by Irvine Welsh
Keezbo’s fat, doughy neck, spotted wi freckles, seems tae swell oot ower his shoodirs like Darth Vader’s helmet. He’s goat barry ginger hair but, the bathbrush-thick variety, that’ll never thin or recede, no wispy like mine. He’s wearing those chinos wi the big high waistband, no a great idea for anybody, but disastrous on a fat cunt. Tommy’s already made a wee comment aboot ‘Gorgie fashion’. Predictably Keezbo wants tae stop fir chips, when we’re barely ootside Edinburgh. — Ah’m starvin, Mr Tommy …
— No way, no till Blackpool. Want tae catch the fitba oan telly.
Keezbo grabs two folds ay fat in his hands. — Ah’m wastin away tae nothing here. Tell them, Mr Mark, he pleads, ginger brows rising ower the top ay the thick, black frames ay his specs.
— Keezbo’s lookin seriously malnourished, Tam. You contributed tae the Biafra appeal, ah say, then pit oan the voice ay ma auld racist neighbour fae the Fort, Mrs Curran, — Let’s look eftir our ain people first!
— Awright, but Kendal services just, says Tommy, sweeping his hand through that Rod Stewart mess on his heid. — What happened tae your finger? he asks.
— Chisel. Cunt’s got us that de-skilled wi jist knockin panels thegither, ah’ve loast the touch when ah go back tae real work, ah say as Keezbo mumbles something in complaint. — Think you can hold on, buddy? ah ask him.
— Ah’m burnin fat big time, Mr Mark. It’ll be touch n go. If Mr Rab wid pass the voddy back, it might help tae take ma mind oaffay it …
— Mmmgh … Second Prize reluctantly growls, and Keezbo’s pudgy paw goes up tae collect the Smirnoff.
Despite lookin like a coconut pit oan its side and turned inside oot, Keezbo rivals Tommy as our best dancer. Ah tend tae stand there like a twat oan the sidelines, wishing ah kent how tae dance, till the speed kicks in. Then ah wished ah kent how tae stop. Once ah got too carried away at the Casino n fucked ma back tryin tae dae a flip. Trust that copper tae find that exact fuckin spot wi his stick! Cunt’ll be sittin at hame in some Barratt box, watchin telly, frigid wife, ingrate kids, oblivious tae the fact that he’s destroyed the dance for the boy Renton. Thank fuck fir paracetamol. But Keezbo though, for such a bloated cunt he’s something else. Must be the drummer’s rhythm. Too podgy for the flips, aye, but he can hit that deck like a fat, ginger sex machine.
We get tae Blackpool and dump the car. The smell ay fried food, diesel and the sea air pits us in mind ay September weekends long gone. Ah mind ay comin here wi Ma, Dad, Billy, Wee Davie, Granny and Granda Renton. Me, aw self-conscious and gangly oan a scabby donkey, Davie being raced up alongside us in his wheelchair by Granda Renton, them aw shoutin, ‘HE’S BEATIN YE, MARK!’
Me wantin tae heel the stoical beast in its ribcage; tae ride the fucker galloping intae the Irish Sea, just tae be free ay the embarrassment. Ah mind being that mortified, ah sloped oaf tae see Oliver! six times oan ma tod at a local cinema. ‘Ye cannae want tae see that again, son. We were gaunny go tae the Pleasure Beach,’ muh ma would moan. ‘Aw, gie him the money and let him go, he’ll only huv that face oan aw day,’ Dad’s heid wid shake. And ah’d greedily take the cash, craving the beautiful solitude ay the cinema in the dark, and the taste ay ice cream taken at leisure, away fae Billy’s pigeon-hawk eyes, wi the phrase so long, suckers deliciously reverberating in ma heid.
… never before has a boy wanted more …
We hit the Golden Mile and get tae that big, mad boozer under the Tower. It’s rammed, but we get some drinks in, just in time tae see Platini score the winner against Portugal.
— That cunt’s decent, eh, Rab, ah say tae Second Prize, whae has a pint and double voddy and is startin tae enjoy himself, but he doesnae want tae talk fitba. — Northern Soul? he asks, soundin like ma faither. — What is it but, Mark? What the fuck’s it aw aboot?
— You’ll see, mate, Tommy laughs, as a fat boy next tae us opens a bottle ay Beck’s, which shoots ower him as his mates chortle. Ah’d clocked them giein it a shake when he wisnae lookin. — Yawl fooking coonts, he says, in a West Midlands accent.
— Nae luck, buddy, Tommy smiles, patting the boy’s back.
— Look don’t coom into it with these coonts, he moans. Every group has a fat mate; some have several. It’s the Tower Bar in Blackpool, and if you’re in the right frame ay mind and in the right company, it’s one ay the greatest places oan Planet Earth.
