“I tell you what”, she exclaimed with an annoying cackle in her throat,

“Why don’t we get shit faced tonight, it’s our big night after all

and we don’t care do we eh girls?”

The cackle spread to each of the six women like a domino

being tipped over by the last, and yet the women were surprisingly

over the age of discontent and then the phones came out to play.

The fingers danced over the tiny keys as if they had trained

all their lives in the art of pocket sized puppetry

and perhaps they had, and soon with cats pictures shared and the tagline

“Vomit and a spare shag tonight”,

they looked up as one as the latest

piece of trouser went past and they sniffed the air in search of

testosterone, pheromones, the pain staking  eager

or the trim well made skirt if they were feeling adventurous

and cackled

some more.

 

The bar is as bad as the shoppers

who cannot wait for the knock down televisions to come tumbling

off the shelf and the stores advertising yet another made up

holiday as they search for the chance to be crushed in

sterile joy at the thought of knickers with fifty per cent off and a fridge

with six drawers.

 

The heated argument on the phone in which blame is apportioned

and the outcome judged with merit and purpose

by the fellow travellers.

“Bloody arsehole”, is screamed as the final

pleasantries of the evening is exchanged and with no

patience swears on his life that she will regret the day

she gave birth to him.

 

The man who decides to abuse his girlfriend in full view

of the chip shop queue,

the chips being battered first

and laced with snot driven accuracy into the face of a well cooked Haggis.

“Call the police love”, comes a half hearted cry

from the back as the unseen Knight avoids the glare

of the shocked but easily entertained diners.

 

The old man swaying on the platform edge as the guard gets verbally

assaulted by the smell of the curry breath and downed dozen lagers

that arrived at platform one five minutes before the man

started picking a fight with the two of them.

Capable of ordering more nuts, he deals a low blow

for the tired and abused and thanks her lucky stars

that she didn’t become a Nurse like her mum demanded.

 

The well to do lady who demands that all wheelchair users

Ring a bell when going round a corner.

“Unclean, unclean” they should cry and as she dodges

the recently placed dog shit without pausing for breath

and wafts underneath her nose, at the shit or the unclean is uncertain.

 

Save this tempered Isle from its slow degeneration

before something beautiful dies, do not allow the festering sore

in which a different kind of abuser, the type that grins and rubs

their hands in purple glee, will allow to become even worse.

The abused kick downwards, that is for sure, and yet

the crass and insanity of it all is there for all to see.

Now eyes down as you walk on the pavement and

Tweet that to the world…minding the shit as you go.

 

Ian D. Hall 2014.