Wednesday, 5 September 2012
Memories from Sheffield, UK
That was me, twenty-fuck-knows-something,
Back seats of a bus with Kev. "See this blade," he says, eyes straight-forward,
Puffing on a pavement-picked re-roll,
"Stash it in yer bag fer us flower?" Think I'm falling for that one?
So he keeps hold of it,
Hands shaking slightly
Like the hardman he dreams of being. Got a teenth of gear on us, and him, his rocks
And I worry more about the knife:
Though the knife won't cut me:
That's meant for some other cunt.
That was the thing with Kev, Couldn't just leave things be. I'd been clean for a while,
Smiling to myself in anticipation.
And Kev's a caring bloke.
Seeing me right, seeing I don't go over
(See the joke,
Him with a blade and the rest? But for us, back then, it was like that:
Like everything was normal
And one day we'd just wake up
And smell the clover) So I tip what I want in the spoon
And Kev's going mental like,
"You planning suicide or wot?"
Cunt tries scooping some out
And we bicker,
Snot flying, Til I agree.
Nuff folks died like this. Never forgot that day.
Kev givving us a dig in the back of me leg and
having to do more straight after anyway.
Looked after me did Kev. Coulda punched his fuckin lights out at the time
No one's got nothing. Fuck all. Seriously.
Nothing. And we're all loitering round the
market, sweating in various shades of
dishevelled grey. It's autumn, and crowds of
starlings are swooping in circles over the river,
ready for migration. "Wish I could fuckin migrate," says Deano.
"Some fuckin decent gear in Thailand, and it's
"Yeah. Bollocks to this place."
"Hold up, check it out"
There's Paul with a fuck off grin from ear to ear. And we're round him now like flies round shit,
shoving without remorse to be first in line for
poxy sub-sized clingfilm wraps of the devil's
very own elixir. Me and Sid go together to the men's bogs across
the road in Sheffield's finest fuckin tearooms
and I watch him go in his fem, shaking like a
puppet on meth as he fixes his habitual
snowball. Takes me longer, not sunk to the depths of the femoral, but vein hunting's a proper pain in the
arse these days. And I ain't for snowballin. I'll
save that for the winter down Firth Park.
And as it goes in I'm unsurprisingly
disafuckinpointed. It's cut with so much crap it
barely makes me well. So it's back down the market for a rant at the
former-saviour now-cum-cheeky-cunt. Of course he's long gone. Next time I see him, he's sat in the back yard of
the rehab, crutches by his side and an empty
denim tube where his left leg should have
been. "Fuck sake, what happened? Fuck, mate, I'm so
fuckin sorry, fuck, fuck fuck!"
"One word. No, two, actually. Artery. Gangrene." I can see in his eyes we're no longer
frienemies, just fucked up memories of a life
that shouldn't have been.
We've just scored some fuckin dynamite. Not
had nothing half decent in ages. Joe pulls up his
battered white nova outside a 1930s semi on
Parson Cross and me and Geni step out onto the
We all push past overgrown privet, avoiding broken bottles, staffie-shit and crushed cans in
gone-to-seed grass and push the ajar door open.
When is a door not a door?
When it's a jar.
And up the uncarpeted stairs is a room where
two kids sit on a fuck-stained mattress. They look all of twelve, the pair of them.
Joe exchanges notes and bags with them and
they start cooking up. Well, the boy does.
"How the fuck old are you two?"
I ask as I watch the boy pull the half-empty pin
out of the girl's scrawny arm and set to finding a vein for himself.
Joe and Geni and mirroring the process, 'cept
Geni's holding up the needle to me
"Ladies first, petal, Joe can do his own..."
And the girl's answering me through half-closed eyes
And I was right.
I might be rattling like a cunt but I'm outta here.
Rather have a dig in the back yard than sit through this macabre fuck show.
Yeah, I'm outta here.
The faces of those two kids and Geni's dirty
needle, outstretched towards me forever
etched into my mind.
© Vee 1993-2012