Nine Foot Tall Read online

  ‘A FUCKIN’ slinky, two-faced, grassing, robbing, sly, sell his own granny, burgle my house and deny it, fucking slink. That’s all.’

  I smile at him. ‘Oh, that’s okay, then. You shoulda said.’

  He smiles back at me and laughs a little.

  We have to drive about three miles to meet Tony, at some posh pub in North Leeds. All the pubs are posh in North Leeds. All the people who frequent said pubs think that they’re posh. Some of ’em are posh. But a high proportion of them are just criminals, living it up in their million-pound houses and grassing the small fry to the police whenever they can.

  A top of the range Mercedes glides past us as we enter the “Posh Zone”.

  Steve is mesmerised by it. He rotates his head a hundred and eighty degrees to admire it.

  ‘Gaz man… now that is class. Did you see that motor? Fuckin’ class.’

  Cars have never bothered me that much. I like a nice motor but I’d never spill me milk over one.

  ‘Yeah it’s nice enough, Steve man… but did you see the state of the wanker driving it? A little baldie fucker. Wi’ glasses on.’

  Steve laughs. ‘Yeah man, he’s probably got a little dick too. Drives that fancy car to compensate.’

  ‘Naw, Stevie boy, I have to disagree. I have this theory about dicks, ya see.’

  ‘Go on, Gaz man, what’s your theory about dicks, then? You’ve got a theory about fuckin’ everything, man.’

  I proceed with my theory, taking little delicate puffs of my cigarette as I go.

  ‘My theory is this. There is no such thing as a small dick or a big dick. Everyone has more or less the same size dick. Course, there are the odd exceptions, like Big John Holmes and his fourteen-inch monstrosity or that bloke in the magazine that we saw with the one-inch dick. But they are exceptions. Apart from those kinda guys, everyone has the same size dick. More or less. However, if you take someone such as me – I’m only five foot seven and nearly ten stone, not exactly a big motherfucker by any stretch of the imagination. Am I?’

  Steve’s chuckling at me. ‘No, Gaz man. In fact you could be construed as a little cunt.’

  ‘Exactly, Stevie baby. That’s exactly what I am. A little cunt. But then, if you take someone like Big Andy McBeth, the bulging bastard. Six foot ten steroid-busting fucker that he is. Stand the two of us next to each other. Naked. Then it is I who will look as though I’m hung like a donkey, innit? I’m not of course, mine’s only nine inch, but my theory is that because he’s so big, his dick, that’s the same size as mine, will look teeny weeny in comparison to the rest of his body building, fuck off, muscly body. Won’t it? Same dick size, different body size. No small dicks. No big dicks. Just same dicks. For everyone. There you go, that’s my theory.’

  ‘It’s a good theory, Gaz man. I like it.’ Steve laughs again. ‘So, what you’re sayin’ is that me an’ you have got the same size dick as Big Andy McBeth?’

  ‘Yep. Same size, but ours look bigger coz our bodies are smaller. And, Stevie boy, if you want to create the effect of a couple more extra inches, all you gotta do is shave your pubes bald, man. Adds two full extra inches if you get ridda the bush. Bald as a bastard. Like that cunt’s head that were drivin’ that Merc.’

  ‘Now that’s a good idea, Gaz man. Does it work?’

  In the most nonchalant tone I can muster, ‘Course it works, man, I’ve been doing it for years. Two extra inches. Hung like a fuckin’ horse me. Or at least it looks like I am.’

  Steve’s amazed at my bald method. ‘Sheesh, as soon as we’ve done this thing I’m off straight home to shave me knob, Gaz man. Mine’s like a bastard jungle. Y’can hardly see me knob for pubes. Fuckin’ good idea. Shave the fuckers off. Cheers, mate, yer a pal. I always thought I had a small knob, but it were just me knacker hairs, man.’

  We pull up to the pub where Tony the Toe is waiting with his friends. They are all sitting in the beer garden soaking up the sun. As we pull around the car park, I look out across the beer garden and, Fuck. No.

  Barry, the fucker I sold the dodgy glucose to last year, is sitting in Tony the Toe’s crowd.

  And he’s got some mean looking fuckers with him.

  Fuck.

