Stories from over there

Stories from over there.

One afternoon in June I was bowling down Leith Walk for the 8^th time that day. I was driving the number 22, the busiest bus route in Edinburgh. The sky was blue and the bus was semi full of commuters and tourists trying to wrestle themselves to another more favourable position in the city. The next person to join us in our disgruntled sweaty party was a man who had clearly just emerged from a pleasant afternoon in the pub . Swaying a little he was very much in the mood for singing.

“Oh flower o Scotlan….” he began, positioning himself at the front of the bus in the natural stage like area.

“Come on everybody” he optimistically encouraged us all. “when will we see….” Unfortunately nobody else was of a similarly spirited mood and his ambitions of a commuter choir were somewhat hampered.

“Who here is Scottish?” He asks trying to appeal to his countrymen. Either there is not a single Scot cruising down one of the main arteries of the Scottish capital on a bus on a busy summers day, or they are remaining anonymous.

He turns to me, the driver. “You must be Scottish?”

I feel bad for crushing his assumptions. I shake my head. He turns back to his audience and tries to make the best of the situation and embarks on a meet and greet, Working the crowd like pro.

“Where ya from?” he asks the three dark haired women on the first row.

“Spain” say they.

“Ah Spain” he repeats “olla! What you doing in Scotland? Much better weather in Spain” He asks without waiting for a reply. He smiles at his own masterful international panache.

He moves on like a games show host. “Where you from” he asks the next bunch of foreigners “Canada” say they.

“Oh Canada’s a great country” he says my brother lives there. Been there 25 years he tells them. They hadn’t heard of him.

Proud of himself, he can converse with folk from all corners of the earth. Such is his friendly demeanour. He moves around swiftly grilling those around him and reaches three uncomfortable looking young men. Standing in the wheelchair bay. “Where you from?” He asks

“Russia”

For the first time he falls silent. He has nothing in his bank of replies. I can imagine him riffling through mentally.

Up front I chuckle to myself. Not so international now.

Everything I despise and a story about racism.

Standing in line in Londis I wait patiently clutching a bottle of dry white wine. I’m at the back and my mind wonders. I drift off to a special place only I know, thinking about cabbages or things I can’t stand. I realise the que hasn’t moved for some time and this lack of movement has awoken me. I peer forward to see what the hold up is. There at the front is a lady standing at the counter. She is short, has long grey hair and a long black coat. She is not happy and also a little drunk. Not rolling drunk but consumed by alcohol a relationship which has numbed her. It is as if alcohol occupies every part of her. Every cell is saturated, she is the alcohol and as one vessel recognises another she stares longingly at the large bottles of Vodka on the shelves behind the cash till. A slim and composed shop assistant from the asian subcontinent is standing between her and her socially acceptable drug of choice. Her words are faint and distant but its easy to fill in the blanks as the grey haired woman starts her loud campaign for booze.

"Its no fe me" she says, the fe me is exaggerated for greater emphasis, as if the calm figure behind the counter is a little dim and having trouble understanding this complicated evaluation of the situation. "Its fe me daughter" she says, presumably to the shop assistant yet turning around with a sweeping glance across the que behind her. Its a knowing look she gives us. We are the audience now and she is the actor in this her play. We are supposed to be on her side of course, being local, but her faith in her acting ability betrays her and the audience is lost. Her boozy state is so familiar to her she no longer knows what normal is. The asian ladies part is that of an extra or an ornamental set piece. She stands there as the irate woman, face hagged and ravaged by drink and fags and a closed off life of bitterness, yells at her. Half turned and without making eye contact "fuck sake" she says, she knows the battle is lost.

"Malk" calls the girl from behind the counter, raising her head as she does and turning towards a sturdy looking Eastern European guy. He lurks eternally between the wine and the beer isles, his roll as beefcake security man at last called for. English not required a capacity for boredom helpful. Malk shuffles forward, he has stumpy legs no neck and a chunky knit jumper. Arms are crossed he is awoken, he the caricature ugly brute and she the flowerlike damsel.

A look just one look tells a thousand stories. He regards the drunk, its all thats needed, she spits venom back.

"Its no yer country, yer takin our jobs, yer tellin me I can nee ha any alcohol and no even fe here"

I stand in line good as gold embarrassed to be a member of this local elite. What do these migrant workers think of us? Yet they still come. How awful must the rest of the world be, or perhaps the extra money is worth the abuse for a time. Welcome to Scotland.

OH NO

Hello world this is blog is a first for me. It emerges from my soul like a tape worm a little peckish, hungover and ever so slightly horney, believing as tape worms do.... and this is in no way a metaphor for my own twisted soul, Im not twisted at all... that the world wants to eat eat eat my random incoherent shite. So here world is my shite. 

Its still warm so be thankful for that. Nothing worse than stale shite. 

Im sitting here listening to Gogol Bordello not doing an essay. Ive been a bus driver and then coach driver then exotic European tour driver for 12 years which was fun fun fun and I traveled a load and saw a lot of stuff  but ultimately not fulfilling and at the end of the day it gets dark and Im still an artist. So last sept at the age of 32 I became a full time art student. The most amazing transformation yet. Like a rebirth but still retaining remenats from the past. Im an artist and a bus driver. I can feed you metaphorical bullshit about the subtexts of my sculptures but underneath  it all the 22 doesnt go to Gorgie no mater how many times you ask. I drive a bus on a saturday and im thankful for that. It keeps me grounded.  But I love art and can submerge myself fully in it. I cant believe that art school assignments are actually work. Its a joy to create and I have so much to show you. 

I have an essay to write.