by Irvine Welsh
It’s true but, eh?
So ah takes it oot n pits in The Wizard ay Oz. Ah ken ah might be a bit too auld n that ah’m no a buftie, but ah could easy watch this movie aw day n ivray day, ken? Then ah gits this totally daft idea that it might be bad luck tae watch the film, cause ay aw the bufties gittin the cowie, n they ey watch The Wizard ay Oz. But naw, man, that’s jist plain daft; ye cannae be too much ay a superstitious radge. N it’s great tae watch it oan ma ain, in peace, n withoot likesay gittin slagged off. Ken?
Ah’ve goat ma mug ay tea, it’s actually a soup bowl ay tea (it’s goat a handle like, ah’m no that uncultured!) wi Souper Hibernian oan it, and half a pack ay McVitie’s chocolate digestive bickies. Pure heaven! Went a bit too crazy oan the dunkin but, n totally broke oaf a bicky which sank tae the bottom ay the sea. Never mind, ah’ll reclaim the wreckage once ah’ve drained that ocean ay hoat, sweet tea. Ah’m totally in the zone, thinkin aboot they wee Munchkin gadges, how the Hollywood studio treated them like second-class citizens, a wee bit like us dole-moles under Thatcher, likesay, when ah hears the key in the loak n somebody comin in the door.
Aw, man …
It hus tae be Rents, it cannae be Baxter the landlord, cause Gav Temperley telt us that the perr auld boy was found potted heid in his flat at London Road. Mind you, Sick Boy telt us tae keep a beady oot fir his son, whae’s meant tae be a sharp-taloned mouser, but ah’ve heard neither heid nor hair, ken? But aw, man, that wis such a sin, an auld boy wi aw they hooses n clients that he’s landlord fir, dyin oan his ain, n no bein found fir donks. Just call the perr auld cat Eleanor Baxter … aw the lonely people, right enough.
So ah gits up tae investigate, n ah sees Sick Boy in the hall, n he’s goat his bags n hus an Evening News under his airm. — Spud.
— Sic— Simon, awright, man?
— Danny boy … lost weight, he says, then goes, — Everything hunky-dory?
— Aye, course it is, ah snaps, cause that’s what cats huv sterted sayin when thir really askin ye aboot Aids. Like the cowie, the David Bowie, ken? — What ye daein back? Thoat ye wir in Italia, likesay?
El Sickerino’s goat that slightly sheepish look n he goes, — Ehm … village politics. Ye cannae behave thaire like ye do ower here, Danny, he pats his baws, — ye goat tae watch where ye stick this; the Holy Papa runs a tighter ship than this slovenly heathen dive. Thaire wis a bit ay heat and I thought it might be prudent tae exit stage left. He throws the News doon oan the table. — Check this, Claudia Rosenberg is on at the Venue tonight. I’m on the blag for tickets for us. He pushes past us intae the front room. — Where’s that phone? He sees what’s playin oan the vid. — Phoar, Judy Garland looks well fuckin bangable in that gingham skirt … sorry, mate, did ah disturb ye huvin a crafty wee chug tae yirsel?
— Naw … jist watchin the film, likesay … ah goes, as Sick Boy picks up the phone n starts diallin a number.
— Hello … can I speak tae Conor? … Just tell him it’s Simon David Williamson, he’ll ken … Sick Boy pits his hand ower the receiver. — Fuckin wankstain. ‘Can ah ask whae’s calling …’ He roIls his eyes. — Hello! Con! … Barry! … Not bad, mate, not bad at all. And you? … Excellento! Listen, mucker, time is of the essence, so rudely, unforgivably, I’m cutting tae the chase. What’s the chances ay a couple ay buckshee tickets tae see a certain Dutch chanteuse tonight? … Sound as sterling! You, my man, are a fuckin genius!
N that’s him blagged it. Ah’m no really that chuffed, cause ah amnae diggin crowds these days, it’s a pure claustrophobia situ, likesay, ken? But El Sickerino seems that happy, n it’s pure shitey tae bring a cat doon when they’re that keen, ken? Besides it is Claudia, the Dutch singer, n she is a total legend!
Sick Boy goes ower tae one ay his bags and unzips, pillin oot a boatil ay rid vino, — Git a couple ay glesses washed Danny, it’s Chianti time! A result for the Leith laddies, cause we’re gettin backstage tae the eftir-show perty n aw! C’mon, compadre, jildy!