Ma best mate is possibly Tommy. Cares aboot things, aboot people; maybe just a wee bit too much for the kind ay world we’re compelled tae live in. Despite being one ay the hardest and best-looking cunts ah ken, wi his solid light-heavyweight boxer’s build, Tommy’s basically a very humble sort ay gadge.
We start talkin aboot what we like in lassies, and ah mention that ah prefer smaller-breasted girls, which is a sacrilegious comment tae these cunts. Eftir bein called everything fae a poof tae a paedophile, Keezbo shakes his heid n goes, — Naw, Mr Mark, ah like a good pair ay knockers oan a bird.
— Liked them that much ye grew yir ain, ah goes, grabbin his beer tits.
But this wee exchange tells us that as perfect as the Tower is for the moment, the moment tends tae go pretty quickly. Fitba n lads has tae surrender tae dancing n lassies, so we drink up n make oor wey tae the club. Headin doon the prom, ma memory suddenly rushed like warm water ower frozen moments ay the past. Ah could hear Ma reading tae us fae the chair between our beds, Billy’s n mine, her furry tobacco voice rising and falling as her heid turned fae one tae the other. Books aboot dugs and bears and hoarses. Aw ay us enjoying the story but tensely waiting fir Wee Davie’s next bark tae pull the curtain doon oan our precious, borrowed time.
The club’s in the function lounge ay a big hotel, further up the prom. We get in, n it’s buzzin. There’s a record oan ah dinnae recognise but ah’m no wantin tae gie Keezbo the satisfaction ay askin him, so ah sing along, lip-syncin the lyrics as we shuffle through the busy crowd. Second Prize looks tae us, then the bar, then the Pepsis, in raw panic. He realises that the gaff isnae licensed. — Thaire’s … thaire’s nae fuckin peeve …
— Aye … Tam grins.
Second Prize fuckin explodes, his coupon bursts florid like he’s havin a fit. — Whit’s aw this aboot? YE TAKE US AW THE WEY DOON HERE N THAIRE’S NAE FUCKIN PEEVE, YA CUNTS!
Ah thoat he wis gaunny lash oot at one ay us, cause he’s hyperventilatin, but he just turns n storms oot ay the nightclub.
— Fuck sake … what a state … ah’ll go eftir him, Tommy says.
— Leave um, ah goes. — How fuckin ridic is that?
— He likes a drink but, Mr Mark, Keezbo says.
— We aw do, but imagine no bein able tae go fir a few fuckin hours withoot Christopher Reeve, ah laugh, — that’s worse than a fuckin junky! He could’ve hud some Berwick wi us!
So we have a look around, pleasantly surprised by the amount ay decent fanny in the house. Ah love ma Northern, but some club nights could be bit laddie-orientated. Suddenly ah hears that pianny tinkle introducing the Volcanoes classic ‘(It’s Against) The Laws of Love’ n ah’m right oan that flair, back or nae back. Ah shout tae Tommy, — C’mon, Tam, ‘Laws ay Love’, but then ah’m distracted, as ah catch sight ay a wee gadgie wi a bandaged heid oan the dance flair. It’s Nicksy.
I am reviewink, the sit-u-ay-shun …
Ah’m watchin the cunt strut his stuff for a bit, his patter is abysmal, n ah’m finding a wee groove masel as ah close in on him. Tommy n Keezbo are still lurkin oan the sidelines. Ah’m aboot tae get up thaire n say hiya tae Nicksy, but ‘Skiing in the Snow’ comes oan, and ah’m straight oaf the dance flair cause it’s the Wigan’s Ovation’s version rather than the Invitations’ original. Fat cunt that he is, that tasteless Jambo wanker Keezbo gets right up thaire, n starts giein it big licks.
Fae the bar, as we eye up the girls, aw lookin the part, whether it’s sleeveless dresses (magic!), vesty tops n short skirts (ya cunt ye!), or tight troosers n blouses (barry!), Tommy’s asking us aboot this trip tae Europe oan the InterRail. — You’re g
aun wi a mate n two birds, right? Tidy.
— Aye.
— Ye ridin one ay thum?
— Naw, ah tell him, suddenly thinking ay Fiona Conyers, one ay the girls, how barry she is, just a totally brilliant lassie. Comes fae Whitley Bay. Committed socialist. Long, straight, inky-black hair, a big toothy smile, and a chest that demands your attention. An odd wee cluster of tiny spots on her foreheid, a greasy patch the Clearasil cannae contain. Ah’m suddenly gripped by an urge tae gie her a wee tinkle. It’s probably jist the speed diggin in, but.
