in Glasgow, neds aren’t scared of you just because you’re Scottish.
So there I was, a 'pure mad dafty’ living amongst our unfair country's finest (again), feeling like it was meant to be and sticking to my midnight curfew. Everyday I’d do the ‘looking for a job and a flat’ thing, and every night I’d get drunk and make conversation with myself. I had 28 days to find a job and a flat or I’d be fucked up a close again. I didn’t. the saga continues.
I’ve written three graphic novels, two of which are quite short and straightforward, the third is epic and confuses even me when asked what its about. None of these works have been illustrated and as such, remain unfinished. I’m now trying to write a novel, finding it just that, and feel that maybe its trying to right me.
half debauched's Genres: thiction
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