Ah got into joinery for one reason only: Charles Bronson. When ah was a wee tiny thing, mah dad exposed me to a film called Death Wish. Since then ah grew a love for westerns and other such Bronson films. Ah wouldn't consider mahself a huge movie fan, but ah was definetly a huge Bronson fan. Ah became a joiner as ah was attracted to workin on the sets of films, the visual background that millions eh people see, and maybe one day meet the man himself. But then he died. And situations got in the way which made me end up workin for maself and lost that passion and need to work on sets. Plus actors are all pantsy these days, they don't make them like Bronson any more, and due to computes slowly takin over the world, there's no need for us lot. CGI bullshit. The reason ah'm mentionin this? Well, ah eventually came in contact with an actor called Mr. Bronson. An "actor".
Last week ah recieved a call, a Mr. Bronson, wantin a customized wardrobe installed in his flat in the westend. He tells me he's a student and doesn't have alot of spare time, so we eventually agreed on today bein the day ah'd come and measure up and see if he wants to go through with it. Ah always get alarm bells when students are involved, for the core reason of 'will they be able to pay up?' Well, the boy can afford to live in the westend, out here in the east is where you stay if you cant afford good craftsmanship. Plus he has that accent, you know the one, soundin like some yank-Aussie hybrid twang with glimpes of the Glaswegian he once was before uni sucked him up, or 'the student accent' as ah call it. The cunt loaf. Ah've not met him and it's safe to say ah don't like him already.
He answers the door, a frail lookin fucker of a human with girls hair and knitwear. The ghost of Kurt Kobain is strong with this one. He invites me in, shows me an idea of what he wants, then asks if ah mind hurryin it up due to him runnin late for an audition. Ah want to punch the cheeky bugger, not for his general lack of organization which isn't mah fault considerin ah'm bang on the agreed time, but the manner in which he says it in. But ah reckon if ah go purposly slow, it'll fuck his day up just as much.
Ah ask him what's the audition for. He tells me River City. Ah let out a laugh so deep that it would have been quicker exitin mah arse. He blows his hair from his eyes and says 'Right' in that drawn out accent of his, as smarky as you like. Ah have a little fun and ask where he's origionally from. Easterhouse he tells me. So is mah auntie Rose, and ah'll be buggered if ah've ever heard her talk like the off spring of Croc Dundee and that gay one from Will & Grace.
Ah say fuck it, measure up a few things and give him a lump sum. Now, since he's had the sillyness of bein a cheeky dick to me, and reffered to himself as 'an artist' during conversation about his actin experiences, and that ah don't think he'll have time for a second oppinion nor give a flyin fuck if he does, ah over charge the toe rag, doubelin the price that it would normally be for the labour. He says the words "I'll have to talk to my dad, but like, should be no problem." These westend fuckers are always living out one of their parents pockets if not both. He says he'll phone me and let me know if it's okay with daddy and when. Ah hope ah do get the gig, so ah can do a half arsed job and soil in his pan without the notion of flushin.
Now don't get me all wrong readers, ah'm far from bein a cowboy builder who cons clients. There is an unwriten rule when it comes to tradesmen: don't fuckin piss off someone who you're goin to pay to do work in your house! Never mind the unwriten rules of human decency and manners. Simples.
Ah get home and phone Archie to clarify that he's workin with me tomorow on some buildin site in Motherwell. Ah then have a meal that Betsey made me, microwave spag-ball. Result.
Catch ye.
