the cradle

first day up in the old cradle with stan. i shit myself at first i don't mind telling ya. it's one of them old creaking wooden efforts with ropes and jinny wheels. you pull on your rope and your mate's side of the cradle starts up and vice-versa. it goes without saying (if you're not stuck for a brain) that it requires both of you to pull on your ropes simultaneously. that way you move up the building in unison.

basically you're pretty much putting your life eachothers hands. i mean you're counting on him not to have a heart-attack or something half way up the building because that would be the pair of you fucked.

still, we did alright first day out. cleaned two sides of the building. we do the other two sides tomorrow. i quite enjoyed it by the end to be fair. nice view out over the thames and that.

i'm quite looking forward to tomorrow.

back on the round

Uncle stan's coming back to work tommorow. He's got us a new contract cleaning the windows of an office block in wapping. we start it next week

My apprentice Charlie's gone for good. he never bothered chatting up Uncle Stan about getting his job back after I sacked him. 2 days sat at home doing fuck all he decides that is the life for him. He's now back scrounging off the social like all the rest of his good for nothing family.

I'm totally bricking it about this new office block contract. it's 12 floors up. I fucking hate heights as you know. I'm thinking of jacking to be fair. Don't know if I can handle it up in one of them cradles blowing about all over the fucking place.

the funeral

At the funeral … things went from bad to worse.
There were six of us carrying the coffin. Me, carl, mark, John, Lamps and Clive (Fraser's brother). Souness was on the subs-bench … just in case. Our instructions were simple; lift the coffin off of the hearse, walk it slowly into the crematorium and plonk it down on the old catafalque ready for the big off.

It was just as we reached the entrance to the Crematorium that the unmistakable sound of Bob Marley’s ‘I shot the sheriff started up from inside. House of Fraser had been an avid Marley fan so I suppose his mum and dad thought the song appropriate. Maybe it was. Who was I too say? All I know is that it took me totally unaware …

… and I started laughing uncontrollable.

It was just so fucking loud.

I shot the sheriff
But I didn’t shoot no deputy, oh no! oh!

“SHHHH!” said Mark … “Have some bloody respect!”
Me and Mark had been put shoulder to shoulder much to the depressed punters annoyance.
“I can’t … I can’t help it,” I spluttered.
We traipsed on, entering the crematorium itself, I tried and tried to think of unfunny things but nothing fucking worked. I was gone, just totally fucking pissing myself.

Yeah! all around in my home town,
They’re trying’ to track me down;

The crematorium was packed. Luckily, I was being shielded from the mourners by the coffin and the song was drowning out the ludicrous sounds I was making.

They say they want to bring me in guilty
For the killing of a deputy,

We kept moving. I knew that in a few moments we’d be plonking the coffin down and everyone here would be able to see me in hysterics. I was actually in fucking pain with it all. You know what it’s like … the more you struggle to keep a straight face, the worse it becomes. You’ve all been there. It’s just my luck it had to happen at a fucking funeral. Then I found myself picturing the coffin lid opening, Fraser sitting bolt upright and guitar in hand start jamming along to the song …
Sheriff john brown always hated me,
For what, I don’t know:

Oh Shit oh Shit! Fuck fuck fuck!

I have to stop laughing. Have to stop, have to stop, have to stop, have to stop, shit, shit shit.

With one big bollock of an effort I did indeed, finally, manage to stop laughing. At least on the outside. Inside I was a fucking wreck and I knew it wouldn’t take much to set me off again.

We placed the coffin on the catafalque and stood back. There were no seats left, the place was jammed, (weird because he wasn’t that popular when he was alive) so we stood against a wall facing everything.

Reflexes had got the better of me(here I go. Shit. Oh go!)
And what is to be must be:
(Don’t … Hold it)
Every day the bucket a-go a well,
(breathe)
One day the bottom a-go drop out,(think boring … news at 10 news at 10, … think, I’m henry the 8th I am henry the 8th … shoes shoes lookatme shoes, shoes shoes! Oh god )

One day the bottom a-go drop out.
It was then that the vicar walked in. The moment I clocked this prune I knew straight away that there just had to be a god. I knew this because It could only be a prankster like him that, at the very moment I’d gained some control over my hysterics, would send in a vicar who was a total ringer for Tommy Cooper. The second I saw him I totally lost it.

