A Pishmas Carol

Malky had just left The Balmore Bar and was heading hame through the dark dismal grey streets of Possil when the effects of the 10 pints of lager he had previously consumed started to work on his bladder. His back teeth were floating and he needed a pish urgently. He decides his only option is to go into the old London telephone box on Saracen Street to relieve himself before he pished his troosers. He opened the door of the manky sticker lined box and was hit by a combination o’ stale pish, damp newspapers, and that warm, vinegary smell that every auld phone box in Glasgow seemed to breed like mould.

“Jesus wept,” Malky muttered, near wretching as he squeezed himself inside. The door creaked shut behind him, shutting out the streetlights and plungin’ him into that nicotine-yellow gloom that used tae shine doon on a million dodgy drug deals, affairs and drunken confessions.

He fumbled with his zip, swayin’ like a man on the Millport ferry caught in a storm, the ten pints still dancin’ a rave in his bloodstream.

Just as he let go and felt the blessed relief flowin’ through him, he heard it.

A voice.

A whisper, thin as smoke.

“Malky…”

He froze. Looked roon. Only the graffiti stared back at him, hearts, phone numbers, and the usual “Tammy is a cow” scratched into the metal.

Then it came again, clearer this time.

“Malkyyyy… ye shouldnae be daein’ that in here…”

Malky’s stream cut off mid-flow as terror grabbed his spine.

“Who’s there?” he slurred, eyes dartin’ about, tryin’ tae focus in the piss-perfumed haze.

The voice sighed, long and mournful.

“It’s me… the last poor bastard that went fur a pish in this box. And noo I’m stuck here… forever.”

Malky’s jaw dropped. “A ghost? In Possil? Away ye go.” He’d seen many people in the street wae haunted, gaunt looking faces but a ghost in Possil?

“Aye,” the voice replied, “and if ye keep pishin’ in here, you’ll end up hauntin’ the place anaw. This box disnae forgive, son.”

Malky didn’t wait tae hear the rest. Zip half-closed, heart batterin’ his ribs, he burst out the door and charged doon the street like a man being chased by every hawker in the Barras.

Behind him, the phone box creaked.

And from deep inside, the voice whispered again.

“Always look oer yer shoulder ya Dirty wee scudbook…”

By the time Malky reached the end of the street, his heart had calmed jist enough for him tae realise two things.

1. He’d still needed a pish, badly.
2. He’d left the zip on his troosers sittin’ at a squinty half-mast, blowin’ in the wind like a sad wee flag of shame and his nuts were freezin aff him.

But there was nae time to fix it proper, because as he staggered onto Hawthorn Street, three shadows peeled themselves off a close-mouth like hungry wolves. Hoodies up, faces covered, swaggerin’ with that pure Possil confidence wae a swagger that wid dry a washin, that comes from bein’ eighteen, bored, and full o’ Buckfast, and anything else they could get a high fae.

“Awright, big man,” the tallest yin said, steppin’ in front o’ him. It wasnae a question really, it was a demand.

Malky stopped dead, stomach churnin’. “Listen lads, I’ve nae money, nae wallet, nae watch, nae dignity left, I spent it aw in the The Balmore”.

“Aye?” the boy smirked, flickin’ oot a knife that glinted under the orange streetlight. “We’ll take what ye’ve goat anyway.”

“That’ll be ma last half a pish and a half packet o’ Polo
mints then,” Malky muttered, hands up, knees bucklin’. His bladder gave a treacherous throb.

The second boy stepped behind him. “Empty yer pockets, ya prick.”

But before Malky could even raise a shaky hand, the street fell silent… colder… as if something unseen had slithered into the space between them.

And from somewhere behind him far too close came a whisper he recognised instantly.

“Malkyyyy… telt ye ye’d regret leavin’ that box…”

The gang froze. Malky froze. The hair on everyone’s neck shot up like they’d been plugged into the mains.

The tallest boy gulped. “Whit the fuck wis that?” “Hiv you came team handed ya tosser”.

The tallest boy took a step back, eyes dartin’ left and right. “Seriously, who’s talkin’? Which one o’ youse is tryin’ tae be funny?”

But none of them were laughin’. The second lad had gone as white as a sheet, and the one behind Malky was already inchin’ backward toward the close, knife lowered.

Then the voice came again, louder, more aggresive, like it was crawlin’ up fae the drains.

“Ye should’ve stayed in the box, Malkyyyy… I’m comin’ tae find ye…”

And with that, a freezing gust whipped doon the street, rattlin’ bins, twisting’ up wrappers, and plungin’ the gang into full-blown panic.

