It was last period on a Friday, history class with the old boot of a teacher Mrs Macintyre. No-one hated this class more than Chris Mills. All he could think about was getting home and firing on his laptop to watch some x rated filth before his parents got home from work. Then spending the rest of his weekend running around the streets of Newmilns with his mates.
“Can anyone tell me what year World War II ended?”, quizzed the old hag.
The class fell silent, no-one could be bothered raising their hand to give the teacher an answer, all except for Alistair Cox. He raised his hand and Mrs Macintyre pointed towards Alistair.
“It was September 1945 I’m sure”, answered Alistair correctly. Mrs Macintyre gave him a small clap and a nod of approval.
“Only a poof wid ken the answer tae that”, said Chris Mills under his breath.
Chris grew up on the same street as Alistair, their parents were friends back in school so felt the need to try and force a friendship between the pair. The two boys were completely different, Chris grew up loving football, girls and gaming, whereas Alistair grew up watching musicals, singing and dancing.
History had finished, which meant school was finished for the weekend, happy days. Chris met up with his mates on the walk to the buses and chatted about the plans for the weekend.
“Whit’s the plans fur the weekend then? We gawny try and get intae Mick’s party?”, asks wee Davie.
“I don’t ken man, that we bender Alistair is gawny be there I heard wae his dance team”, replies Chris.
“N whit aboot it? Some ae they birds are tidy that he runs wae”, says Davie.
“Aye a ken that, but whit kinda boy runs wae aw they lassies n disny dae anyhin wae thum, he must be gay”, says Chris.
“A don’t hink sa, ave heard a few rumours aboot the boy and he’s been getting aboot”, says Davie.
“I fuckin’ doubt that mate, he’s defo gay”, responds Chris.
At that, Davie doesn’t respond and they both just walk quietly to the bus.
Friday afternoon and Chris is in the house himself, he has an hour and half before his parents get home. It’s like a military routine, shutting the curtains, grabbing the toilet roll, picking up some moisturiser, opening the laptop and firing in his favourite x rated website into the incognito bar.
Ten minutes later and Chris is all wanked out. He heads downstairs for a can of juice from the fridge and to fix his drouthe. He then heads back upstairs and starts up his Playstation.
All his usual mates are online, playing Call of Duty or Fifa, boys games. Then he notices that Alistair Cox is online, playing singstar,
“Fuckin’ hell man”, he says to himself then follows up with, “could that guy be any gayer, he better no be at this party the night”.
Later that evening, Chris is getting ready to head to Mick’s party. He puts on his best G-star jeans with a Lacoste polo shirt his gran brought him back from Turkey and his brand new Nike Air Max trainers he got for his birthday. He then goes through to his dad’s toiletry cabinet and steals some of his after shave.
“Some wee doll is getting it the night”, he says to himself in the mirror.
The door bell rings, Chris knew it was his pals.
“Chris, yer pals are at the door”, shouts Chris’ mum from downstairs.
“Aye a ken fuck sake, ave no been gettin’ ready fur nuhin”, replies Chris.
“Don’t speak to me like that, or I’ll tell yer wee pals yer grounded”, replies his mum. Chris doesn’t have a response, because he knows better.
Wee Davie, Scotty, Samba and Pallet are standing at the front door all grinning when the door opens.
“Whit you aw sa happy aboot?”, Chris says with a miserable look on his face.
“Nuhin mate, just glad yer no grounded”, says Pallet.
The boys obviously heard the discussion between Chris and his mun, and his face hits new heights of red.
“Aye nae bother, as if she wid ground me, she’s a shitebag”, Chris says on the defense.
Shortly after, the boys are lingering outside a corner shop, waiting on some poor bastard to buy their carry out for them. After a few failed attempts, an older boy with a learning disability that the town knows well is stopped by the boys.
“Here big man, any chance you could buy us some booze?”, asks Samba.
“Aw eh eh, a dunno, a dunno if a should”, says the poor lad. “Well mibi, whit dae you want?”, he asks.
“Can ye lift that big pack ae 20 cans at the front there and a three litre bottle ae that cheap cider?”, Samba responds.
The boy nervously says yes, and the boys hand over their cash. They all either had a milk or paper run, so they had some disposable income.
