What do these words have in common: 524, lunge and kev’s? It’s OK, you don’t have to guess. I know you’re too lazy to engage in such cerebral chicanery, which is why I’m going to tell you straight up. Those three seemingly disparate words are all linked in ink by dint of sharing the same scrawl space. When I returned home from town on Thursday, 524, lunge and kev’s were also in attendance, clinging onto the back of my hand in black ballpoint. Why? To remind me, of course, what to write about in my blog. As you’re about to discover, it only takes three words to inspire an exceedingly wordy blog.
I went into town on Thursday to have a look around and see what had changed since I last graced the granite city a year hence. The short answer is nothing. Nothing has changed; the streets are just as grey, the junkies just as numerous and the seagulls just as vicious. It was reassuring to know that I hadn’t missed anything in the time I’d been gone. I had feared that, in my absence, Aberdeen had been transformed into some cosmopolitan metropolis with bijou tapas bars on every corner and pavement artists in place of beggars. If the oil capital had gotten cultured however it was hiding it well, for there was nothing urbane about the urban sprawl that greeted me every step of the way. There was barely a hint of the city I used to love, but in fairness, I was looking for it in all the wrong places. As an unfortunate consequence of my itinerary, I was obliged to spend the day traversing the skankiest regal road in the city.
Ah, George Street. Where do I begin? How does one describe this mile of filth without resorting to pejoratives? Answer: one doesn’t. Local readers will know what I mean. And to the uninitiated, you shall remain blissfully ignorant. I read somewhere that the council are planning to inject thousands of pounds into redeveloping George Street. ‘Inject’ being the operative word here. No amount of hanging flowers and cobbled stones will disguise the fact that George Street is Aberdeen’s official junkie thoroughfare. Any flower boxes installed will soon be transformed into makeshift needle bins. Lean in to smell the flowers and you’ll find yourself pricked by a cactus of syringes instead. As I navigated the linear mile of squalor, I encountered two of my fellow ex-convicts, too junked up to even recognise me. I barely recognised them myself, not because I was out of my face on smack but because the waifs that flitted past me were just half the men they had been in the jail, not that they were much to begin with. Further along the street, I passed another insalubrious spectacle - the 524 ‘Cocktail Bar’ looking as dilapidated and menacing as ever. In spite of what its moniker would suggest, I found it hard to imagine that cocktails had ever been served in that rancid watering hole. If the sign was to be believed however, the 524 was more than just a cocktail bar - it also boasted a lounge. Unfortunately, the ‘o’ in Lounge was missing, presumed stolen, so that the 524 was now just a Lunge. It seemed fitting really, for were anyone foolish enough to walk in and ask for a cocktail, they would immediately be lunged at and their throat slit with a broken highball. The arterial spray would then be caught in the bottom of the glass and the crimson mixture served up as a Bloody Mary. Be careful what you wish for in the 524.
When I reached the top of George Street, I kept on walking, trying to put as much distance between myself and His Majesty’s unmajestic byway as possible. Half a mile later, I passed Kev’s Inkhouse, that renowned emporium of all things infectious. If your idea of creative excellence is a Bonnie Scotland motif administered by the shaky hand of a perma-stoned gun-wielder (‘tattoo artist’ would be stretching the truth somewhat), Kev’s is where it’s at. The tats are cheap, the hep is on the (ink)house and if you don‘t squirm too much, you might even be offered twos on the joint. What more could you wish for? As I scanned the lettering on the parlour window, I realised to my surprise that something had changed in Aberdeen while I was inside - Kev’s Inkhouse had gone up in the world (although admittedly it couldn’t have sunk any lower). According to the shiny new decals on the glass, Kev’s Inkhouse was now ‘Internet Connected’. While I was delighted to hear that Kev could now order his Domino’s pizza and second-hand tattoo needles online, I didn’t see what bearing this had on the customer. But perhaps I was being too flippant; in fairness to the boy, he may have been trying to convey the news that his remote tattooing service was now online. Could it be that, having invested in the same dildonics technology that enables people to stimulate each other over the internet, Kev was now capable of inking his subjects from the other end of an ADSL cable? Sure, the detail might be a bit sketchy from afar but at least the second-hand smoke and third-hand infections would no longer be an issue. Should every other tattoo parlour in the northern hemisphere burn down and I find myself obliged to call on Kev to join the dots on my arm, I’ll make sure he connects them using his cutting-edge ‘Internet Connected’ technology. It’s not that I fear an infection (hell, fucking whores without a rubber is how I get my adrenalin rush, not to mention my dripping dick), but rather a pistol-whipping from a tat-gun as payback for all the pejoratives I’ve subjected Kev and his insalubrious Inkhouse to. He may well have his wicked way with me one day, but first he’ll need to clear a path through all the disgruntled cons, junkies and cops currently baying for my blood. (Incidentally, I should point out that having never set foot - or indeed any other body part - inside Kev's Inkhouse, I could be wrong in my uncomplimentary appraisal. I assess my tattoo parlours like I assess my future sexual partners - in poor light and with a ski mask pulled over my head. If I've got it wrong, Kev, by all means sue me or send me a strongly-worded email over your spanking new internet connection. But please, whatever you do, don't ink me.)
