went in or naw?
That wis in! the guy whose shot it wis wid say.
Naw, it hit the post, whoivver wis in goal wid answer.
Aye, the inside ae the post an’ then it went in, the first guy wid make oot.
Naw, it hit the post an’ went oot furra bye-kick, the keeper wid say.
Baith o them wur tellin the truth as they seen it. Yet they accused each ither ae bein bare-faced liars. Untruthmongers. It wis a problem wi the truth, that. It wisnae their fault but. Naw, it
wis the fault ae the council that widnae think ae pittin up a couple ae real goal-posts fur us weans back then. That’s how oor generation nivver achieved fuck-aw. When it came tae sport, at
least. That’s a truth an’ aw. Know whit ahm sayin?
Wance again, Gross hid tae stop himself laughin, ah reckoned. Then he got aw serious but again. Ye talked nuthin but shite the last time ye wur here an’ aw. It didnae get ye anywhere but.
If yid at least behave normally when ye wur in wi me – at least a bit, at least – ah kid mibbe help you. Honestly, Goalie. Know summit? Wi you, ah aye hiv the impression yir coverin fur
someone else. Ye think yir morally obliged tae or summit. There’s wan thing ye hivnae unnerstood but, an’ that’s: the guys yir coverin fur hiv nae morals. They’re laughin up
their sleeves at ye.
Oho, Herr Gross, that’s Manitou speakin noo. Lord hiv mercy. If we want tae discuss morals but, we first need tae think aboot whose morals we mean. Ur we talkin aboot the morals ae the
wans that invented the bloody things in the first place, or the morals ae the wans who end up payin fur ither folk’s morals?
At that point, he lost his patience wi me an’ said ah wis tae sign the statement an’ go. We’d be hearin fae each ither.
Okay: guidbye, in that case, Herr Gross. Thanks fur yir patience.
Bye.
Here’s anither truth while we’re at it: try leavin the police station in the Fog in daylight wi’oot any cunt seein ye who knows ye. Naw, yir right:
for-fuckin-get it.
Hello, Frau Hofstetter.
Hello, Goalie, how’s things?
Guid, thanks. Things ur guid. Always on the go. Ahv jist been pressin charges.
Ye dont say! You? – Yiv filed a charge?
Aye, that’s whit ah done, ah filed it.
Course, nae cunt’ll believe ye when ye say that. That Hofstetter wan definitely willnae. She’s the last person who’d think anythin guid aboot me. Whit kin ye dae. Whit will ah
dae? Nowt. Jist dont think aboot it.
Aw that shite meant ahd tae leave ma work an hoor an’ a hawf early an’ aw. Sorry, but nae cunt’s goney pay me fur that time, ur they? An’ goin back in thenoo, tae show ma
face like, is fuckin pointless. So ah jist leave it jist.
Ah hitch-hike tae Olten insteid. Olten’s a sad toon, a really sad toon. It’s a bit better than the Fog but cos in Olten naw ivry cunt knows me. It disnae bother me if a toon’s
sad. Oan the contrary. Toons ur like stories, the sad yins urnae always the worst.
Eftir aboot hawf an hoor, a Renault finally stops tae gi’e me a lift. Guy looks like a teacher. Later but, when ahv been talkin tae him a bit, it turns oot he isnae. He’s a rep furra
watch-makin company in the French-speakin pairt. Someone who says he occasionally gi’es folk lifts cos it’s borin aye bein oan yir ain in the car.
Ah kin take ye as faur as Rothrist. Then ah hiv tae take the motorway.
Great. Merci buccups. As faur as Rothrist is magic. Then ah’ll take it fae there.
It’s guid craic, listenin tae a French-speaker tryin tae speak German.
In Rothrist, ah wait ten minutes, max, then a jeep gi’es me a lift, a Cherokee. The woman drivin it his quite a few jewels oan her fingers an’ is pickin her
daughter up fae ballet in Olten. Wisnae much aulder than me, her in the Cherokee, mibbe even younger. She babbled oan a bit, ah wisnae listenin but, wis jist givin it ‘aye’ aw the time
an’ thinkin ma ain thoughts. When ah looked at her, ye see, wi aw her expensive jewellery an’ her fine claes, ah realised ahm
That wis in! the guy whose shot it wis wid say.
