Danny McCahon

The Fun Lovin Liminal’s

Scotland has no shortage of literature about forgotten strata within society, but few are written with the honesty and authenticity of Grand Theft Giro.

While other accounts are underpinned with virtue signalling or wallow in poverty porn, Gault’s collection is shot through with an unapologetic matter-of-factness that draws the reader into the adventures and misadventures of a cast of living and breathing characters.

The uncluttered prose injects each story with a pace reflecting the chaos in the lives of these characters who, largely through their own poor decisions and mistakes, have been cast to the edges of society. Yet the sum of the whole reveals a community ever ready to support one another.

Gault opens the book and introduces his dramatis personae by explaining: “We staggered our way through Thatcherism and Majorism, and eventually towards Blairism… we now had an ism of our very own, alcoholism.”

Sentences like “The better I got at drinking, the worse I got at fighting,” “Fingers on yer buzzers here, an even if we dae get away wae it, whit dae ye think the outcome will be?” and “Aye mibbe we’ll get lucky bit we need merr than luck hen” reflect a feeling in Gault’s characters that they don’t deserve optimism, a resignation that this is as good as it gets. Even accepting that, they find moments of joy, the energy to laugh and fleeting moments of victory. That is where their humanity lies.

The writer warns: “If you’re looking for a Walt Disney ending then you’re in the wrong book,” but the existence of this collection of entertaining and enlightening stories is a happy ending. Gault found enough optimism to lift his life out of a cycle of alcohol and prison. Endings don’t get better.

Growing up, my mum was keen that I discover the power of the written word: “It’s good to get out of that head of yours and into someone else’s. How else will you find out about the world? Besides, a book’s an invitation into someone’s life and it would be rude not to accept.”

That sentiment has stayed with me ever since. Even now, the first glimpse of a book’s front cover gives me the thrill of anticipation, the promise of something undiscovered. Unlike television, where we sit as passive observers, books draw us in and demand that we participate. Their power, their story, is somehow ours too, for a time.

This means I hold high expectations for what I read. I want books to make me feel, to put my emotions through a full workout, ensuring they’re still in good working order. Frankie Gault’s Grand Theft Giro does precisely that.

This collection of twenty short stories, set in 1980s West of Scotland, is gritty, tender and darkly comic. The characters are utterly genuine and utterly flawed, more often than not orchestrating their own downfall. Their lives reflect the social realities of the time: addiction, poverty and petty crime, but also resilience, humour, and fleeting dreams of something better. The result is a rollercoaster of emotion: belly laughs through sharp banter, hope that rises and crashes with circumstance, and heart-twisting grief when tragedy inevitably strikes.

The stories are brutally honest, written in language that pulls no punches. And rightly so. Anything less would dilute their truth. Without it, we could not truly be drawn into a world where we immediately care for the characters and leave their stories wishing they were less careless with their own feelings and their own futures.

Gault’s attention to detail made me grin and grimace in equal measure; the authenticity breathes in and out of every line. And his insightful dialogue is superb as he deals with characters whose “mouths write cheques their brains cannot cash”.

“...yer panickin so ye are. See from where ahm sitting Danny, yer arsehole’s twitchin like a rabbit’s nose.”

“She disny dae irony your Mum, ah take it? Disny iron either.”

Then, amid the chaos, his imagery catches you off guard, a reminder that, despite everything, beauty still exists in the everyday, for everyone:

“Some nights are jist made fir outside drinkin. The sky wis jet black and cloudless, the December stars looking like tiny needle points. The air wis sharp an dry an the frost scattered diamonds at yer feet.”

Each story stands firmly on its own, yet together they form a vivid, interconnected portrait of time and place. You can dip in and out but I challenge you to stop after just one. I couldn’t. Once I’d entered Gault’s world, I left more thoughtful, more aware, and perhaps with a little more understanding.

All the signs, then, of an invitation well worth accepting.