Upon my return to the relative safety of the town centre, I took a detour through M&S, who had taken great delight in taunting me with their tantalising food adverts for the past year. Now that I was finally able to sample not just food, but M&S food, however, I found that I was no longer hungry. I hadn’t gone there in search of victuals in any case, but to track down a distinctly less debonair dish - Bob. I found him in the gents’ section, selling suits to middleclass businessmen who had no idea that, given the choice, he’d rather be fitting their wives out with crotchless panties and a pearl necklace. It occurred to me, as I navigated my way out of the store, just how annoying it was that the escalators were placed in such a way that the customer was obliged to walk round the whole store on their way out. In theory it leads to more impulse purchases; in practice it results in more customers impulsively dashing down the up escalator. Ever prone to going against the flow, I did contemplate plunging down the wrong chute but decided against it lest escalator violations constituted a breach of my tagging conditions, resulting in a swift return to jail.
Walking out of Marks & Spencer, I bumped into my daughter. While encountering a family member in town is not generally considered noteworthy and indeed blogworthy, this rendezvous was less expected given that my daughter is only 13 months old. Thankfully she hadn’t escaped from home in her baby walker, but was being escorted by her granny and aunt. It was the second time that morning I’d seen her auntie in town and it dawned on me just how small a place Aberdeen is. Even smaller than my recently vacated prison cell in fact. When I was languishing in there, I never once encountered my family, let alone twice in the same day. My final - and most essential - port of call was The Bassment on Windmill Brae, where I was greeted by the barstaff and treated to a Long Island Iced Tea. You wouldn’t get service like that in the 524. I’d dreamt of this moment on countless occasions throughout my incarceration and it tasted every bit as sweet as I’d imagined. It was good to be back. As the alcohol laced with cola worked its magic, I reflected on how it was the little things I’d forgotten about that brought a smile to my face and made me appreciate the real world; like sniggering as a bus drove past bearing the route ‘The Brown Line’ (or as I like to call it, The Skidmark Express) and like ogling the opposite sex. I hadn’t seen the female species in so long, I found myself double, triple and quadruple-taking at the wondrous sights on display; breasts and legs and, well, breasts once again for good measure. To quote from the shortest Trash Whore Diaries entry of all time - 29th May 2002 - ‘Girls are great.’ Staring at them with drool trickling from the sides of your mouth is not so great however. At least not when you’re in the company of your girlfriend. I met up with my own great member of the female species at lunchtime and, while I have no desire to trade her in for a different model, I had to check myself on several occasions from window shopping. Had the fine exhibits on display been for sale, I might have found myself impulsively splashing out on them. By the time I was seated on the bus home, the aching of my balls had been superseded by that of my feet. Unaccustomed to walking, the only sojourn they had taken for months was the twice daily commute up and down the B-Hall stairs to collect meals and the occasional wander round the Astroturf pitch. Throbbing extremities aside, it had been a satisfying first day back on the beat. Everything appeared to be pretty much as I had left it; if the world had moved on while I was away, it must have doubled back and came full circle. There was just one enigma that, try as I might, I couldn’t make head nor tail of: for some reason, the words 524, lunge and kev’s had been scribbled on the back of my hand. Now what was all that about?