  ‘Steve man, fuck this. I can’t go in there. I’ll get lynched. I ripped that fucker off and I know it’ll get fuckin’ nasty. There’s only two of us. Fuck it, I’m not off in there. We’ll get killed.’

  Steve remains as calm as ever. He just pulls over the car and looks up to the beer garden and says to me, smiling, ‘Chill, Gaz man. Fuck ’em in the eye. They’re only cunts.’

  I’m sweating like the horse I’m hung like. ‘Cunts? Cunts? I know that, ya mad bastard. That’s why I don’t wanna go in. They’re only cunts. What a comment.’

  Stevie boy winks at me and then digs deep into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, pulls out the sharpest looking knife I’ve ever seen in my life and plonks it on the dashboard. Inside his other pocket, another knife, a little smaller, a flick-knife. Jeans pocket next – he pulls out a three-inch canister of CS gas and a gramme of coke. He flicks the switchblade and sticks it into the coke bag, shovels half of it out and up his nostril.

  ‘Aaaaaargh! Now that hit the fuckin’ spot, Gaz man. By the way, y’know that big cunt we were just on about? Andy McBeth? Well, I’ve heard that some crazy little fuckers went into his bedroom last week and poured petrol on him while he were asleep and set light to him. Burned him up good style. Just thought I’d let y’know. He knacked you years ago, dinny? Serves him right then, dunnit? The fat cunt. Wait here, I’ll be back in a quick.’

  He’s wired for sound now is Stevie boy, grabs his “utensils”, jumps out of the car and straight over to Tony the Toe, while I’m sliding down my seat to escape from sight. It’s gonna go pear-shaped. I know it is. This is bad.

  He marches up like a man on a mission.

  There are about twenty-five people in the beer garden and about eight of those are with Tony and Barry.

  Most of the people don’t even see Steve. They’re too busy eyeing up the two young blonde girls who have turned up in their bikinis.

  Tony the Toe raises his hand and slowly waves it in front of Steve, obviously trying to get him to see the gnarly disfigured toe thumb.

  ‘Nice to see you, Steve, you wanna drink?’ He wiggles his wrist when talking and this gives the effect that the toe is moving of its own accord.

  Steve’s on Planet Pluto, up there with the fuckin clouds. ‘No, I don’t want a drink. Just give me the stuff and let me get fucked off.’

  ‘Whoa, boy, calm down, Steve. What’s the rush? Meet my friends.’ He points to Barry and the meatheads and starts to introduce them, when…

  ‘I said…’ Steve’s slavering now, like a deranged mental patient, ‘give me the stuff and let me get fucked off. I don’t care two fucks about your cunt mates. How’s that grab ya?’

  Fuck. Not again.

  The meatheads who were sitting with Barry took exception to this and jumped up from the bench as if to punch Steve but…

  Stab!

  Bald meathead number one gets the sharpest knife ever seen straight through his kidney.

  Spray!

  He gasses every fucker else. CS gas in all of their faces.

  Now, I’d never seen the joys of CS gas until that day, and let me tell you it is the business. Those boys all went down like sacks of shite. Clutching their throats and screaming like babies. Rubbing their eyes like they were kneading bread. Everyone in the beer garden was affected, all rolling around on the ground. The passing traffic must have thought it was some kind of posh game. Steve leaned down to Tony the Toe, who couldn’t see a thing, eyes all swollen with the gas, put his hand inside Tony’s coat and pulled out a parcel and sneered.

  ‘Cheers, Tone. I’ll take this, shall I? See ya later, ladies. Hope you had a nice time.’


  At this he marched back over to the car, Barry, Tony the Toe and all the meatheads screaming and writhing away behind him.

  He calmly opened the car door, threw what appeared to be a fuck off bag of coke onto the back seat and said, ‘Never, ever, underestimate the power of weaponry. Ha ha ha. Look at them fuckers now, Gaz. Look at ’em. I told you I didn’t like that fuckin’ slink. Well, now look at him. Ha ha ha ha ha. You see, Gaz man, I’ve got my theory too. Me an’ you are only small fellas. We can’t fight really, not if we’re up against some big bastard. We just can’t win. Fact. So it then follows that if we can’t win we must resort to drastic action, be madder than the big cunts. You see, Gaz man, it’s not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog. If you or me don’t resort to using a weapon, then we’ll get killed to death, man. If a big cunt is gonna start on a little cunt like me or you, then he’s a fuckin’ bully, an’ bullies deserve to lose. Just like that cunt Andy McFuckin’ Beth who got burned up last week. What I just did to them cunts was self-defence anyway. Don’t let it worry ya.’

