caused him more alarm.
Jonty learnt that people had already given the hurricane a bad name. Hurricane Bawbag. That is the problem with Scotland, he thought. People are always taking the pish. In the same way they did with him down in The Pub With No Name, they were now laughing at this poor hurricane. It was like taking the pish out of nature, out of God. You were asking for trouble. It’s just as well we have England to keep us right, he considered. They would never mock a hurricane in that way.
The programme changes to a news item.
With Hurricane Bawbag on its way, advice given by the Scottish government spokesperson, Alan McGill, that Scots should simply repair to their local hostelry for the duration of the storm, was condemned as irresponsible. Matthew Wyatt of pressure group EROSS, End Repression of Scotland’s Smokers, said that such advice put Scotland’s smokers in jeopardy. ‘Scotland’s smokers are again being discriminated against by this patently bad steer from the government. They would be better served going home and having a drink, and smoking in comfort, rather than having to brave the elements and step outside in that potential carnage in order to secure a quick puff.’ But today Alan McGill was dismissing his own advice as an off-the-cuff remark and not to be taken seriously
. . .
Jonty is scared. He worries about Jinty, going out in that hurricane. He goes to the Internet, to Face the Future, the website he likes, the one run by American survivalists. He doesn’t know what a survivalist is but it sounds good. Everybody wants to survive.
PART TWO
HURRICANE BAWBAG
6
SPEED DATING
JUICE TERRY HAD risen early in order to check on the girls at the Liberty Leisure. Big Liz is back on Control, so he knows that he won’t be bugged with unwanted jobs. The keyboard tells him that she has started her shift.
PICKED YOU UP ON THE SATELLITE OF LOVE.
Terry types back:
HAVE GOT A BIG ROCKET HERE WITH A COUPLE OF ASTEROIDS EITHER SIDE.
Liz retorts:
GET THEM INTO MY ORBIT.
Terry thinks of Joy Division and types:
SHE’S LOST CONTROL AGAIN!
Liz gets him a fare straight away, outside the Scottish Parliament, to take a man out to the airport. At this time of the morning, he’s certain to pick up another one quickly back into the city. The fare is a fat and ruddy man, like most Scottish parliamentarians. It’s a gravy train; a survey showed that election to Westminster added over two stone on to the average Scots MP in their first year of office.
— You in Parliament then, mate?
— Yes.
— MP?
— MSP, Scottish Parliament.
— The boy we had here in Edinburgh South, he got ehs jotters for bringing prossies back tae ehs office in Westminster, Terry says, looking round with one eye closed. — Hope youse urnae up tae that in Holyrood!
— No . . . well, not that I’ve heard of, anyway!
— Aye, keep it clean. Mind you, if ah got the chance, ah’d be right doon thaire tae Westminster. Aw that parliamentary sleaze? Too right, Terry laughs, playfully swiping the dashboard. — But ah’d much rather be in the Hoose ay Lords than a commoner, though, mate, cause ah’ve got a bit ay expertise at pittin a big, thick, hefty piece ay legislation through the second chamber, if ye catch ma drift.
The MSP has a giggle, and Terry thinks it is shaping up to be a good day. Big Liz from Control has him back on the satellite and finds him a businessman at the airport, whom he takes into the financial centre, before it’s time to head to Liberty Leisure.
Customarily outgoing in the company of women, Terry finds himself oddly diffident stepping into the backstreet office that nestles in the bottom of a tenement building in a nondescript street off Leith Walk. Despite having absolutely no scruples about his low-level involvement in the pornography industry (he and his friend Sick Boy have made about thirty movies of varying quality, many of which he’s starred in), prostitution has always disquieted Terry.
It
Jonty learnt that people had already given the hurricane a bad name. Hurricane Bawbag. That is the problem with Scotland, he thought. People are always taking the pish. In the same way they did with him down in The Pub With No Name, they were now laughing at this poor hurricane. It was like taking the pish out of nature, out of God. You were asking for trouble. It’s just as well we have England to keep us right, he considered. They would never mock a hurricane in that way.
The programme changes to a news item.
With Hurricane Bawbag on its way, advice given by the Scottish government spokesperson, Alan McGill, that Scots should simply repair to their local hostelry for the duration of the storm, was condemned as irresponsible. Matthew Wyatt of pressure group EROSS, End Repression of Scotland’s Smokers, said that such advice put Scotland’s smokers in jeopardy. ‘Scotland’s smokers are again being discriminated against by this patently bad steer from the government. They would be better served going home and having a drink, and smoking in comfort, rather than having to brave the elements and step outside in that potential carnage in order to secure a quick puff.’ But today Alan McGill was dismissing his own advice as an off-the-cuff remark and not to be taken seriously
. . .
Jonty is scared. He worries about Jinty, going out in that hurricane. He goes to the Internet, to Face the Future, the website he likes, the one run by American survivalists. He doesn’t know what a survivalist is but it sounds good. Everybody wants to survive.
PART TWO
HURRICANE BAWBAG
6
SPEED DATING
JUICE TERRY HAD risen early in order to check on the girls at the Liberty Leisure. Big Liz is back on Control, so he knows that he won’t be bugged with unwanted jobs. The keyboard tells him that she has started her shift.
PICKED YOU UP ON THE SATELLITE OF LOVE.
Terry types back:
HAVE GOT A BIG ROCKET HERE WITH A COUPLE OF ASTEROIDS EITHER SIDE.
Liz retorts:
GET THEM INTO MY ORBIT.
Terry thinks of Joy Division and types:
SHE’S LOST CONTROL AGAIN!
Liz gets him a fare straight away, outside the Scottish Parliament, to take a man out to the airport. At this time of the morning, he’s certain to pick up another one quickly back into the city. The fare is a fat and ruddy man, like most Scottish parliamentarians. It’s a gravy train; a survey showed that election to Westminster added over two stone on to the average Scots MP in their first year of office.
— You in Parliament then, mate?
— Yes.
— MP?
— MSP, Scottish Parliament.
— The boy we had here in Edinburgh South, he got ehs jotters for bringing prossies back tae ehs office in Westminster, Terry says, looking round with one eye closed. — Hope youse urnae up tae that in Holyrood!
— No . . . well, not that I’ve heard of, anyway!
— Aye, keep it clean. Mind you, if ah got the chance, ah’d be right doon thaire tae Westminster. Aw that parliamentary sleaze? Too right, Terry laughs, playfully swiping the dashboard. — But ah’d much rather be in the Hoose ay Lords than a commoner, though, mate, cause ah’ve got a bit ay expertise at pittin a big, thick, hefty piece ay legislation through the second chamber, if ye catch ma drift.
The MSP has a giggle, and Terry thinks it is shaping up to be a good day. Big Liz from Control has him back on the satellite and finds him a businessman at the airport, whom he takes into the financial centre, before it’s time to head to Liberty Leisure.
Customarily outgoing in the company of women, Terry finds himself oddly diffident stepping into the backstreet office that nestles in the bottom of a tenement building in a nondescript street off Leith Walk. Despite having absolutely no scruples about his low-level involvement in the pornography industry (he and his friend Sick Boy have made about thirty movies of varying quality, many of which he’s starred in), prostitution has always disquieted Terry.
It
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