So ah goes through tae the kitchen but it’s likesay thaire’s jist one gless left. He kin huv that yin. Ah wash oot the Souper Hibernian bowl wi the gungy bicky for masel. We kick back wi a couple ay scoops n watch a bit ay The Wizard ay Oz. Then we hoofs it up tae the gig, stoapin en route at Joe Pearce’s for a beer. Ah’m feelin barry, n ah’m no even bothered aboot the crowd when we gits intae the Venue. The great thing aboot Sick Boy is the wey he takes ower, the dude has that sense ay … no sae much authority as mair right, it’s bein the Italian bambino n growin up wi Mama and these sisters that spoiled the gadge, that’s whit Rents sais, n he’s spot on, cause it sortay sticks oot a mile. Sound gadge though, Sick Boy. Can be a bit warlock-wicked aroond the chicks, but it seems tae work fir him. Ah often wonder if ah treated lassies worse whether they’d like me mair, but ah kin never bring masel tae dae it.
It’s mobbed in here, n the thing is tae git past they annoyin pillars. Sick Boy’s pushing through the crowd like he owns the place but, n ah’m pure in his slipstream. Thaire’s one or two tuts and blank looks, but he’s wearin that big disarming smile, n we soon hit the front. No long eftir, a four-piece band – guitar, bass, drum n keyboards – come oantae the stage n go intae this instrumental. This cool chick standin beside us is gaun: — CLAUDIA! CLAUDIA! WE LOVE YOU! and, sure enough, The Woman comes oan, dressed in gothic black, tae big cheers.
Ah ken it’s no right tae say it, but ah’m sortay disappointed, cause ah ey think ay Claudia Rosenberg as lookin like that curly-mopped, willowy, supermodel catgirl oan the cover ay Street Sirens, but ah suppose that that wis donks ago, ken? This vintage kinday looks like somebody’s ma. Well, ah suppose she is somebody’s ma, but ken, like a middle-aged Leith wifie up at the bingo. She’s aw bloated and haggard, n she chain-smokes oan the stage. The lassie beside me screams oot again, — WE LOVE YOU, CLAUDIA! n Claudia hears this, n gies the crowd a frosty, sour look n launches intae ‘They Never Stay’. Her voice is as barry and doomy as ever but, n the band’s duck’s-chuff tight, so we’re aw gaun radio rental.
Sick Boy cannae help bein a bad cat though, n he goes tae us, — Look at that ol’ Nazi turkeyneck. Tae think she was such a honey back in the day!
— She’s knockin oan but, man, n she’s no a Nazi, she’s a four-by-two, ah shouts.
— She’s Dutch, and they’re just maritime Germans, he scoffs. — Fuck North Europe, South Europe rules, he bellows, and smiles at the cute catgirl beside me.
— But she’s nae spring chicken, so ye cannae expect her tae look the same as she did in the glory days, ah persist.
— That’s skag-scrag, that, he points tae the stage, — it’s no normal ageing. We got off the merry-go-round at the right time, Danny boy.
— Too right, ah goes. Didnae want tae say mair, cause it’s no like ah huv goat oaf it, as such. Jist tryin no tae git a proper habit again, likesay. Ah heard that skag wis meant tae keep ye lookin younger, but ah cannae be ersed debatin it wi Sick Boy, cause ah’m well intae this gig. Ah really like that song ‘My Soul Has Died Again’. It’s aboot feelin shite, n ah kin sortay relate tae that. She goes through the best ay her back catalogue and thaire’s a barry encore wi ‘A Child to Bury’ and a totally sublime version ay ‘The Nightwatchman’s Cold Touch’.
Eftir, Sick Boy says, — Let’s get backstage. How jealous will Renton be?
Ah’m thinkin: aye, a bad yin for the Rent Boy tae miss, likesay.
Backstage it’s pretty radge, wi maist people gittin turned back by the bouncers, but Sick Boy catches a gadge’s eye, n we’re straight through intae this room wi tons ay booze n food. There’s a couple ay sweet-lookin lassies n Sick Boy’s right ower tae them. Ah pure wish thit ah hud his confidence roond the chicks; disnae happen but, man, just does not happen. Eftir a bit, the band come in, and start chattin n sittin doon, n ah suddenly realise that Claudia’s sittin right next tae me! She’s goat a plastic gless ay spirit in her hand.
Ah want tae say, ‘Barry gig,’ but ah go pure shy n jist smile aw nervous, likesay. Then sh
e speaks tae us, pure sais, — So vot do zay call you? in that harsh, sing-songy voice. Her breath really stinks ay fags. Ah mean, everybody’s does likesay, well, no Rents, cause he doesnae smoke, or Tommy, cause he hardly does, but normal people likes. Her breath is as smoky as a certain Mr Robinson, but.
— Eh … Danny …
— I like yoooo … she says, grinning, and ye kin see that her teeth are in a bad wey, man, aw yellaw, n some ay thum broken. A bit like mine, ah suppose. — Vot do you do for a living, Dah-nee?
— Ah’m sortay on the dole, likesay unemployed.
Her elbay goes right intae ma side; man, she’s as radge as Begbie! — I know vot ze dole is. You are vun of Maggie’s millions, yes?
— That’s pure it, man. Cast oan the scrapheap by Thatcherism, likesay.
