A Lifetime Apart

Unfinished swally.. a rarity for me.

It was a rather grim faced man who sat in the chair that afternoon in the lounge bar of the pub in Possilpark. He made it a habit to come in around the back of three most Fridays, and anyone wanting to find him would know exactly where to look for their prey.

It wasn’t the best of areas that Glasgow had to offer, but ‘Driptray’ fitted into his surroundings with a manner of ease befitting such a man who had made deprivation his second home. The moniker ‘Driptray’ came about due to his rather unkind facial features. His narrow chin turned up to such a violent degree that it actually resembled the utensil attached to a bar and designed to catch the overflow of spilled beer.

It had been quite a while since anyone had mocked the gnarled looks of his coupon. The honed chib in each pocket had carved many a face, not to mention an appalling reputation for sickening violence. He wasn’t a respected man by any of the main players in Glesga at the time, but he did occasionally appear in their company whenever dirty work was required, or a ‘lesson’ needed to be taught.

In those days I had taken to wearing a heavy black leather coat. It was three quarters in length, and was usually worn over a dark item of clothing, much favoured by those of a certain ilk back in the day. ‘Drippy’ liked to wear his with the pocket linings removed, and a small bayonet nestled snugly against his side ready to be withdrawn whenever the occasion arose.

Unlike the traditional ‘collectors’ of that particular era, Drippy took satisfaction in the drawing of blood merely to boost his somewhat serious lack of self worth. It was not unknown for him to claim three separate slashing's in one night. To Drippy, it was all part of a good night out if he managed to destroy the face of anyone within his reach, and without so much as a flicker of conscience. He rarely gave thought to the lives he terrorised and destroyed.

He very quickly became a liability, and the job collecting the due fae those who had borrowed money from the lenders of Maryhill turned to farce. It was accepted that examples had to be made to those who refused to return the payments back to the original source, and Friday traditionally was the day of the ‘due’. Sadly for Drippy, he would be waiting outside of the bars on a Thursday neet, too early for many to have been in receipt of their pay.

It was a man fae Drumoyne that they sent to see Drippy. It was to be a friendly wee chat, but a stark warning all the same. The business of money lending didnae require such a heavy hand amongst what was on many occasions, just ordinary men fae the shipyards of John Brown and the Clyde sallying by. Drippy responded by taking out the man’s eye with his chib.

It was rumoured that he then went on and enjoyed a full meal... Nothing ever turned the stomach or the haund of young Drippy.

It was two weeks later when they came for him on a rainy Friday afternoon in December. As usual he sat in his usual company of one. Not even the regular beer-sodden oul tadgers would trouble him for the price of a pint. There was no a stray dog that would have warmed to the man with the cold flesh of a fish.

The Barlanark contingents are not known for their ability for friendly blather. It was always going to be business fae the moment they got out of the car with its still-running engine. Drippy should have guessed that something was amiss; it’s especially difficult to find an empty bar on a Friday in Glesga.

The barman, when asked, had been ‘busy’ in the other bar at the time of the arrival of those ‘unknown’ visitors that day.
It took minutes, if not seconds, for Drippy’s transformation fae man to real beast. The many slashes on his face, head and neck, had turned Drippy into ‘Stripey’, and a lesson was taught by those more skilled in the ways of the cald steel. The final insult was the permanent grin they carved on his face.

It had been a long time since anyone had ever seen Drippy with such a big smile on his face.

Thirty years on and I barely recognised the auld fella as he sat at the bar amongst the Glesga men in Kings Cross. The thinness of shoulders, the greyness of skin, I was all for buying that auld man a glass of whisky out of pity for his obvious dissoluteness of life. But then he smiled, and the corners of his mouth vanished deep into the sallow of his cheeks. It was then that I realised, that this man void of humanity was none other than Drippy himself.

We are both of the same age, but lifetimes apart.

I drank my own whisky, and left my unfinished pint on the bar. As I got up to leave, I silently gave thanks to a God I do not believe in. There for the grace go I.