EXCERPT Background
November 1971, fellas are being hit by a new phenomenon, liberated women.
They ignore it and continue in their divinely chosen task of running the world
in anyway they see fit.
Things take a turn for the worse, these unbalanced Harpies begin to
demand to be treated not only as equals but as being in many ways superior. The
guys are, unsurprisingly, more than slightly miffed.
A gender war’s in the offing.
Germane Greer’s The Female Eunuch came out in paperback Nov 1970, (Women
are getting more knowledgeable), in 1968 violent youth protests took place on
the streets of Paris and throughout America. During one of these, a Martial Arts
protester put her bare fist through an armoured face mask and broke the guy’s
nose. Some of these women, supposedly, burned their bras at the Miss America
Pageant (Not a bra was burned but it sounded good, besides it happened at lots
of other venues.). (Society’s changing.) Aldrin and Armstrong walk on the moon
in July of 1968 (Men are achieving.).
1971, Valerie Solanas is just about through her incarceration for putting
three bullets into Andy Warhol. She got a year for each bullet. She publishes
her S.C.U.M. manifesto: The Society for Cutting Up Men (Solanas insists that all
male foetus be exterminated before birth and that, as a gender, now that
artificial insemination has arrived, the male of the species be eradicated as
they are now even more redundant than ever.)
PART ONE
1 - Gregor’s Story: Sit on it
During the past few weeks I’ve followed this particular bird five times,
mostly here, so far without the least sign of a result. This time I’ve been
tailing it for more than half an hour. I’m known as a wee bit of a joker but
this has gone too far, this tart is seriously beginning to sicken my happiness.
It’s been blind-sided. As far as it’s concerned it’s on its tod. This is
good. I’m way wild inside, belly churning. Riled? Dead right I’m riled but
managing to look casual, out walking a dog sort of thing. Looking about like any
other punter in any park.
Half-twelve in the day, dinner-break. I usually go to the canteen across
the road from where I work for mince and spuds or the like and a pudding for
afters about this time but here I am hanging about on the Glasgow Green like a
fart in a trance.
I’m only just past the Doulton Fountain with Queen Vic in terracotta
looking ever so smug way up there on top. Beneath her feet are the results of
what the Wogs, Darkies, Packies and dirt poor whites were willing to kill
hideously for and die hideously for in their droves. Her own wee personal
Germanic Empire. Nothing’s changed, we fellas are still prepared to put our way
of life on the line when we’re on a promise from some sweet piece of pussy. All
it has to do is smile right.
Anyway, I’m here and I’m starving. My belly’s rumbling. Be starving all
afternoon, now. Won’t be able to concentrate. Bugger. I make a mistake my job’ll
be up the Sewanee. Be down to this one girl, that. Just think of it, having this
sort of influence over another human being, birds are like that, us guys can
never even come close to being able to imagine what it’s like to be that
powerful.
Least it’s on the warm side, well, for September it is. Sun’s out. A
brown blackbird’s hopping along the grass, whistling away like Ronnie Ronald
before it spots a big, fat worm and begins to tug. You can bet a week’s wages
that the worm’s a fella and that he’s seen his last sunlight.
Some Raven with a blood-soaked caw’s hidden well up in the branches, he’s
waiting his turn. Biding his time, eventually, something will get it in the neck
and be feeding more worms for the brown blackbird to feast on. Even when we’re
not trying, we’re trying. Never lose out they don’t. Not birds. Always end up
well fed.
River Clyde all peat brown and sparkling. What few leaves are left alive,
not so much as trembling. Not as much as a whisper of a breeze to disturb the
air. Quiet with it, nice day for a wee saunter. A walk and a think knowing
there’s Glasgow city centre traffic, chaos and insanity just a few hundred yards
away in any direction. It can’t get at you. You’re safe.
It’s been sitting on the grass for about ten minutes now, long legs
spread out in front of it, skirt pulled up, not especially trying to but looking
sexy none-the-less. Reading some paperback. I’m keeping myself well out of sight
and thinking how different it looks now that it’s taken off its black
solicitor’s robes to go walkabouts out here in the real world. Soft skin, soft
hair, soft everything else, I shouldn’t wonder. Wow.
I like women, get on well with them. I like them with some spirit,
feisty. All for this new Women’s Lib. thing, why not. Only an idiot would be
looking for something half dead that just sits there and nods. This one at this
right good moment looks just like the sort I’d go for.
The sort of tart that, if it asked you nice, you’d take it between the
sheets without a second thought. I put a stop to this, not the time and not the
place. Wish it would get a move on, though, I need to be getting back. I’ve got
three broken tellies lying on my bench waiting to be fixed.
Finally, the chance I’ve been waiting for, it’s got its eyes closed and
having a wee bit of a nap with its back against a Canadian Maple. This is it. I
creep up on the other side of the tree trunk. Stretch out my left mitt, grab
hold of its handbag and slide it in my direction.
First thing out’s a wee present it’s been buying for somebody special,
must have cost a bomb, this lot. Yves Saint Laurent, whoever the hell he is,
River Gauche, Eau De Toilette for women, how very posh. I’ll be having that,
thank you all the same. I’m no thief, never nicked a thing in my entire puff,
just call this payment in kind. I’m due this much, at least, for going to this
much trouble.
Next out’s the book it’s been reading. The blurb says it’s now out in
affordable paperback, at last. About a hundred of the pages have been dog-eared.
Paragraphs everywhere are jumping out at me in bright red highlighter, so it’s
got to be something special.
The cover’s magic. A rubber bird’s torso. I like the tits, I especially
go for the handles on either side of its body so’s a guy can get a real good
grip when he’s shagging it, brilliant. Well thought out this. I like the whole
shebang. Has to be porno, stands to reason.
I stroke the book and run my fingertips over the glossy cover a few
times, loving it. I can feel how much this tart loves it too. Just goes to show.
Sitting here all sedate in the middle of the city, in full public view and
reading a dirty book. The only thing that I don’t get is the title, The Female
Eunuch, I can’t figure it. What would a tart be doing having a dick in the first
place? There’ll be some sexy angle, I suppose
Anyhow, I grin, on with the joke. I stick the book in my pocket and pour
a handful of soil into the bag in its place. Then I toss in a bright yellow
packet of Juicy Fruit gum for it to chew on at its leisure across the road in
the Sheriff Courts where it works.
The packet of gum looks for all the world like a wee coffin lying there
on top of the dirt. I laugh at this, nice touch, accidental but nice. She’ll get
the joke, that’s for sure. She’ll get the joke and know it’s me did this, which
is the point.
I slide the bag back to where it was at its side.
Whistling like a linty, I’m out of the Green and on a bus back to work.
Job done.
Made my day, this.
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