I had to be escorted from the fucking church.

dead

Fraser’s only gone and fucking died. Last week it happened. It’s his funeral today. His mum found him on the floor in his bedroom. Apparently he’d tripped on a rug and broken his neck. What a way to go. You survive 8 days at sea without food or water and you end up dying an idiots death. It’s typical of my friends.
Mark phoned me last night. He said he’d just spoke to Fraser’s parents and they want all of his closest friends to carry the coffin.
“For some reason they want you to be there,” he said.
“Why shouldn’t I be there?”
“It’s your fault he’s dead that’s why.”
“That’s a bit harsh,” I said, though to be fair he had a point.
“Well, if it was up to me you definitely wouldn’t be going.”
“Well it’s a good job it’s not up to you then ain’t it … Mr Happy.”
Silence now with Mark obviously annoyed and anxious that I’ve been invited to the funeral and me helping myself to a huge serving of pleasure from his discomfort.
“What’s happening after?” I said finally.
“After what?” he said.
“After the funeral? Are we going to the grapes or back to Fraser’s mum and dads house?”
“Why are you asking this?”
“I reckon they should use the grapes. Whack a few quid behind the bar.”
“I don’t believe you. Fraser’s dead and all you can think about is fucking free beer. You are a joke.”
“I’m concerned for Fraser’s mum and dad. The last thing they’re going to want to do is clean up after a party.”
“It’s not a party Marshal, it’s a funeral.”
“Oh why don’t you go and boil your fucking head,” I said before hanging up on the miserable bastard. You can always count on that cunt to try and put the mockers on things.

fraser's window

Oh I am a window cleaner
A decent honest man
With my ladder on my shoulder
And my shammy in my hand.

Back on the round then ...
Uncle Stan’s loving it. He’s still off sick. Stringing it out if you want my opinion on the matter. He’s got me an apprentice called Charlie who is a nephew on his wife’s side. Another berk to add to my collection. Charlie’s a movie nut, keeps quoting scenes from his favourite films, knows all the directors and the writers and everything. It was funny at first but he’s gone to far now.

Anyway, I was dreading going out this morning because House of Fraser’s house is on our round and things were still a bit dicey between us. Word is he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me ever again. Can you see my dilemma? He’s only been back from Spain a couple of days as well. They flew him back first class which I thought was nice. He was still in a bit of a state according to Souness who came round to see me at my mums last night. Souness is still the only one who’s talking to me so I reluctantly let him in for a chat.

“Ee’s got all bloody bandages on him and that la,” Souness said, from somewhere behind his moulting moustache.
“Who has?” I said.
“House of Fraser like.”
“Oh right.”
“Yeah, Ee looks a bloody state Marsh you know what I mean?”
“Right.”
“Looks a bit like that invisible man one.”
“Right.” I got up to make a cup of tea but thought better of it. Instead I went into the hallway and dialled my mobile phone.
“Ya mobbie’s ringing Marsh.”
“Thanks.” I said walking into the living room. I answered the phone and started talking to myself. “Yeah … yeah … yeah … right … fuck me … right … give me 5 minutes.” I hung up. “Sorry mate,” I said walking to the street door and opening it. “You’re gonna have to go mate. I’ve got urgent business to attend to.”
“No worries mate,” said Souness, smiling like the gormless scouser that he was.
“See ya,” I said, shutting the door on him.

Back to today and Fraser’s bedroom window which I’d been putting off till last. I climbed up. The curtains were open. I peered in and low and be-fucking-hold there he was, lying on the bed.
Was he crying?
God he looked bad. Like a blistered strawberry. Poor sod. He had no hair either. Bald as a fucking coot the poor sod. He was moving. His bed was at the other side of the room but I could still see his eyes were open.
Then he turned around stared straight at me.

“Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!” he screamed. “Go awwwwwwwwway!” Then he stood up. He was stark bollock and he standing there he reminded me of Frankenstein’s monster. Suddenly his face went from fear through anger and finally to complete and utter rage and before I knew it he was rushing towards the window and me. Fraser’s bedroom had polished floorboards with a rug on it. He got halfway across the room before slipping on the rug and falling arse over tit. He fell awkward and hit his head on the side of the bed.

He didn’t move.

I looked down at Charlie who was stood at the bottom of the ladder.

“You alright,” he said.

I turned and looked back in at Fraser. Still no movement. Shit. I started down the ladder slowly.
“What?” I said.
“I said are you alright?” said Charlie.
“Never better,” I said.
“You look a bit pale.”
“Yeah. Actually, I do feel a bit dicky now you mention it. I think I’ll go home.”
“Are you not going to finish that last window,” he said.
“No.”
“I’ll do it.”
“It’s fine. It’s already clean.”
“It looks dirty from down here.”
“What the fuck would you know about cleaning windows?” I said.
“I’m just saying.”
“Leave the fucking window alone.”
“There’s no need to talk to me like that.”
“You’re sacked?”
“Eh?”
“I said you’re sacked.”
“You can’t sack me. It’s my uncle Stans round. He’s my boss.”
“Bollocks. You’re sacked. Fuck off.”
“You’ll fucking pay for this mate,” said the lanky streak of piss. Then he slung his shammy in the bucket of soapy water and kicked the bucket of soapy water all over the patio floor.
Cunt!
I slung my bucket of water over him. He screamed. “You bastard.”
“Go on, fuck off!” I said. And he did.
I went home.

air-rage

we arrived back in england a few days ago. the flight back was dreadful on account of an air-rage incident involving one of the passengers.

me.

I'd hit the vodka the moment we got to the airport and by the time I got on the plane I was wholeheartedly cabbaged. still, i would have been fine if it hadn't of been for old cheerless mark giving me filthy looks at every given opportunity.

i tried to ignore him but it was difficult as i was sitting right next to the cunt. eventually i’d had enough. i stood up to go to the toilet and accidentally elbowed the fool right in the middle of his gloomy looking boat

"you bastard … !" he said, holding his nose in a hopeless attempt to stop the blood from reaching his DaZ white chinos.

it was then i really lost it and accidentally punched him in the head about 15 times.

suddenly it all kicked off. there was lots of shouting and scuffling and before i knew what was happening i was dragged back out of my seat, up toward the front of the plane, and put in to a pair of fucking handcuffs.

i was screaming by now, calling everyone cunts, making sure they knew i was suing the fucking airline.

"I'M GONNA HAVE YOUR FUCKING JOBS!" i screamed.

i don't think they give a shit to be fair and the next thing i knew was being lifted up off the floor and plonked into a seat. i struggled to get up but my hands were cuffed behind me and once they put the seatbelt on that was me fucked.

We’d no sooner landed at heathrow than these two airport plod came storming up the aisle to escort me off the plane. i had to pass all the lads on the way to the exit: john, carl, souness, lamps and mark. all of them had their heads down. ashamed i suppose - at their betrayal of me. only souness had the courage to look up.
"do you want me to wait for you marsh?" he said.

i just ignored the potato.

i was slung in the cells to sober up. eventually a plod came in, spent about 5 minutes walking up and down, all important, like one of them inspector jack frost type of a cunts, before charging me with disorderly conduct.

"you're lucky," he said.
"am i?" i said back.
"Yes. lucky the plane wasn't diverted. you'd have copped for diversion costs as well as a fine. Still, the fine will be pretty substantial i would imagine ... "
"what would have happened if the plane had crashed?"
"i'm not sure, you'd probably have been charged ... are you taking the piss lad?"

eventually he slung me back in the cells for another hour before letting me out.

they brought me luggage over which was a touch but all-in-all i was pissed off with how the day had gone to be fair.

i just wanted to get home for a kip because i tell you one thing ... i fucking well deserved it.