Note on Language: This is a story about two blokes who are from northern England. While I've toned it down a little, there's a lot of linguistic references in this story which might take some explaining, especially in the dialogue.
It might help to know that "Nowt" and "Summat" are "nothing" and "something", that "da" and "fatha" both mean "father", that "dunnut" means "don't" and "mebbe" means "maybe." Egging someone one means encouraging them, "daft" and "dozy" both mean (basically) "silly", calling someone a "chav" is probably equivalent to an American calling them "white trash." "gob", "nob" and "cocksnot" are "mouth", "penis" and "semen" more or less, and throughout the story "t'" means either "the" or "to" depending on context. Hope that helps!
Anyway. Here we go. Hope you like it.
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Long distance drives can be a killer. Literally. The first time I drove the length of the country - from Carlisle to Exeter to visit some friends - I pushed it too far with post-adolescent cockiness and nearly ended up as a road-accident statistic. I'm grown up a lot since then, and I've been a lot more cautious, always arranging either a half-way break at a hotel, or a buddy to take half the driving duties, or both.
This particular trip was kind of a "both." My older brother, Jack, was getting married. He'd picked the arse-end of nowhere for the ceremony, the wilds of Scotland miles from anywhere civilized. It promised to be a big do, and it's good to touch base with the larger family from time to time, but work commitments and an unplanned-for shift change had meant that I was forced to leave London fairly late on the Friday afternoon, with a long trip ahead of me.
So I'd brought a buddy along to keep me company. Unfortunately Geordie Garry - Gaz - didn't drive. Not legally at any rate. He'd lost his license a couple of years previously, and while that hadn't stopped him driving from time to time, I'd been fairly clear from the outset that he was along for company only. I wasn't about to risk a random stop by the busies resulting in a missed wedding, problems with my own license, and potential jail-time for Gaz. Mind you I was also motivated by the fact that when behind the wheel of a car Gaz was a danger to himself and other road users - which is why he'd lost his license in the first place, prompting our first serious punch-up and nearly finishing our friendship for good.
Gaz and I had met shortly after I'd moved to London, in a pub, watching West Ham getting hammered and got hammered, and then went back to mine and hammered each other. Neither of us had been fans of the team, and I can remember nowt about the match apart from the beery haze and a bit of verbal fencing as we danced around the subject of fucking each other.
We'd been good mates since that day, still fucked like bunnies whenever the mood took us. While we spent more nights in each others' company than not, we both had our own flats and liked it that way. We'd been buddies for nearly ten years, and during all that time had never "talked about our relationship" or any shite like that. We weren't exclusive, but we were careful (and while he was a dozy prick about most things, Gaz was sensible about fucking around). Gaz had been in London a bit longer than I had, and while he would always be Geordie Gaz to his mates, his accent had had its corners knocked off by spending most of his youth with his dad in Yorkshire and fifteen years of hanging around Cockneys. He claimed to be bisexual, mostly at parties when he thought he had a chance with someone, but hadn't fucked a bird as long as I'd known him. I didn't define myself by where I liked to shove my cock, and that suited us both just fine.
When I'd mentioned the wedding, Gaz had jumped at the chance of an open bar and a weekend away from London. I'd picked him up from the pub after I'd finished work, and we'd headed north. I'd taken a few minutes in the first service station we came to and changed into jeans, T-shirt and shirt but Gaz had been happy in his work gear.
Being in the building trade, my mate had turned up for the trip in a paint-and-plaster spattered Newcastle United T-shirt that had seen better days, knee length shorts and dog-eared trainers. While he looked scruffy, I have to admit he carried it off. He lounged next to me in the passenger seat, flicking through a copy of Viz he'd picked up in the service station, and drinking his third small bottle of Lucozade. Occasionally he'd run one hand through his skull-cropped dark hair, or tug at one of the coarse tufty hairs sticking out of the nape of his tee. His casual gear allowed him to show off his forearms and legs, tightly wrapped in curly hair to match the thatch on his head. He had a three-day beard but had promised faithfully to shave before the wedding. Broad shouldered, with stocky legs, he was as well-built as anyone who makes their living hefting bricks and mortar around and spends their free time propping up a bar. He was wearing a bit of beer fat on his belly, but he wasn't the only one, and he certainly didn't have any flab anywhere that mattered.
We made a bit of a pair, the two of us. Both dark, both burly - stocky in his case, five-ten to my six-foot or so. Both a bit tired from a long day at work and then on the road. I was feeling tense and irritable, and we still had several hours to go before we reached the hotel and I could have a shower and relax ahead of the wedding tomorrow. I wasn't really looking forward to it, and was mostly doing it to please my Mam and Dad. I knew the rest of the family looks down on me for moving to London and working in a succession of uninspiring blue-collar jobs instead of making something of my life. There was also a bit of disapproval from the older generation due to my so-called "lifestyle choice." Fuck 'em.
Out of the blue Gaz suddenly said
"You know what I've always wanted to do?"
It was the first either of us had spoken intelligible words - rather than just grunting - since we'd driven into Northumbria about an hour or so ago. It was past ten and I hadn't noticed how close to nodding off I'd gotten until Gaz spoke.
"Fuck mate this isn't gonna be another dire thing you'd do to that poor lad is it?"
We'd picked up a hitchhiker at Scotch Corner, heading north. A young lad - well a young man - returning home from University for the summer, hitching because he'd pissed all his cash up against the wall. We'd spent the trip bantering away, taking the piss out of the fella for being a Manchester United supporter. Gaz is a staunch Newcastle supporter, and I don't really bother with the footie beyond an excuse to get pissed except when England is playing, and even that's wearing off since they're giving such a shite performance right now. Still, one of my dirty secrets that I confided to Gaz in an unguarded moment was that while a lot of blokes fancy Beckham I've always wanted to fuck Wayne Rooney. Gaz never let me live it down.
The fella had been a laugh, once it'd become clear that we weren't going to try and rape him and leave him naked by the side of the road (well, I wasn't at any rate). He'd livened the journey up until we dropped him off with a tenner for his bus fare. Gaz had claimed there was sexual tension but I reckon he was talking shite. After we'd dropped the lad off, Gaz had spent twenty minutes or so describing in graphic detail - with gestures - what he'd have liked to have done to the fella, making me snort Lucozade out of my nose at one point, and culminated with the poor lad naked and covered in spunk and piss. It was mostly talk - while Gaz used to say that every now and again he liked to fuck a Chav to keep his hand in, neither of us really fancied the younger model. Neither of us could be arsed breaking someone in - while it might sound like fun to screw a virgin, it's just too much hassle.
Gaz talked a good game, but I knew from past experience that he was more than capable of coming through if the mood took him.
"Who? Nah fuck that. Nah this is summat else. Just gotten thinking about it as we're off up t'see yer family, like"
I rolled down the window a bit to let some fresh air in, wake myself up a little, and took a firmer grip on the steering wheel, shooting him a quick sideways glance. He was looking a bit furtive, his Viz unattended in his lap, and I was intrigued but also worried about where this might be going.
"No mate, tell me, what've you always wanted t'do?"