Keezbo’s no fuckin aboot, he’s groovin oan that flair tae big cheers. Everybody likes tae see a fat extrovert gaun fir it, shakin that flabby erse. They reason that if he can pull they can, and he must piss so many cunts off when he walks away wi a dolly at the end ay the night and they go hame tae bed wi a gutful ay peeve and a fistful ay that best friend whom they’ve let doon yet again. N ah ken cause ah’ve been one ay them often enough. But ah cannae knock a fellow ginger, especially as me and Keezbo play thegither, me bass and him drums. Can never keep up wi the fucker, but.
Tommy’s in his yellay Fred Perry, trying tae look smooth, biding his time till mair lassies hit the space. We’re aw pretty desperate for a ride, eftir aw it’s the fuckin weekend, but ah think Tam mair than maist; dinnae think he’s hud a sniff since he split up wi Ailise at Christmas.
Ah close up behind Nicksy, whae’s loosely dancing away wi some Manc lassies but generally sniffin aroond the dance flair like a polis dug in an Amsterdam warehoose. Grabbing his shoodir heavily, ah go, — I’m arresting you, Brian Nixon, for assaulting the truncheon of an officer of the law …
— MARK RENTON! He plants a kiss on my foreheid. He’s well gone, but the lassies and some other cunts look at me like ah’m some kind ay superstar, cause Nicksy’s a bit ay a face on the Northern scene.
— How’s the noggin?
— Some filth cunt walloped me. Couldn’t go to the hozzie, they was just lifting every fucker. It was farking crazy, eh?
— Aye, no half. Cunts smashed up the Fleetwood Mac. Strugglin oan the dance flair.
— Any excuse, he laughs, then points tae his nut. — Yeah, six stiches, but your farking Graeme Souness tackle hurt me loads more, you cahnt, he smiles, bending to rub his ankle, then looks to the exit. — Who you dahn with, sahn?
— Three mates. Well, two now. One cunt left a bit sharpish when he saw thaire wis nae peeve. Believe it or no, it’s Rab, the boy ah wis telling ye aboot that was once on Man United’s books. Now he cannae go ten minutes withoot a swallay.
— Is Matty here? he excitedly enquires.
Ah want tae tell Nicksy that Matty’s no quite the same boy that he kent back in that Shepherd’s Bush doss in ’79, but ye dinnae want tae slag off one mate tae another. — Naw, failed a late fitness test. Shirley, the bairn n that.
— Shame, I ain’t seen that cunt in years.
— Some other chaps for ye tae meet, but. And here’s a wee felly … Ah pull a couple ay blue pills fae ma jeans watch poakit and slip yin tae Nicksy. We down them, and cheerfully rant at each other. Brian Nixon, ma first buddy in that squat that Matty n me pertied oor wey intae. Monday, Tuesday, happy days. Ah mind ay Nicksy sayin he hated his real name cause ay the association wi Richard Nixon. Ah like ma real name: wish cunts would use it mair, instead ay that Rent Boy shite. So we rap oot some stuff at each other, gaun ower auld times, aboot the strike and the class war. Good fuckin speed …
Wir tanning the Orbit sugar-free as ah introduce Nicksy tae Tommy and Keezbo. They’re right ower when they see that he’s in largely female company, two Manc lassies called Angie and Bobbi. Nicksy’s known here cause it’s rare tae find somebody comin up fae London tae the provinces and, fair play, the fucker has some moves on that flair. He tells me that he’s no interested in any ay the lassies though. — Loved up, n I?
— Nice one. She here?
— Nah, she won’t leave London. Tell ya wot, ain’t half missing her. She don’t mind me taking off though, cause it ain’t like we never see each other, she lives in the same flats, just up the stairs.
— Never shit where ye eat, gadge.
— Cheeky cunt, he says. — Nah, mate, this one’s special. The muver of my kids.
— They aw are wi you but, geezer, ah retort, getting intae an auld game. — Mind that lassie in the squat at Shepherd’s Bush? Lorraine. Fae Leicester. She broke your hert. You faw too hard, buddy, that’s your problem.
— Entirely different scenario, he grins, — and a bird in the flat is worth two in the bush, didn’t they teach ya that at school, sahn?
It’s great tae see the cunt again, and properly catch up aboot auld times. He tells me that Chris Armitage fae Salford, another ex-London punk buddy, will probably be along here at some point. It’s shaping up tae be a good yin. So as Nicksy blethers tae Tommy, ah start chatting tae Bobbi girl.
Can a fellow be a villain all his life?
She’s a serene wee dark-broon-heided honey, her name short for Roberta, but Tommy’s being a pest, n asking loudly, — Does Hazel ken that yir gaun tae Europe wi two birds?
— Hazel and me are auld news, Tommy.
— Aye, for ten minutes, then it’s business as per usual.
— No this time, ah say, hoping that Roberta gets the point. Ah decide ah prefer Roberta tae Bobbi, cause ah didnae want tae think aboot a bird huvin the same name as Young Bobby fae the work.
