
27,000 selves in this head alone.
All wearing identical smiles.
Pretending not to notice each other.
Pretending to be shy
as they undress for the 57,000th time.
27,000 attitudes and opinions later
and still this man here.


Elie, Fife by Bill Alston.
The sun is up, ripe as a bag of Clementine’s in summer, the juice of its light pours across rock and sea, upon the great vegetable earth, and the whole natural kingdom. Cormorants and Shags, squawk and hover over the sea, out for the morning market hunting for fish. Eager to return to their families, who at this moment, are huddled in their warm nests, chirping like an amateur choir in rehearsal, watching the great wide screen of the sky, waiting for news of breakfast.
Mr Holliday is having a jaunt along the shore line, naked except for a tweed hat, a pair of binoculars round his neck, and a plastic bag containing a red thong, a pink vibrator a beach towel, and a pair of shorts. He allows the water to caress his ankles and feet. He enjoys the playful sensation of his toes sinking into the mushy sand. He eyes a small enclosure between two large rocks looks like just the spot for him to settle down for the afternoon and sun. This quiet beach is ideal, no passersby this early, least they be affronted by the castle ruin of his body, and the uncommon sight of a naked pensioner. Slowly he jaunts to the rock alcove. Holliday whips out his towel, a hideous bright number, with two red parrots on the front, both perched on a branch in a luminous green tropical jungle. Holliday places the vibrator and thong and binoculars upon it carefully.
Exercise follows, star jumps, invigorating in the nude, even if his member and testicles, bound by gravity, swing up and down, like a dosing rod in an oil field. Best not to be embarrassed by these things – the body is the vessel for life. No red cheeked, shy eyed, God bothering about it. Like the tree is to the branch, the head to the beak, the grass to the ground, it’s all a part of a part of a part of it. The despisers of the body – he’ll show them. Now he stretches: touches toes; loosens the leg muscles, inflates the solar plexus, and runs on the spot, warming himself up, getting the old circulation sailing.
Holliday moves onto the towel on all fours - arse to the sea head to the land. He stretches his leg out, back and in, as though pedalling in the air. Back and in, breathing in unison, out and in, left leg ten times, right leg ten times, deep breathes, exaggerated breathes, like a panting horse. He concentrates, staring down at the red parrots, with blue and yellow and green tipped wings - ah, to be tropical, he thinks - locked into his routine. Suddenly, there an anarchic scurry of leaps behind him. He lets out a sporano scream, jumping into the air, clutching his buttocks, no hot poker, no cruel twig, nothing but the moist nose of a Golden Retriever momentarily inserted and sniffed where Apollo don’t shine.
Holliday startled, turns to scowl at the dog, which is joyfully bounding about licking at the air, trying to clamber up his body, while he, a man not easily scared by dogs, raises his arms in a cowardly manner, as though avoiding the flames of a fire that has suddenly broken out before him, pleading - 'Down boy, down boy.' Round the corner comes the owner jogging, she shrieks, her delicacy stunned, by the site of this nude man. She slips in the sand, landing arse first. She staggers to her feet, halts, mouth agape, averts her gaze, like a voyeur caught in the act. She catches a glimpse of the towel, the bright parrots, the pink vibrator, the red thong, lying out in bold accusation. Where to look! Her eyes widen, shock turns to fear, fear to paranoia. She backs off slowly, ‘Don't come near me. ' She warns. 'Daddy, come here, come here now, Daddy.’ The dog is sniffing around Holliday's privates, he is tries to shew it, can't get back to the towel to grab his shorts. ‘I’m calling the police! You are perverse, predatory. Daddy, here boy, here boy, come on.’ The dog dumbly obeys her, thinking it's all a game, oblivious to the shock - no shame for a dog, they'll shit on the street on busy weekend, without pretense. The lady turns and runs, grapling to get her mobile out. Holliday, runs after her, round the two rocks, then realises the horror of such a scene, ‘it’s not what it looks like’ but how could he say that. It is what it is. ‘This is the nudist section.’ Who would believe that? This is over, he rushes to get the shorts, hopping, leg for leg, stuff the things into the bag, and power walks the hell out of there. There's a hell of a charge for getting caught with your clothes off.
(Work to be done.)


THIS BUS IS UNDER ATTACK! CALL 999! WOO-WOO-WOO!