The lad behind Malky screamed, “NAW, I’M NO DEALIN’ WI’ GHOSTS,” and bolted, droppin’ the knife with a clatter that echoed right through the scheme.

The other two turned as if tae chase after him but they didn’t get far.

Because at that exact second, the ghost, if it was a ghost decided tae introduce itself properly.

The smashed phone box light from up the street suddenly burst intae life behind them with a harsh electric neon light lighting up the street like the sun, even though it was half a mile away. And from somewhere between the pavement cracks, a low gurgling groan rose up like the drains themsel’s had learned tae speak.

The boys bolted into the night screamin’, shoutin’ every swear word known tae Glasgow, and a few new ones invented on the spot.

Which left Malky standin’ there, shiverin’, bladder hangin’ by a thread, tryin’ tae make sense o’ the worst night he’d had since the time he woke up in Drumchapel wearin’ a pair of lassies knickers and his eyebrows shaved aff.

He exhaled shakily. “Thanks… I think?”

But the ghost wasn’t done.

The voice leaned in close, cold as winter standing at a gravestone.

“Malky… that wis only the beginning. We’ve places tae go, son.”

Malky staggered back, haun on his chest, feelin’ his heart pound like a drum Cozy Powell was beating.“Whit d’ye mean, places tae go? I’m no gaun anywhere except hame tae ma bed.”

“Aye,” the voice replied, deepening tae a slow, echoing rumble, “hame… eventually. But first, we’ve business. Ye’ve already met me the Ghost o’ Pishmas Present.”

Malky blinked. “Ghost o’ whit?”

“Present!” the spirit barked, as if insulted. “The spirit o’ the here and now! The consequences! The chaos ye cause every time ye stumble roon steamin’, makin’ an arse o’ yersel’. Tonight’s wee encounter? That wis me… showin’ ye how the world reacts tae yer carry-on.”

Malky swallowed. “So… yer like that ghost in the film A Christmas Carol?”

“Aye. But ma version’s mair… Possil-specific.”

Before Malky could respond, the street went silent again. Too silent. Not even a distant siren, not a single dog bark, just a cold hum in the air, like the world was holdin’ its breath.

Then the ghost said,

“And noo, Malky… ye’re aboot tae meet the Ghost o’ Pishmas Past.”

A sharp wind ran right through him like someone had yanked open every memory he’d ever tried tae forget. The pavement beneath his feet blurred and twisted. The streetlight stretched like melted plastic. And with a horrible thump, he found himself standin’ outside his auld haunt The Balmore Bar but different.

The signs were brighter. The pavement wasn’t cracked. And the folk comin’ out the door were younger HIMSELF included.

Young Malky staggered oot the pub wae his Doctor Martin boots and Harrington on, laughing, carryin’ a guitar he couldnae play, braggin’ tae anyone who’d listen about how he’d “charm the knickers aff any lassie in the room” despite spillin’ half his pint down his white skinners.

Malky stared, mortified. “Aw naw don’t show me this. I wis an arsehole and an eejit.”

“Aye,” the ghost said, hoverin’ somewhere behind him, “and ye got worse.”

Young Malky turned, tripped over a kerb, landed in a puddle, and shouted at the sky, “WHO PUT THAT THERE?!” before tryin’ tae start a fight wi’ a bin.

“Why are ye showin’ me this?” the real Malky groaned.

Because ye keep insistin’ that yer just unlucky. That trouble follows ye. But naw you cause it, like an eejit chasin’ pigeons in George Square.

Malky forced his eyes shut. “Right. Fine. I get it. I’m an embarrassment. Can we move on?”

“Aye,” the ghost said. “One mair tae go.”

A chill settled into Malky’s bones a cold, crawling dread.

“The last spirit,” the voice whispered, “is the one ye should fear the maist.”

A huge shadow fell over him tall, silent, faceless.

“The Ghost o’ Pishmas Future.”

Malky gulped. “Is… is it bad?”

The ghost didn’t speak.

It just pointed.

And far ahead, in the shifting fog, Malky could just make out… a phone box.

A newer one.
Shinier.
Empty.
Waiting.

“Aw Jesus,” he whispered. “It’s no me stuck in there, is it?”

But the shadow said
Nothing.

Malky stared at the new phone box glimmerin’ in the mist like some cursed shrine, his stomach knotting tighter than the time he ate a dodgy pakora in a taxi office in Barmulloch and vomited all the way home, much to the drivers dismay.

He shook his head. “Naw. Ah’m no daein’ this. I’m no spendin’ eternity smellin’ like stale pish and broken promises.”