I went into town on Thursday to have a look around and see what had changed since I last graced the granite city a year hence. The short answer is nothing. Nothing has changed; the streets are just as grey, the junkies just as numerous and the seagulls just as vicious. It was reassuring to know that I hadn’t missed anything in the time I’d been gone. I had feared that, in my absence, Aberdeen had been transformed into some cosmopolitan metropolis with bijou tapas bars on every corner and pavement artists in place of beggars. If the oil capital had gotten cultured however it was hiding it well, for there was nothing urbane about the urban sprawl that greeted me every step of the way. There was barely a hint of the city I used to love, but in fairness, I was looking for it in all the wrong places. As an unfortunate consequence of my itinerary, I was obliged to spend the day traversing the skankiest regal road in the city.
Ah, George Street. Where do I begin? How does one describe this mile of filth without resorting to pejoratives? Answer: one doesn’t. Local readers will know what I mean. And to the uninitiated, you shall remain blissfully ignorant. I read somewhere that the council are planning to inject thousands of pounds into redeveloping George Street. ‘Inject’ being the operative word here. No amount of hanging flowers and cobbled stones will disguise the fact that George Street is Aberdeen’s official junkie thoroughfare. Any flower boxes installed will soon be transformed into makeshift needle bins. Lean in to smell the flowers and you’ll find yourself pricked by a cactus of syringes instead. As I navigated the linear mile of squalor, I encountered two of my fellow ex-convicts, too junked up to even recognise me. I barely recognised them myself, not because I was out of my face on smack but because the waifs that flitted past me were just half the men they had been in the jail, not that they were much to begin with. Further along the street, I passed another insalubrious spectacle - the 524 ‘Cocktail Bar’ looking as dilapidated and menacing as ever. In spite of what its moniker would suggest, I found it hard to imagine that cocktails had ever been served in that rancid watering hole. If the sign was to be believed however, the 524 was more than just a cocktail bar - it also boasted a lounge. Unfortunately, the ‘o’ in Lounge was missing, presumed stolen, so that the 524 was now just a Lunge. It seemed fitting really, for were anyone foolish enough to walk in and ask for a cocktail, they would immediately be lunged at and their throat slit with a broken highball. The arterial spray would then be caught in the bottom of the glass and the crimson mixture served up as a Bloody Mary. Be careful what you wish for in the 524.
When I reached the top of George Street, I kept on walking, trying to put as much distance between myself and His Majesty’s unmajestic byway as possible. Half a mile later, I passed Kev’s Inkhouse, that renowned emporium of all things infectious. If your idea of creative excellence is a Bonnie Scotland motif administered by the shaky hand of a perma-stoned gun-wielder (‘tattoo artist’ would be stretching the truth somewhat), Kev’s is where it’s at. The tats are cheap, the hep is on the (ink)house and if you don‘t squirm too much, you might even be offered twos on the joint. What more could you wish for? As I scanned the lettering on the parlour window, I realised to my surprise that something had changed in Aberdeen while I was inside - Kev’s Inkhouse had gone up in the world (although admittedly it couldn’t have sunk any lower). According to the shiny new decals on the glass, Kev’s Inkhouse was now ‘Internet Connected’. While I was delighted to hear that Kev could now order his Domino’s pizza and second-hand tattoo needles online, I didn’t see what bearing this had on the customer. But perhaps I was being too flippant; in fairness to the boy, he may have been trying to convey the news that his remote tattooing service was now online. Could it be that, having invested in the same dildonics technology that enables people to stimulate each other over the internet, Kev was now capable of inking his subjects from the other end of an ADSL cable? Sure, the detail might be a bit sketchy from afar but at least the second-hand smoke and third-hand infections would no longer be an issue. Should every other tattoo parlour in the northern hemisphere burn down and I find myself obliged to call on Kev to join the dots on my arm, I’ll make sure he connects them using his cutting-edge ‘Internet Connected’ technology. It’s not that I fear an infection (hell, fucking whores without a rubber is how I get my adrenalin rush, not to mention my dripping dick), but rather a pistol-whipping from a tat-gun as payback for all the pejoratives I’ve subjected Kev and his insalubrious Inkhouse to. He may well have his wicked way with me one day, but first he’ll need to clear a path through all the disgruntled cons, junkies and cops currently baying for my blood. (Incidentally, I should point out that having never set foot - or indeed any other body part - inside Kev's Inkhouse, I could be wrong in my uncomplimentary appraisal. I assess my tattoo parlours like I assess my future sexual partners - in poor light and with a ski mask pulled over my head. If I've got it wrong, Kev, by all means sue me or send me a strongly-worded email over your spanking new internet connection. But please, whatever you do, don't ink me.)