Naw, it hit the post, whoivver wis in goal wid answer.
Aye, the inside ae the post an’ then it went in, the first guy wid make oot.
Naw, it hit the post an’ went oot furra bye-kick, the keeper wid say.
Baith o them wur tellin the truth as they seen it. Yet they accused each ither ae bein bare-faced liars. Untruthmongers. It wis a problem wi the truth, that. It wisnae their fault but. Naw, it
wis the fault ae the council that widnae think ae pittin up a couple ae real goal-posts fur us weans back then. That’s how oor generation nivver achieved fuck-aw. When it came tae sport, at
least. That’s a truth an’ aw. Know whit ahm sayin?
Wance again, Gross hid tae stop himself laughin, ah reckoned. Then he got aw serious but again. Ye talked nuthin but shite the last time ye wur here an’ aw. It didnae get ye anywhere but.
If yid at least behave normally when ye wur in wi me – at least a bit, at least – ah kid mibbe help you. Honestly, Goalie. Know summit? Wi you, ah aye hiv the impression yir coverin fur
someone else. Ye think yir morally obliged tae or summit. There’s wan thing ye hivnae unnerstood but, an’ that’s: the guys yir coverin fur hiv nae morals. They’re laughin up
their sleeves at ye.
Oho, Herr Gross, that’s Manitou speakin noo. Lord hiv mercy. If we want tae discuss morals but, we first need tae think aboot whose morals we mean. Ur we talkin aboot the morals ae the
wans that invented the bloody things in the first place, or the morals ae the wans who end up payin fur ither folk’s morals?
At that point, he lost his patience wi me an’ said ah wis tae sign the statement an’ go. We’d be hearin fae each ither.
Okay: guidbye, in that case, Herr Gross. Thanks fur yir patience.
Bye.
Here’s anither truth while we’re at it: try leavin the police station in the Fog in daylight wi’oot any cunt seein ye who knows ye. Naw, yir right:
for-fuckin-get it.
Hello, Frau Hofstetter.
Hello, Goalie, how’s things?
Guid, thanks. Things ur guid. Always on the go. Ahv jist been pressin charges.
Ye dont say! You? – Yiv filed a charge?
Aye, that’s whit ah done, ah filed it.
Course, nae cunt’ll believe ye when ye say that. That Hofstetter wan definitely willnae. She’s the last person who’d think anythin guid aboot me. Whit kin ye dae. Whit will ah
dae? Nowt. Jist dont think aboot it.
Aw that shite meant ahd tae leave ma work an hoor an’ a hawf early an’ aw. Sorry, but nae cunt’s goney pay me fur that time, ur they? An’ goin back in thenoo, tae show ma
face like, is fuckin pointless. So ah jist leave it jist.
Ah hitch-hike tae Olten insteid. Olten’s a sad toon, a really sad toon. It’s a bit better than the Fog but cos in Olten naw ivry cunt knows me. It disnae bother me if a toon’s
sad. Oan the contrary. Toons ur like stories, the sad yins urnae always the worst.
Eftir aboot hawf an hoor, a Renault finally stops tae gi’e me a lift. Guy looks like a teacher. Later but, when ahv been talkin tae him a bit, it turns oot he isnae. He’s a rep furra
watch-makin company in the French-speakin pairt. Someone who says he occasionally gi’es folk lifts cos it’s borin aye bein oan yir ain in the car.
Ah kin take ye as faur as Rothrist. Then ah hiv tae take the motorway.
Great. Merci buccups. As faur as Rothrist is magic. Then ah’ll take it fae there.
It’s guid craic, listenin tae a French-speaker tryin tae speak German.
In Rothrist, ah wait ten minutes, max, then a jeep gi’es me a lift, a Cherokee. The woman drivin it his quite a few jewels oan her fingers an’ is pickin her
daughter up fae ballet in Olten. Wisnae much aulder than me, her in the Cherokee, mibbe even younger. She babbled oan a bit, ah wisnae listenin but, wis jist givin it ‘aye’ aw the time
an’ thinkin ma ain thoughts. When ah looked at her, ye see, wi aw her expensive jewellery an’ her fine claes, ah realised ahm
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