The Ghost o’ Pishmas Future stayed silent, long arm still pointin’, its shadowy finger accusin’ him like a judge who’d heard enough excuses for one lifetime.

Then the Present spirit, still a disembodied voice floatin’ around him like a sarcastic cold breeze whispered.

“This is the path ye’re headin’ doon, Malky. The one where ye keep staggerin’ hame blootered, causin’ mayhem, and ignorin’ the warnings. One day, ye’ll end up stuck in that box… forever.”

Malky felt his throat tighten. “But whit can I dae? I’m just tryin’ tae get hame. I’m no a bad lad. I’m jist… a bit unlucky.” If you had only listened and took heed ae whit Teetotal Tam hid telt ye all those years ago. Guys like you never learn and always know better. Truth is you only get worse.

But the past version of himself already vanished into the mist had said it clearly with his actions.

And that was when the twist came.

From behind him, the real world suddenly snapped back with the sound of screechin’ tyres and shouts. A stolen car tore round the corner in the present day, some boy racers, music blastin’, headlights blindin’.

Malky stepped back on instinct.

The Ghost o’ Pishmas Future stepped forward on instinct.

The car roared straight through the shadowy figure like it wisnae there and ploughed into the exact spot Malky had been standin’ moments earlier.

There was a horrible crunch as it skidded, mounted the kerb, and smashed into the new phone box, obliteratin’ it into twisted metal and the safety glass that rained doon like hailstones, as the boys escaped the wreckage and ran off into the darkness.

Silence.

The fog evaporated.
The shadows shrank.
The future ghost dissolved like cigarette smoke in the wind.

Only the Present spirit’s voice remained, low and weary.

“See? That could’ve been you. Ye’re no cursed, Malky, ye’re just one daft decision away from real disaster every night ye stumble hame pished.” If only you had listened tae Teetotal Tam.

Malky swallowed, legs shakin’, heart thumpin’ like a bass drum.

“So… ah’m saved?”

“Aye. For noo. But if ye keep gaun the way ye’re gaun? Next time, there’ll be nae ghost. Just bad luck catchin’ up.”

Malky nodded, breathin’ deep, feelin’ a strange mix of fear and relief flood through him.

Then his eyes lit up.

“Wait… does that mean…?”
“Aye,” the spirit sighed. “Yer free tae go.”

Malky bolted behind the nearest hedge, fumblin’ wi’ his zip, finally lettin’ out the longest, most relieved, most emotional pish in the history of Glasgow. Birds scattered. Windows vibrated. Somewhere, a car alarm went aff.

He exhaled like a man reborn.

The Present ghost muttered, “For the love o’ God, Malky… try a toilet next time.”

And then it was gone.

Leaving Malky lighter, shaken… and wi’ a story nae bastard would ever believe.

Malky, now several pounds lighter and spiritually traumatised, shuffled the last stretch toward his close. Every step felt like a miracle. Every streetlamp looked less like a threat and more like a wee beacon sayin’, nearly there ya hopeless bastard.

When he finally reached his close-mouth, he stopped, leaned against the brickwork, and took a deep, shaky breath.

“That’s it,” he muttered aloud. “Ah’m done. Finished. Nae mair drink. Nae mair ten-pint Tuesdays, nae mair after-work ‘quick ones’ that turn into carnage. Ah swear on ma last brain cell… never again. Teetotal Tam was right”.

A pigeon above him cooed as if tae say “aye right big man”but Malky ignored it. He meant it this time he felt it. The ghosts had terrified the drink clean oot his system.

He stumbled up the stairs, clingin’ tae the bannister like an old man clingin’ tae life. Every step creaked. His knees threatened mutiny. His vision wobbled like a dodgy satellite dish in the wind.

When he reached his flat, he fumbled for his keys for a full minute before finally gettin’ them in the lock on the fourth attempt.

Inside, the warmth hit him like a cuddle fae Miss World.

He threw off his shoes one landin’ in the hall, the other somehow makin’ it into the kitchen and trudged into the bedroom.

The mattress welcomed him like an auld friend he’d no’ appreciated in years.

He flopped face-first onto the bed, half-on, half-off, arms sprawled like a starfish that had given up on life.

“Tomorrow…” he mumbled into the duvet, “starts the new Malky. Healthier Malky. Responsible Malky.”

Then, as sleep dragged him under, he added faintly.

“And if ah ever see another phone box… I’m raising it tae the grun.”

With that, Malky drifted off, still half-dressed, still buzzin’ wae adrenaline, but alive, saved by a ghost, a near miss, and the most cathartic pish in Glasgow’s history.

He’d live to see another day.

J. J. Whelan