Upon my return to the relative safety of the town centre, I took a detour through M&S, who had taken great delight in taunting me with their tantalising food adverts for the past year. Now that I was finally able to sample not just food, but M&S food, however, I found that I was no longer hungry. I hadn’t gone there in search of victuals in any case, but to track down a distinctly less debonair dish - Bob. I found him in the gents’ section, selling suits to middleclass businessmen who had no idea that, given the choice, he’d rather be fitting their wives out with crotchless panties and a pearl necklace. It occurred to me, as I navigated my way out of the store, just how annoying it was that the escalators were placed in such a way that the customer was obliged to walk round the whole store on their way out. In theory it leads to more impulse purchases; in practice it results in more customers impulsively dashing down the up escalator. Ever prone to going against the flow, I did contemplate plunging down the wrong chute but decided against it lest escalator violations constituted a breach of my tagging conditions, resulting in a swift return to jail.
Walking out of Marks & Spencer, I bumped into my daughter. While encountering a family member in town is not generally considered noteworthy and indeed blogworthy, this rendezvous was less expected given that my daughter is only 13 months old. Thankfully she hadn’t escaped from home in her baby walker, but was being escorted by her granny and aunt. It was the second time that morning I’d seen her auntie in town and it dawned on me just how small a place Aberdeen is. Even smaller than my recently vacated prison cell in fact. When I was languishing in there, I never once encountered my family, let alone twice in the same day. My final - and most essential - port of call was The Bassment on Windmill Brae, where I was greeted by the barstaff and treated to a Long Island Iced Tea. You wouldn’t get service like that in the 524. I’d dreamt of this moment on countless occasions throughout my incarceration and it tasted every bit as sweet as I’d imagined. It was good to be back. As the alcohol laced with cola worked its magic, I reflected on how it was the little things I’d forgotten about that brought a smile to my face and made me appreciate the real world; like sniggering as a bus drove past bearing the route ‘The Brown Line’ (or as I like to call it, The Skidmark Express) and like ogling the opposite sex. I hadn’t seen the female species in so long, I found myself double, triple and quadruple-taking at the wondrous sights on display; breasts and legs and, well, breasts once again for good measure. To quote from the shortest Trash Whore Diaries entry of all time - 29th May 2002 - ‘Girls are great.’ Staring at them with drool trickling from the sides of your mouth is not so great however. At least not when you’re in the company of your girlfriend. I met up with my own great member of the female species at lunchtime and, while I have no desire to trade her in for a different model, I had to check myself on several occasions from window shopping. Had the fine exhibits on display been for sale, I might have found myself impulsively splashing out on them. By the time I was seated on the bus home, the aching of my balls had been superseded by that of my feet. Unaccustomed to walking, the only sojourn they had taken for months was the twice daily commute up and down the B-Hall stairs to collect meals and the occasional wander round the Astroturf pitch. Throbbing extremities aside, it had been a satisfying first day back on the beat. Everything appeared to be pretty much as I had left it; if the world had moved on while I was away, it must have doubled back and came full circle. There was just one enigma that, try as I might, I couldn’t make head nor tail of: for some reason, the words 524, lunge and kev’s had been scribbled on the back of my hand. Now what was all that about?
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