She looks aroond n bends in close tae ma ear. — I think I should take you back vis me to my hotel room, where we can drink proper brandy. She huds the plastic beaker up intae the light n screws up her face. — Real brandy. Vood you like that, Dah-nee?
— Eh, aye … barry! ah goes. — Ah’ll, eh, jist tell ma mate thit we’re headin oaf.
She pills this soor pus n looks ower tae Sick Boy, whae’s in his element wi they two birds, him n the guitarist boy fae the band. Ah see her sortay snort, n it’s barry that she’s no as impressed by him n she is by me, but! So ah goes ower tae him n pills um aside. — Eh, ah bit ay a result, catboy. Claudia wants us tae go back wi her. Ah’m no really sure what tae dae, but.
He looks ower tae her, she’s talking tae this lassie, then back tae me. — She’s a fuckin auld boiler but you’ve goat tae get in there! Jist think ay the brownie points! How jealous will Renton be! Fuck sake, Iggy’s been there! Lennon n aw. And Jagger. And Jim Morrison. You could have your cock in the same place as Iggy’s has been!
Ah nivir thought aboot it like that, but it wid be a bit ay a feather n the auld cap, likesay. — Too right, catboy. Ye pit it that wey, it’s no an opportunity tae be sneezed at, eh.
— Fuckin sure, Sick Boy says, then his expression goes aw tight n he droaps his voice. — Speaking of brownie points, a wee word ay advice: ram it right up her fuckin choc box!
— Eh?
— Fuck her up the erse. Squidgy or hard centres, get them crammed right back up that fuckin shit tube.
That’s no very respectful, so ah sais, — Eh … ah’m no really intae that sort ay talk, likesay …
Sick Boy’s big lamps are burnin. He’s taken something, probably coke, likes. That guitarist boy was defo dishin stuff oot. — Listen tae me. He pills ma sleeve. — Her sweaty auld pie’ll be like the fuckin Grand Canyon. Iggy Pop wrote that song ‘Rich Bitch’ offay Metallic KO aboot her. Mind when he sings about the lassie’s cunt being so big you could drive through it in a truck? Well, that was reputedly aboot her. And that was Iggy, who’s hung like a donkey, and this wis back in the seventies, before she’d hud a score ay orphaned bairns, a prolapsed womb and a hysterectomy. Unless yir packin the Eiffel Tower in they troosers, you willnae even touch the fuckin sides. So grease up that pole and gie her it tight up the chestnut stash, he sortay commands, stickin a packet in ma jaykit pocket.
— What … ah’ve goat spunk bags, ah tell um. Wi Aids n that, man, it likesay makes sense tae cairry thum. Nivir ken whae ye might meet, eh.
— Lube. Slather that pole, bend her legs back in the missionary, aim low, n it’ll go up there like a treat. Just persevere. She’ll love it. European lassies dig that sort ay action. In Italy we use it tae avoid the bambinos and keep sweet wi the Holy Papa in Rome. You’re Irish, you should ken aw they moves! Pin the starfish wi that auld shillelagh ay yours n yi’ll no ken whether she’s talkin double Dutch, or speakin in tongues, ya cunt!
— Right …
So ah heads back ower tae Claudia, whae’s rising fae the chair, her heid tossed back in the air, n she leaves the room. Ah follow her, n as a go, ah look back tae see Sick Boy giein me the thumbs up, and the guitarist gadge makin a throat-cuttin gesture. Ah turns away. This wee gadgie’s wi Claudia, and ah’m a bit worried thit he might be in the threesome, ye ken how liberal the Dutch kin be, aw permissive n that, but ah realise thit he’s jist the driver. We go ootside n he climbs intae the front ay the car, n her n me are in the back. The cute lassie that was next tae me is waitin ootside, n shouts at Claudia, — WE LOVE YOU!
Ah pure widnae huv minded takin her along wi us, but Claudia just says, — Fuck off, you moron, as we pull away. We’re bound for the Caley Hotel. Man, ah’m as nervous as fuck now, so ah starts totally gabbin tons, tellin her aboot the gig n sayin that ah loved the new version ay ‘The Nightwatchman,’ wi Darren Foster’s guitar work, n she jist pits a hand ower ma mooth n goes, — Shhh. I do not like it when you are for talking so much.
