Jeremy Clarke Jeremy Clarke

Low life | 1 February 2018

As the thicket of bottles grew to a forest, Jimmy’s narrative verve remained undiminished

At three o’clock I took half a bottle of Glenmorangie with me to Jimmy’s. That it was Burns Night, and Jimmy happens to be a proud Scot, was mere coincidence. When I walked in, Jimmy was putting finishing surgical touches to the back of a bullet-head. ‘Do you drink whisky, Jimmy?’ I said. ‘Oh aye,’ he said sadly, snipping at a single hair. But before I could take my coat off, he ordered me out again to the corner shop to buy lager to go with it. ‘What sort of lager?’ I said. He said: ‘You know that new lager called 13? Brewed by Guinness?’ ‘Never heard of it,’ I said. Jimmy looked at me pensively for a second or two before deciding that ignorance on that scale had to be disregarded. ‘Get half a dozen,’ he said.

When I came back, the bullet-head was gone. Jimmy dispensed whisky into two absurd little green glass Art Deco teacups, prised off two beer caps with a dessert spoon, and whacked up the volume of the CD player. (A folk singer was lamenting her ‘poor old horse’. Jimmy made no apology.) ‘Here’s to us,’ he intoned. ‘Who’s like us? Damn few. And they’re all dead.’ We clinked glasses and sipped. Over the rim of my cup I saw Jimmy go cross-eyed as the alcohol flooded his cells. I sat in his chair, removed my specs, and placed my teacup and lager bottle on a milk churn situated within a gowned arm’s reach. Jimmy adjusted the setting on his electric clippers, flourished them, and started shearing.

Jimmy is roughly my age (60) and skinny. His speech, thought, perception and actions occur at lightening speed. Once he starts, he stops talking only to squint at the end of his roll-up and relight it.

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