Diabetes in Glasgow

*Glaswegian accent – ‘I was watching this thing own the TV the other night: it says that the quickest wiy to give you sugar if you fall into a coma is to pour a can o Coke up your arsehole! I canny wait till the day that you collapse in front of me,’ – a Cheshire cat’s grin beaming on Marc’s face.

‘Fuck off! You’re not getting anywhere near me, you’ll get so excited you’ll forget to open the can.’ – Me

‘Definitely. He probably ate all the sugar. They didn’t even have any sugar in their entire house. Not even sugar in a bowl for tea. Some idiot offered me a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 thinking it was orange juice. I had to go the petrol station by myself at two in the morning for Pot Noodles and Coke.’

You don’t have to be alone in the pub, that’s the simple law of man. Escape from any social vacuum, into a world of arts, music and alcohol; more friendships that would last forever? Who cares, I’ve got enough money left over for either a veggie burger with fries or another two pints of Guinness; they both contain to my estimation roughly the same amount of sugar. Being served at the bar, I enquire, ‘Is there any chance I can keep my insulin bottle in one of your fridges? It’s completely sealed and it’s getting too warm to use in my pocket.’ ‘Diabeeedic my ass,’ overly pronounces the Canadian Barman in reply; fuck you then, pronounces the look on my face. ‘Fuck’s that all about?’ says the face of his colleague, her demeanor in my favor. Think I’ll go for the Guinness this time, ‘A pint of Guinness please, and have you got any matches?’ as she picks them up from beside the till, right in front of me.

I’ll skip to chasing the dragon with freshly squeezed orange; each gulp intensifying that instant hit of refresh all good diabetics live by on a vocational calling, deep to the last sip where I know my sugar will now be high; empty glass so cold against my cheek, my jaw and ridge of my neck, clunk of ice always watering it down all too fast.

Back home, two thirty in the a.m. having safely returned an old woman to her stations of the cross, I piggyback onto a neighbor’s Wi-Fi, then sit down to watch some porn. A MILF enters a college dorm wearing only her apron to cover a massive inflated boob job, and carrying a prop wooden spoon, “Hi – giggle, I’ve come over to bake you boys some cookies.” Cut to next scene, she has baked said cookies and is straddling the kitchen island; removing her apron to reveal enormous tits over a tray of freshly baked choc chip. Hold on, those don’t look warm. Surely the best bit about home baked cookies is when they are piping hot. In fact there are no flour marks or crumbs anywhere to be seen. Those cookies are clearly out of a jar. Wish she would move those fat collagen lips and cellulite hips out of the way. I want to take a closer look at those cookies.

Excerpts from ‘Persona non grata with diabetes’ by Paul Cathcart