THIS BUS IS UNDER ATTACK! CALL 999! WOO-WOO-WOO!
A fuck, isn't under attack. Just knocked the bloody sensor off. Now this voice is declaring state of emergency. Jesus Christ. First week on the job too. Lights flashing on and off like Blackpool illuminations. Siren screetching as well. Just knocked the switch – bang! – Orwellian bus shut down. Strictly a security precaution, in case psychos or neds, kick off. Old dears are probably terrified up the back. Think mayhem uncaged up the stairs. Think we're under attack. Think the bloody bus has been hijacked by a rogue driver.
THIS BUS IS UNDER ATTACK! CALL 999! WOO-WOO-WOO!
Need to pull over at this stop: get this fucker off. 'You alright, Son.' An old dear is up at my side as we slow to a stop. Her eyes doe wide. 'What's that voice saying? It's hell of a loud, and the lights flashing. This bus possessed?' Trying to be funny she is. Strains to hear me. 'Don't worry love, I've just knocked the alarm, we're no under attack.' She didn't quite understand. 'O right...well, I hope you get it sorted, Son, the state of things nowadays, the whole town should be ringing like an alarm.' She clung to the door and lowered herself down to pavement. A few passengers jumped off after, heads down, sheepish – half startled no doubt – not sure to run or laugh.
THIS BUS IS UNDER ATTACK! CALL 999! WOO-WOO-WOO!
Pedestrians stop left and right to look at the bus. Lights flash like a disco tech. They've never seen anything like it. The voice of a woman from down south, blaring like she's on a megaphone, sounding a touch like a female robot . You can hear it louder on the outside than on the inside. Maybe they're all thinking she's the one in trouble. Everyone in the whole fucking street can hear this no doubt. Folk peering from windows. Thinking terrorists or the CIA have come to Glasgow. Total mess.
THIS BUS IS UNDER ATTACK! CALL 999! WOO-WOO-WOO!
'Everything all right mate.' A passerby, tall skinny guy, stops at the open door with a look of caution. Eyeing the passengers downstairs. 'Something going on upstairs. It is drunks? Kids going radio? Did they do a runner?' I wish I could say aye, chaos, been getting belted with bricks, woman assaulted, dynamite upstairs. But, I fiddle with security buttons, fingers shake anxious with nerve. 'No, Sir, everything is fine. I don't know how to stop this alarm, you see. Went off by itself'.' He smiles. 'Ah, OK, not to worry then, just the bus crying wolf.' He walks away with a smug smile on his face, looking at the bus like it was a fireworks display or a comedy show.
THIS BUS IS UNDER ATTACK! CALL 999! WOO-WOO-WOO!
Not many passengers on mind, half a dozen up stairs, five down. All deafened by this English woman telling us all to call the police. Jesus. Like fucking Orwell right enough. God help us when something serious does happen. Imagine that. Some nut job with a knife, holding passengers hostage or decides to drive the bus over the bridge on the Clyde. Doesn't bare thinking about. Seriously but, what driver in his right mind, would hit the alarm if some chaos did kick off? What's he going to do? Stay in his seat, behind the perspex window, letting drunk wolves have a free for all on the bus, until the police come, only to find him cowering under his jacket, and the bus empty. Cringing man. No fucking nut job or a suicide bomber in sight. Just this robot nipping our heads. Maybe folk think I've panicked, I'm lost, can't hack the 7 route anymore, flipped a switch wanting to go home.
THIS BUS IS UNDER ATTACK! CALL 999! WOO-WOO-WOO!
Shit, here comes the 12, pulling up behind me. Driver will be off like a shot, thinking there's trouble, been plugged in the artery. Jesus. Things aren't that bad really. It's the papers. Everyone should get along enough to remain sane. Here he comes, running along the street, panic on his face. He jumps onto the bus – big chap – bit out of breath – eyes alert. 'You OK driver, what's happened?' He steadies himself on the ticket machine. 'I'm a fucking idiot, that's what's happened. Knocked the fucking sensor off, so I did, with my elbow, I think. Canny shut it. She'll have the riot squad down here. Half the street will think we're under siege.' 'Aye, they'll be thinking it's the Middle East. Here, I'll give you a hand, there's a code to deactivate this chaos. Now, let's see if I can remember it.'
THIS BUS IS UNDER ATTACK! CALL 999! WOO-WOO-WOO!