“Cheers big man, yer a fuckin’ legend”, says Davie.
The boys are walking with a swagger towards Mick’s house party. The music from Mick’s house is that loud the boys could hear it a few streets away.
“Fuckin’ hell man, place sounds like it’s bouncin’ awready! Let’s get a move oan!”, says Chris.
The boys arrive at the door and just enter without as much as a ring of the door bell. When they walk in the house there is just groups of folk sitting about in every crevice of the house, either on their phones snapchatting, swiping on Tinder or just sticking their face in their phone for the sake of it.
“Fuck me, luks like we’ll needty to liven this fuckin’ place up”, says Pallet, “lets jump to the kitchen, every body kens that’s the heart of a party”.
They make their way to Mick’s kitchen to find Mick winching some wee bird from Kilmarnock.
“Get in there Mick my son!”, shouts Davie. The boys all start laughing and chugging on their booze.
“Aw fuck off ya bawbag, who invited you lot anyway?”, said Mick. “Will ye gie us some privacy?”.
“Naw, fuck off oot the way, yer pairty is shite so far, where’s aw the talent?”, asks Samba.
“Right I’ll boost oot yer wiy, n don’t worry, the fanny will be here shortly”, replies Mick.
An hour or so later and the group of lads are chipping their way through the carry out they brought. Pallet was that drunk that he fell asleep in the flower bed in the back garden after he watered the plants. The boys just left him lying there with all his dignity hanging out for everyone to see, and after a few snapchats taken to add to his misery. The doorbell rings for the first time tonight, no one rushes to get the door, and then it rings again.
“Fuck sake, bet that’s the polis cause o’ the noise!”, says Mick.
Mick sheepishly answers the door to find that it’s Alistair Cox with 3 lassies standing there waiting to be invited in.
“Aw thank fuck fur that, thought ye were the polis!”, says a relieved Mick, “mon in, make yerself a drink”, and Mick ushers them into the house.
Another hour had passed and Chris and the boys are worse for wear. Chris pipes up, “that’s it, I’m chinning this cunt”, saying to Davie and Samba.
“Don’t be daft mate, ye don’t want tae dae this here”, says Samba trying to reason with Chris.
“Aye a fuckin’ dae, ave hud enough ae him strutting aboot like he owns the fuckin’ place”, says Chris, and he walks over to Alistair.
Alistair clocks him straight away trying to barrel his way through the busy hall. Chris stands directly in front of Alistair’s face and all the girls fall awkwardly silent.
“See you ya poof, I canny stand you, joost turnin’ up here wae aw yer wee lassie pals hinkin’ yer a ticket”, says Chris, barely taking a breath. “A suggest you n yer pals joost leave here before thurs any boather”.
Alistair put his hands up and says, “Listen Chris, don’t talk to me like that, or I’ll tell everyone here yer wee secret”. The whole hallway fell silent, and everyone within earshot was desperate to find out what it was.
“N whit secret is that exactly? Tell yer wee stories and I’ll take yer jaw for a walk up n doon this hallway!”, threatened Chris.
At that moment Chris in all his rage swung a punch at Alistair and missed completely, and embarrassingly. Alistair stood tall, pulled back his right fist and sprung forward with a right cross and caught Chris square on the nose. Chris falls to the deck like a bag of spanners, holding his burst and bleeding nose.
“Ye’v broke ma nose ya big poof, ye’v broke it”, he screamed through tears and bloody snot.
“Stop calling me a poof! I’ve shagged mare lassies than you’ve had hot dinners! And last I knew you were the wee poof that tried to winch me at my maws barbeque last year!”, shouted Alistair in Chris’ face.
Chris broke down into more tears and complete denial, “naw, naw that’s no true!”, responded Chris.
Out of nowhere Pallet had re-emerged from his drunken slumber and put a hand on Chris’ shoulder,
“Listen mate, we aw ken that yer gay, we’ve kent for years, but it disny bother us at all, just stoap bein’ a dick tae Alistair fur fuck sake”, wise words from the slowest of the group.
Chris just stood up covered in his own blood, snot and tears, and made a darting run out the front door and up the street shouting, “I’m no gay, I’m fuckin’ no, they’ve goat it wrang”.