  I was amazed at his theory and how he thought he was in the right because they were bigger than us…

  ‘That, Stevie boy, was not self-defence. They didn’t do fuck all to you. You just went apeshit and started stabbin’ cunts and spraying fuckers so you could steal their drugs. Self-defence? Fuck no, man.’

  He was meaner looking than ever now, stared straight at me, not caring that the fuckers were all still rolling around in agony just yards away, not even attempting to drive away before the cops come.

  ‘Gaz… baby… it was pre self-defence. It’s the law, man. The law states that if you feel that you’re being threatened you can use reasonable force to defend yourself, even if they haven’t already attacked you. It’s the law.’

  I’m intrigued. ‘So, you stabbing a cunt in the kidney and spraying CS gas in everyone’s faces and nearly blindin’ and chokin’ every fucker is what you would consider reasonable force?’

  ‘Yep. It’s like this, Gaz – the law says that if you think you are gonna be killed by a weapon, then you have the right to use the same weapon on them. Retaliate first! It’s true. If I got caught for this and got sent to court, I’d just tell the judge that I thought they all had guns. I’d get away with it too; they’ve all been in trouble for firearms in the past. I’d get clean away with it, man. There’s not a judge in the land who’d lock you up for stabbin’ an’ sprayin’ them cunts. Unless you were black. N*****s don’t get away with fuck all.’

  A bit of unnecessary racism there, but he’s right I suppose.

  A siren could be faintly heard in the distance. That was Steve’s cue. He calmly switched on the engine, revved up the motor and screeched off. I just smiled nervously and nodded to the music. To tell you the truth, he was scaring me. Was he going mad or summat? It seemed that every time I met him something stupid would happen. It had to stop.

  ‘What you thinkin’ about, Gaz man?’

  I didn’t dare tell him that I was thinking about him being a mad bastard. He was still sweating and evil looking and might take it the wrong way.

  ‘I’m thinking about you gettin’ home and shaving your knackers down to the wood. That’s what.’

  He stopped the car with a screech. Stared me straight in the eye and…

  ‘That is a fuckin’ good idea, Gaz man. Two more inches. Yes. Yes. YES!’

  Then he leaned over and gave me great big, smacking kiss on the lips.

  Chapter Six

  -

  Hubble Bubble

  PAIN DON’T HURT

  Dalton (Patrick Swayze)–

  RoadHouse– 1989

  March 1984 – Aged 16

  I’d love to be able to say that my upbringing was terrible, that my parents were alcoholic wastrels who gambled the rent money away and injected drugs. I’d love to be able to say that I was beaten daily and neglected and left to fend for myself from the age of five. I’d love to say that my mother was on the game and my father had a string of dog-ugly mistresses.

  But I can’t. Those kinds of stories make you wanna slash up, man.

  My parents were fantastic. Simple as that.

  Their love for one another was only outweighed by the love they felt for me and my sister and two brothers. We never wanted for anything. We never had lots of money as such, but we were well cared for. My father was a giant of man, a giant Irishman who came over to England in the ’60s to find work. He was in the building trade and they were on strike in Ireland. He soon found work in Birmingham and then moved to Leeds in about ’65 where he met me mam. They fell in love, got married and had me in ’67. My sister followed in ’69 and then there was a gap of a few years before my brothers came in ’75 and ’79. The family was now complete. Great big Catholic family. Cush.

  My dad worked like a dog, day in and day out, breaking his back as a plasterer and assorted other donkey work type jobs.

  Until now.

  Now, ladies and gentlemen, my life was about to change forever.

  My parents bought a pub.

  Here’s me, nearly seventeen years of age, living in a pub. There is a God.

  ‘What’s the name o’ this pub yer dad’s gettin’, Gaz?’ Mel sounded really excited at the fact that one of us was gonna have our very own beer shop.

  I was excited too. I couldn’t wait to move in. Only a week until the details went through and then we’d be there.

