Texts for Translation 2005
  Dee Rimbaud

The Model Woman

“That referee hadn’t a clue, eh love?” says Tony, directing his attention towards me, trying to enlist my support, “Hately clearly took a dive before McKimmie came into contact with him. No way was it a penalty.”

“Aw c’mon off of it Tony!” says Eck, before I’ve a chance to reply, “Hately was stretchered off.”

“The Huns are always fucking well pulling off stunts like that,” says Tony with a surprising vehemence. “Sorry love,” he adds, remembering himself, “’Scuse my Ps and Qs.”

I don’t know why he says that, but he always does after he says the F-word or the C-word. I think he thinks I find these words offensive because I don’t use them myself. I’m neither here nor there about swear words. I’ve heard them since the year dot, so I’m used to them. They don’t offend me. I don’t swear myself because of my upbringing. My mum and dad were both quite pious Catholics and I’d have got hammered if I’d ever sworn.

“Aw c’mon Tony,” says Eck, “be reasonable!”

“Be reasonable? Be reasonable?” screeches Tony, “What is it with you? Are you some sort of closet blue-nose or something?”

I look at Eck. Then I look at Tony. Then I look back at Eck. He has a wounded look, like a wee bird that’s just been pawed out of the air by a tomcat; and that’s what Tony looks like... a big, swaggering, cock-sure tomcat. Tony is always trying to score points off of Eck. I guess it’s a sibling thing, but I think he’s jealous of Eck as well. Eck still has a full head of hair on him; and he’s only Tony’s junior by two years. He’s also a lot more handsome than Tony.

Last night though, there was little difference between them. The pair of them were like beer-bloated imbeciles. I couldn’t bear to look at them: I kept my eyes fixed firmly on the television, even though the match was boring me rigid. I don’t know how they found any highlights to put on. I certainly couldn’t see any. Even the penalty that Tony and Eck are still arguing about was boring. The goalkeeper dived the wrong way and the ball just sort of rolled into the net. Honestly, I don’t know why we bothered watching it at all. We knew beforehand that Aberdeen were beaten one-nil by Rangers: it was on the news. Aside from anything, Tony and Eck are Celtic supporters.

I don’t mind so much if it’s a Celtic game on the telly, even the recorded highlights: as long as I don’t know the score beforehand. I like Celtic because they play in the same colours as Hibs; and being of Irish descent, it’s natural that my favourite colour is green. I suppose I’ve adopted Celtic as my team since moving to Glasgow, but still – if it came down to a match between Celtic and Hibs – I’d support Hibs. I’ll always support Hibs. Tony knows this fine and just about tolerates it, but he still slags me every now and then for being a snooty Edinburgh bird. I don’t know why. There’s nothing snooty about the bit of Granton where I come from; and he knows it.

Truth is, I don’t really like football that much. I suppose that’s not really surprising for a woman, but when I was a kid I loved it with a passion. My dad used to take me to see Hibs play almost every Saturday. Sometimes we’d even travel to Glasgow or Aberdeen or Dundee to see them. I used to like away matches especially. That was back in the early seventies, the glory days. I remember especially winning 7-0 against Hearts in the league; and beating Celtic 5-3 in the Dryburgh Cup final and 2-1 in the League Cup final in the same year. Hibs were a real force to be reckoned with back then. My dad still talks about them days. It was Hibs finest hour, he says. Now they’re so rubbish he doesn’t bother going to see them play, not even when they’re at home.

by
Dee Rimbaud, Writer