Rab’s Pub
Ah’m Rab. The owner ay this hale place. Well,
ah say ‘owner’, but really ah mean ‘licensee’.
Same difference, likes. Ah own the lease. Ah
pit doon that carpet yer standing oan. Ah
paintit the walls. Ah pey for the Sky telly.
Well, that’s no true either, but ah set it up, ken.
Hing oan a wee minute, pal –
Pint ay Best, Frank? Nae bother. How ye
keeping? Ach well. Whit can ye dae? There ye
go. Two pounds five pence. Aye, the prices huv
gone up. It’s the fucking brewery, Frank. They
dictate the wholesale. When they pit their prices
up, ah huv tae pass it oan tae you lot. Ah’ve got a
wife and two weans tae think aboot, like. Are ye
wanting yer pint or no? Aye, thought so.
D’ye see whit ah huv tae pit up wi? Place is
full ay fucking chancers. Dinnae seem tae
realise ah’ve a business tae run. S’no a fucking
charity. Aw this talking’s got me parched.
Ah’ll just pour maself a pint.
Ye’ll find ye see a lot ay the same faces
in here. Auld Frank’s in every day. The
lunchtime brigade comes in fur a swally and a
game ay pool. See that boy ower there wi the
fucking mullet? That’s Big Jo. He’s a student.
Oan his summer hoalidays. Dinnae get me
started oan students but. Fuck all tae dae bit sit
aboot drinking while the rest ay us work.
Fucking parasites. Watch this
Jo! What’s it yer studying again? Philosophy?
Fucking philosophy? Load ay fucking good
that’ll dae ye.
What did ah tell ye? Lazy goodfurnothing
student shite.
Ye wanting another pint Jo aye? Ah’ll bring it
ower tae ye, son.
Watch oot fur that bugger playing the bandit.
That’s Wee Pete. Steengy cunt. Always oan
the mooch. Ah’m a guid customer, he says,
ye’d think ah could get wan wee pint oan the
hoose. Guid customer my arse. Jist fucking sits
there waiting for the bandit tae drop. Shoosh
the noo though, here he comes.
Pint, is it, Pete? Righto. Two pounds five pence.
Keep the change, aye? How no? Ah’ve got a wife
and two weans tae feed, ye ken! Fine, here’s yer
fucking change, ya tight basturt.
Telt ye! Bunch ay fucking cuntybaws. Imagine
sitting in here oan a braw sunny day.
Wouldnae be me, pal, telling ye. That’s no
how ah live. Ah’m a man ay action, ken. Tell
ye whit – rack up the balls oan the table and
ah’ll pour us a couple ay pints. Two pounds
five pence, pal. Hing oan, there’s ma phone
Hullo? Mary! Aboot fucking time ye called back.
When’m ah getting tae see the girls, eh? Naw,
that’s no guid enough. They’re ma fucking girls,
Mary. Ah wouldnae jist bring them tae the pub
aw day! Naw. Load ay shite. Ah’d take them oot
tae the bowling alley or that. Aye? Fuck you too.
Fucking hoor. Ach. Right. Pint, pal, aye?
Alan Gillespie is a 26 year old Fifer living in Glasgow. He was previously editor of the online journal From Glasgow to Saturn and was awarded a writers’ residency at Cove Park to work on his novel about Scotland’s first rock n’ roll tragedy. He hangs about at alangillespie.com.