  ‘The Fanchester Arms. You might know it as The Fanny. Have y’ever been?’

  Mel took a sharp intake of breath as though to scare me. ‘Ooooh, Gazzy boy. Not The Fanny. You’ll need ya fightin’ boots on if you move there, mate. It’s a right rough hole. I swear.’

  He giggles as he tells me, so I can’t make out whether he means it or not.

  ‘I don’t care, man. It’ll be my rough hole. That’s what counts. Mine!’

  You see, it didn’t matter to me if it was a rough hole, coz my dad was the hardest man alive. Fists like breezeblocks and an iron punch to match. Any trouble, he’ll sort it for me.

  Hulk Dad won’t let me get into any bother.

  One Week Later

  ‘C’mon, quick, man, I’m bleeding to death!’ We must have already been doing fifty miles an hour as I bellowed to the taxi driver, pressing a blood-soaked towel against my left eyebrow.

  ‘Leeds General Infirmary. Only one moment away, Mr Gaz…’ My Asian taxi driver friend, Mumtaz, then tried his hand at humour. The twat. ‘You cry like a girl, Mr Gaz. You only have a mere flesh wound and you cry worse than baby. I get worse wound than that on my sexual organ and do not cry. I am man. When wounded, I, Mr Gaz, I begin to laugh. Ha ha har!’

  This guy’s a crank, no doubt about that. I try to sound more manly:

  ‘Just get me inside the hospital, man, and get some stitches in me fuckin’ eyebrow.’

  Forty- five Minutes Earlier

  I thought I was the bee’s bollocks, man. Here I am, in my own pub. Fuckin’ ace, man.

  We’d all moved in yesterday, got the furniture in, sorted out the bedrooms, who goes where and what goes there and blah blah blah. My dad spent most of the day with the men from the brewery finalising the arrangements and what have ya, whilst I strutted up and down the bar as though I owned the gaff. I got to know some of the locals as soon as I arrived. They seemed a friendly bunch, hardly a tooth between them but friendly all the same. My dad introduced himself to them all.

  ‘I’m John. Howya? This is moy pub, a nice pub, and I’m a nice man. Until it’s time to not be nice. Right?’

  Good introduction, Dad. I like it.

  I don’t know if nice was the word that you’d use though. The Fanny had seen better days to say the least. Nothing a lick of paint wouldn’t cure.

  Anyhoo, here I am, day one in my new found home, and my dad tells me that tomorrow he has to go t
o Dublin to see my grandad who’s ill. He’ll only be gone one night and would I watch the bar with me mam. No problem. I’d spent many a night behind the bar in my part-time job, I could pull a mean pint and I got on well with everyone. Everyone.

  Off he went to the airport at about four thirty in the afternoon, telling me to be good, look after me mam and the family and that he’d be back tomorrow. It’s all good.

  Now, the teatime session in The Fanny consisted mainly of guys who’d been out on the building sites all day and came in for a swift gallon before they went home and a few old codgers who’d spent all day keeping warm with their freezing cold pints. How does that work, then? They’d come in to keep warm and order a freezing cold beer. Baffled me. The other type of customers you’d get in at teatime would be the fuckers who had been out all day, round town or somewhere, on a sesh, or a througher. They were the ones you had to watch out for. They could get a bit lively, carrying on and fighting each other. You’d only get those types in on either a Monday, when they’d called in sick to work– The Monday Club– or on a weekend. Today was Wednesday so there should be no problem, right?

  Wrong.

  It’s about 6pm, and the place has got quite a buzz going for a Wednesday, not usually renowned for being a busy night. It always happens apparently when you get a new landlord. Everyone comes to have a nosy. Oh, and all the people who were barred by the previous landlord come back to try their luck. My dad had already said to me that nobody was barred until he barred them. Everyone was welcome, regardless of what they had done in the past. They were welcome until they upset him. Fair enough.

  So here I am, looking after the pub on me own, me mam’s gone to the supermarket and me brothers and sister are out playing, when in they walk, three, pissed out of their faces, all-day drinkers. The Monday Club… on a Wednesday. Fuck.

  Don’t worry, Gaz, just treat them like everyone else, keep smiling, tell a few jokes…