So ah says nowt, but we’re soon at the Caley, n the doorman opens the car n we git oot and intae the hotel. We baith look like jakeys but the staff cats ur bein ultra sooky cause ay it bein her. Ah could pure tell ah would never huv goat sae far acroas this luxurious lobby on ma ain. Big gless chandeliers n pillars n velvet n a thick rug under yir feet … wi walk under a big alcove tae the lift … aw, man …
So we gits intae the lift n up tae the room. It’s a cracker n aw; ye could likesay fit two Kirkgate flats intae one ay they gaffs. Thaire’s a bathroom that’s ginormous, n she flops oantae the big four-poster kip, n pats the space beside her. Ah’m shitein it, cause ah eywis ah’m wi lassies, n ah widnae say this tae the boys, cause ah’ve jist done it wi three lassies before. Steyin cool’s the art, man, but once that adrenalin sets in, that tight, jittery tension, it’ll be pure no go, man, cause ah feel the nerves knittin inside us. Pure shy wi chicks ah fancy, that’s ma downfall, ken? N ah dinnae fancy Claudia much tae be honest, cause she’s gittin oot ay her tight jeans, n she’s goat big flabby thighs, n ah’m lookin at her rows ay chin n ah’m thinkin ay that cover ay Street Sirens again, n askin: is this really Claudia Rosenberg?
Now she’s got some stuff oot, and man, she’s totally chasin some skag wi a foil pipe. Her lungs fill up wi smoke n she goes aw that dozy wey. She offers us the pipe n ah ken ah’m tryin tae be cleanish now, but ah’m that nervous ah take a wee bit, n start coughin, makin her laugh aw loud, but ah dinnae care cause ah’m gaun aw swoony n heavy, n it’s pure taken the edge offay the fear, man.
Barry.
Nae nerves at aw now.
So ah start slippin oot ay ma clathes, n ah moves next tae her oan the big bed. She turns her fat wifie face tae mine. — You are a nice boy, she says, runnin her hands ower ma nipples like it wis me thit sort ay hud the tits, likes.
— Ah’ve … eywis … kinday … admired your …
— Shh … Again it’s the finger ower ma mooth, n her other hand goes doon inside the front ay ma pants, which ah kept oan. Man, it’s been that long that even wi that bit ay skag, ah’m still as hard as fuck. — You have a very nice long penis. Very long. Not so wide, but very, very long!
Not so wide …
Ah’m pure thinkin aboot what Sick Boy said n ah goes tae pit oan the flunky n opens the lube n rubs it doon the shaft ay ma cock. She’s taken oaf her pants n thaire’s a leafy smell, it’s strong, but ah dinnae say nowt. It’s like ye kin tell she’s pure chronic oan the skag n sortay gied up a wee bit oan the personal hygiene, ken? Ah wis totally the same before rehab. But it sortay gets us wonderin aboot Janis Joplin or Billie Holiday, what they would’ve been like in the minge department, ken?
So this Claudia starts tae boom, — Give it to me! Give it to me!
— Awright … So ah mounts her, gits in position n pushes they fat legs back, n goes in low against her ersehole, n pushes …
Her eyes bulge oot n her body stiffens. — VOT ARE YOU DOING?!
— Ah’m … sortay tryin tae … gie ye it up the bum, likesay, ah tells her.
Well, man, she pure pushes us oaf her n grabs us by the hair. — GET AWAY FROM ME! GET OUT!
Ah pulls away but ma scalp’s pure burnin n she’s gone radge, chasin us
in slow motion roond the bed, cause we’re baith wasted, me in the buff, her naked fae the waist doon but wi a black T-shirt still oan, n ah try n grab ma troosers n miss, n ah’m gaun, — Ah’m sorry … ah’m sorry … calm doon!
— You think because I am now old you can use me like a toilet?!
— Naw … ah jist thoat –
She lunges at us and batters me above the eye wi her fist. — GET OUT! she roars, n ah’m tellin her thit ah’m gaun, jist tae lit us git ma clathes, but she’s punchin n kickin us n ah’m movin across the room, ah cannae hit her back cause she’s a woman, so ah goes tae lock masel in that big bathroom till she’s calmed doon. — Take mair skag … ah goes. But she’s still shoutin fir us tae go, so ah opens the door, but wi her hassling us it’s the wrong door n it goes oot intae the hotel corridor, n she shoves us through it n slams it shut behind us!
Awww, maaaannnn …
Ah’m lookin aroond the deserted corridor, beggin, bangin oan the heavy door, pleadin wi her tae fling oot ma clathes at least, n ah hear her scream fae behind it, — All of your stupid clothes are going out of my vindow!
— NAW! DINNAE! ah goes, batterin the door, but a boy fae the next room comes oot n looks at us, n ah goes, — Yuv goat tae help us, ah need a len ay –
The gadge just pulls back intae the room n slams the door shut. Ah looks doon the hall, n aw ah kin think tae dae is tae pick up the metal plate covers ay some cat’s room-service trays n pit one in front ay ma nuts n the other yin behind ma erse. Ah’m headin doon the corridor n the lift clicks open n a couple git oot n start gigglin. Ah gits in, but it stops at the next flair n a woman n her young son go tae get oan, then stoap. — That man’s not got any clothes on, the bairn says, and his posh ma pills him away. Ah hit the button n the lift goes doon n opens up in the busy lobby.