Ah get oan the flair wi her for a bit as Frankie and the Classicals’ ‘What Shall I Do’ starts up. Roberta’s chunkier than ah thought or that ah normally go for, well, no exactly chunky, but has a bit mair meat roond the thighs and erse than her face, shoodirs and smallish breasts pushing against that tight rid-and-white squiggled top wid lead ye tae think. Her longish brunette hair’s barry, and she has a pretty face. So basically, ah’ve opted for a policy ay steyin tight oan her, rather than zonal marking. Ah’m serenading her by reciting the refrain, — Huh, baby, what’s happening wit choo? Nothin? Ah, that’s too bad. Hey, jist came around to see what was happenin wi choo, to see if there was any new party. Ah, c’mon, you can do bettah than that now, uh …
— You’re mad, you are, she goes, aw encouraging girly-giggles, the sort that fizz n bubble in yir guts like champagne. Then she clocks ma hand and asks, — What happened t’ yer finger?
— Industrial accident. Ah gie her a wink.
The gig ends in total euphoria as the DJ lays doon that old Wigan Casino signature climax track, Dean Parrish’s ‘I’m On My Way’. Then, sadly, we are. We stand ootside the club and it’s nippy, as we’re faffin aboot for too long as Tommy’s still worried about Second Prize, n tae be honest, ah kind ay am n aw. Nicksy and Roberta suggest a party back in Manchester, at somewhere called Eccles, and ah’m as keen as Colman’s finest, though trying tae play it cool. — What aboot Rab?
— He’ll have headed back tae the motor, Mr Mark, Keezbo says, — he’ll no get a drink at this time.
Ah realise it’s actually a still, mild summer night and it’s the Lou Reed that’s spreadin the chills. Ah catch Roberta’s teeth chattering n she gies me a cheeky smile, pushing her hair back. There’s nae sign ay Second Prize at the car. — He’ll have gone tae Manchester, ah say unconvincingly, — he’s still goat mates thaire fae the fitba.
— Too right, Mr Mark, says Keezbo, who’s been firing intae Angie, this big tall bird wi long, dark hair, and he doesnae want the night cut short. Aye, for a Fat Ginger Specky Cunt, Keezbo’s pretty outstanding at getting his hole. He makes lassies laugh, comin ower as a cheerful, cuddly teddy bear, whae’s nae real sexual threat. There’s probably been a few who’ve asked, durin a moment ay clarity, ‘What am I daein wi an obese sweaty cunt oan top ay us, his fat ginger knob pistoning away intae ma fanny?’
So we pile intae the motors; ah’m in Nicksy’s car, a messy rust-bucket full ay auld newspapers, takeaway cartons and empty beer cans, in the back wi Roberta and this other lassie, no Angie, n ah’m in nae big hurry tae get tae our dest
ination as Nicksy’s goat a good Northern tape oan and the Tomangoes are giein it loads wi ‘I Really Love You’ and me n Roberta and this other lassie, whae ah think’s called Hannah, are singing along and gently shoodir-chargin each other in the back. A lassie wi collar-length, straight blonde hair sits in front wi Nicksy. When we get tae the Eccles gaff it’s stowed wi people fae the Blackpool gig. Ah’m suddenly overwhelmed by the realisation that it feels great tae be me; a young, smart, working-class boy fae these beautiful islands. How blessed could a human being possibly be?
Roberta and me sit oan this battered couch, and talk aboot travelling. Ah reckon that eftir Europe ah’m gaunny dae the States next summer, get on that BUNAC thing fir the visa, teach fitba tae American bairns, then just fuck off and tour aroond till the poppy runs oot. The others are in this kitchen and spillin oot intae the wee backgreen, dancin tae they Northern Soul records, aw proper waxins like the International GTO’s ‘I Love My Baby’, and we’ve sat doon, sharing this room wi these dirty-looking cunts, who’re smokin smack offay some tinfoil. Ah’m watchin them and one gadge, he’s goat lank hair n big dark circles under his eyes, looks at us wi a grim smile n cauld eyes. — Wawn summer dis? he slurs in a Scouse accent.
Mingin cunts daein that fuckin crap at a Northern perty …
— Naw … yir awright, ah say, waving the pipe and foil away. Roberta looks a bit cross and does the same. The minging gadge shrugs and giggles n passes it tae his mate who burns the underside ay the foil wi a lighter and sucks up a load ay smoke through the pipe intae his lungs, gaun aw stunned and heavy-eyed as it hits him.
Stupid cunt, turning intae a fuckin zombie oan that shite when thaire’s aw this fun tae be hud …
— I wanna get out of here, Roberta says. — Let’s go and find t’others.
Ah gets up wi her, and we head taewards the kitchen, tae see if Salford Chris has showed up. Ah’m making for the back gairden when Roberta intercepts us n says, — Ah were kinda thinking that we maht go back t’mine.