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Miller window-cleaning company. Having established a client list and a local rota, which would bring in £23.50 a week, Bobby established the rules of engagement. They would work solidly through the glorious summer of 1980, pay off mental Mogga McManus for getting the ladder
and
nobbling main competitor, Tam Cooper’s van, and then save their cash for a week on Arran in September. Bobby’s latent vertigo meant Joey being constantly lodged at the stupid end of the ladder, from where he fell five days into the venture, breaking an arm and killing the dream in the process.
    But on this miserably wet February morning, Bobby seemed to have a far greater sense of purpose than before. He had barely come up for air in the rollercoaster tale about an eighteenth birthday party, the Sandriane Bar, Paul Weller and mobile discos, Lizzie King and, most significantly of all, Fat Franny Duncan. It had been a promising venture up until
his
name had been associated with it. Joey Miller knew all about Fat Franny. Both he and the Fatman lived in Onthank on the other side of town. Onthank was Fat Franny’s personal
fiefdom
. The repetitious sprawl of semi-detached, two-storeygrey boxes grouped in actual – and metaphorical – cul-de-sacs was where he earned a living. There wouldn’t be many who would testify to the fact, but Joey was convinced that drug-dealing and money-lending would be as much a part of Fat Franny’s empire as the ice-cream vans and this new mobile-DJ scam about which Bobby was currently so energised.
    ‘Don’t worry about Fat Franny,’ said Bobby, right after Joey had said he was worried about
anything
that involved Fat Franny. ‘We’re only hiring the gear off him,’ reasoned Bobby. ‘It’ll be just for one night.’
    Joey’s expression hadn’t changed since the start of the story, but secretly he was just as enthusiastic about its infinite potential as his friend. Joey really loved music; in fact, probably more than Bobby did. Joey immediately pictured himself running Mod nights at the Henderson Church Hall; The Jam, Secret Affair, The Who – all blasting out at such volume it could be heard at the Cross. Fat Franny Duncan, though. That was a major spanner.
    ‘He’s a fuckin’ mental case, Boab. Is there naebody else tae get gear from? Like a band or something?’
    ‘Listen, it’ll be a’right. One night. In and out. Nae need to go back tae him once we’re up and runnin’,’ reasoned Bobby, in trademark bottle-half-full mode. ‘Ah must’ve been speakin’ tae somebody that kent him, that night of ma birthday. Ah got hame and his fuckin’ hoose phone number was written on ma foot.’
    ‘Lemme go an’ speak tae Jeff McGarry,’ said Joey, using his frozen hands to lever himself off the wall. ‘Ah’m sure he kens a guy that gets lights and stuff for heavy-metal bands. They both work out at a farm near Hurlford.’
    Bobby looked puzzled. ‘Izzat no that cunt that’s got the thing aboot cows’? Did he no get put away fur it anaw?’
    ‘Aye, but he’s a decent lad, Jeff. Get ye whatever ye want for nae mair than twenty quid. You name it, he’ll get ye it. A toaster, a fridge, second-hand motor …!’
    ‘Whit, aw for twenty quid?’ asked a disbelieving Bobby.
    ‘Naw, twenty quid’s his mark-up,’ replied Joey.
    ‘So if his mate at the farm … y’know, Bon Scott’s roadie … can get us the gear, we’re payin’ Jeff twenty quid jist for the introduction …? Fuckin’ hell, Joe, she’s only payin’
us
forty!’
    ‘But like ye said, once we’re up and runnin’ we’ll be away … and this way, we’ll still have the use ae wur legs if anythin’ goes wrong.’
    Bobby had to contend that, with this last point, Joey made a compelling case. So they agreed to follow the recommendation of a convicted cattle fetishist and made the call to Hairy Doug, the nomadic biker and Grateful Dead fan, and – according to Jeff McGarry at any rate – owner of the biggest cock in