Please note: this piece contains strong language.
McGurn started four weeks ago and we’ve all taken to him. Likeable wee guy. Wiry, fidgety, full of energy. Ginger buzzcut. Probably asks for a three on top, one on the sides. Freckles like he’s been hit with a spray gun. Pale skin, stands out against the grime. Doesn’t say much, but when he does it’s like a machine gun, then he goes silent for an hour reloading. I couldn’t have known then he’d become one of the boys. Or that he’d become the best prankster in the garage. But first he has to be initiated.
I’ve worked here nearly two years. Us apprentices always get the brain-damage jobs. Painting the workshop floor is one of them. It’s a cunt of a task. Douglas is paying double time, but on apprentice wages that’ll cost the tight bastard about sixty-three quid.
The garage reeks of paint thinners and overspray — acrid, oily, sticks in your throat. Mix that with stale motor oil and metal and you get the cocktail of every garage in Glasgow. A noxious fog.
“Mon, McGurn. See if we can kettle this and get done early. Celtic kick off at three — we’ll catch it in McNee’s.”
By half eleven we’ve blootered through 25 litres of paint and covered half the floor when we hear Kevin coming up in the car hoist. Apparently, this garage is the last in Europe with one; no idea if that’s true, but it’s the only interesting thing about this Gulag.
I like Kevin. Company man, aye, but decent craic in a good mood. Not today.
"Whit the fuck are youse up tae?! Look at the state o’ this place, Joe — there’s mair paint on the wa’s than the flair! Did ye even brush the floor first? Fur fuck’s sake, McGurn, yer paintin’ roon the radio - lift the cunt up!"
Kevin’s vein is about to pop. He’s doing heid shakes, flinging his arms about like Scatman John. Me and McGurn can’t look at each other or we’ll burst out laughing.
“Jesus fuck!! Did youse put thinners in the paint? Look at it — it’s like fuckin’ porridge. That’ll no be dry for Monday... that’ll no be dry till next fuckin’ year! A couple a’ bammy bastards. Wee Bill’s gonna go aff his nut!
As Kevin disappears back downstairs to finish his aneurysm, McGurn turns to me:
“You think we’ll get the Dan Mac?”
He actually sounds worried.
“I fuckin’ doubt it. You’d need to kill someone to get the sack here. Big Snowball ripped the lid off a Luton van last month and he’s still here.”
“You want a fag,” I said.
We ducked into the locker room.
“You pumped that wee bird yet?” I ask, lighting-up.
McGurn stalled. Either he hasn’t, or he’s loved up.
“Fuck sake, ah’m no gonnae tell every cunt” replies McGurn aw sheepish.
“Mon tae fuck, don’t gies that shite, ya wee virgin. Just tell us.”
He caved easier than I expected. Far too many details. Laura Kelly ya wee dirty!
“Mind and don’t tell any cunt,” McGurn pleaded.
“Aye, of course no’. Nae cunt’s business, mate.”
Monday’s going to be class.
Monday morning I’m first in, ready to bam-up my wee mate McGurn. The paint shop locker room is a cramped space. At this hour, all you can hear is the hiss of the air compressor waiting to blow life into the place.
Chris is barely in the door when I spill McGurn’s exaggerated tale of porn-style shagging. I knew the big man would have a plan to turn this ammo into a morning’s entertainment, never disappoints.
“Fuckin’ gold, mate. Has wee McGurn met Big Sean Kelly yet?” asks Chris.
“Probably seen him about, but I don’t think they’ve spoke,” I reply.
By the time break comes at 10am, the entire paint shop knows the script. The locker room is rammed — nine bodies, all in on the set-up.
“Heard you lost yer virginity, wee man?” probes Chris.
McGurn freezes.
“Who the fuck told ye that?” He shoots me a look of contempt. His tone isn’t one of denial.
McGurn jolts towards the locker room door before remembering he’s in work.
“Don’t worry, naebody’s gonna tell him. But ye better hope he disnae find out. Yer knee-caps’ll be flying aff if he does!”
Sean came through the swing door with a hammer in his hand just after 11 o’clock. Couldn’t have timed it better.
“Alright Joe, where’s Chris?” asks Sean. I gesture to the spray booth. He disappears inside.
Everyone pretends to work. My eyes are locked on McGurn. He’s ducked behind a Punto, pretending to work, but he’s staring at that spray booth door, frozen.
Chris emerges with Sean. His spray visor’s up, but the air-fed hose is still fixed. During their chat, Chris gestures toward McGurn. Once. Twice. The third time’s enough.
McGurn bolts – gone. Belting it down the stairwell. The boys erupt. The wee man has shat it. Chris has a stitch from laughing. When he finally tells Sean what’s happened, we’re glad he wasn’t in on it – the saft shite says we’re out of order.
When the laughter dies down, I call McGurn.
“Wee man, where did ye go? Kevin’s going off his nut. Says you’re for the sack if you’re not back in ten minutes.”
“That bastard Chris told Sean Kelly. Am I fuck coming back. You see the cunt growling right at me? What’s he sayin? Gonnae no tell him where a live.”
That last line broke me.
“Listen wee man, it was just a noise up. Yer burd isnae even Kelly’s daughter – we made it up.”
“Aw for fuck’s sake, ya bastards… honestly?”
“Mon back tae the work. Just a joke, mate. You know what it’s like in here.”
McGurn came back ten minutes later. Back in the workshop, we grabbed him, put him in headlocks, rubbed his wee shaved heid. But we went easy on the slagging. We’ve all been done a belter at some point.