The Return of an Old Pal

You now how it is. Sometimes you meet someone for the first time and you know from the outset that you're gonna get on with them.

If it's a bird some might argue it's sexual chemistry (if it ain't and the feelings are the same you're probably a poof-house). If it's a fella more likely you'll pick up on his deeply ingrained familiarity with the etiquette of the public house; or maybe his obviously encyclopedic knowledge of boxing.

This very thing has happened to me upon meeting particular individuals involved in the West Highland Way Race. At least that's what I like to believe anyway......there's an equally good chance, that I'm deluded and those very same individuals say:

'Oh no it's that bloody pest Waterman again.....quick, let's hide behind the sofa and pretend we're not in.'

Or maybe:

'If that mug Waterman sets one foot in Essex I'll 'ave his fuckin' knee caps.'

But regardless of the unrequited love demonstrated by recently repatriated emigres from Romania, I have an example to support my argument:

There I was in 2006, about fifty of the ninety-five miles under my belt but with a knee that was swollen and painful and restricting my forward movement to little more than a crawl. As I stumbled along up comes this Australian fella.

'Hi guys,' he says to me and John, my support runner. 'My name's Keith and I'm the sweeper. I've caught up with you and that means you're last.'

I immediately warmed to Corned Beef's dismissal of any polite formality. My affection for him was further cemented when a car drove past where the track nears the road just outside Tyndrum. A brown arse was sticking out of the open window and a chorus of:

'Waterman, you wanker,' ripped through the highland silence as Darrel returned his naked posterior to the safe confines of the vehicle.

Keith didn't bat an eye-lid, just said:

'Your support crew, huh?'

Well, today I was reunited with another fella that possesses a similar ethical persuasion to myself; a man educated in the similar masculine scimmages; an earthy individual with a love for life; a man who has a deep love of art....so much so that a good percentage of his body is covered in it.

I refer to Mr Frances Begbie, a hero of mine ever since I read of his exploits in Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting. Welsh's original heavily set pit-bull of the Hibernian terraces was replaced by a more diminutive, yet equally ferocious, Robert Carlyle in Danny Boyle's take on the book. But rather than water the psycho-casual down, I reckon this gave Begbie's character even more appeal.

Well now the man's appeared again- this time in Welsh's new book of short stories from mainly out of print anthologies and magazines, Reheated Cabbage.

Check him out, it's Christmas Day:

That fuckin Sandra. Nivir mind the fuckin turkey, stick that fat cunt in the oven n wi'll be feedin half ay fuckin Leith through until next Christmas. Ah dinnae ken aboot stuffin it but, ah'll no be volunteerin fir they fuckin duties anywey. Nae fuckin chance.

Ok, so it might not be your cuppa if your preferred reading matter is Mills and Boon or the National Geographic, but at least after reading Irvine Welsh I can kinda get a handle on what the hell Mrs Mac and her family are saying to each other.

I always wondered who this fella 'Ken' was they kept referring to.