by Irvine Welsh
It wis fuckin stowed oot doon the pub, early fuckin doors n aw. Renton, the rid-heided cunt, pots the fuckin black baw tae take the game fi Matty.
— Rab! Pit ma fuckin name up fir the pool then. Whit’s every cunt fuckin wantin? Ah git up tae the bar.
Rab, the Second Prize, as we caw the cunt, he’s goat a fuckin stoatir ay an eye. Some fuckin liberty-taker’s been oan the cunt’s case.
— Rab. Whae the fuck did this tae ye?
— Aw, a couple ay guys up Lochend, ken. Ah wis bevvied. The cunt looks at us, aw fuckin sheepish like.
— Goat names?
— Naw, but dinnae worry, ah’ll git the cunts man, it’s aw sorted oot.
— Be sure ye fuckin dae. D’ye ken the cunts?
— Naw, by sight, like.
— Whin me n Rents git back fae fuckin London, we’ll go up tae fuckin Lochend. Dawsy goat filled in up thair a wee bit back. Thir’s some questions need fuckin answering, sure n thir fuckin is.
Ah turns tae Rents: — Aw set ma man?
— Rarin tae go, Franco.
Ah racks up n slaughters the cunt, leavin the fucker two baws oaf bein grannied. — Ye might be able tae fuckin handle the likes ay Matty n Seeks, bit whin Hurricane Franco gits oan the fuckin table, ye kin firget it, ya rid-heided cunt, ah tells um.
— Pool’s fir arseholes man, he sais. Humpty cunt. Everything that rid-heided cunt’s shite at’s fir arseholes, accordin tae that cunt.
Wuv goat tae be movin, so thirs nae sense in playing any mair. Ah looks ower tae Matty n pills oot a wad. — Hi Matty! Ken whit this is? Ah waves the notes it the cunt.
— Eh . . . aye . . . he sais.
Ah points tae the bar: — Ken whit that is?
— Eh . . . aye . . . the bar. The cunt’s slow. Too fuckin slow. N ah ken how.
— Ken whit this is? ah points tae ma pint.
— Eh . . . aye . . .
— Well dinnae make us fuckin spell it oot fir ye then, ya cunt. Pint ay fuckin Special n a Jack Daniels n coke then, cunt!
He comes ower, n sais tae us: — Eh Frank, ah’m a wee bit short, ken . . .
Ah ken how, awright. — Mibbe ye’ll fuckin grow, ah sais. The cunt takes the hint, n hits the bar. He’s fuckin usin again, that’s if the cunt ivir really stoaped in the first fuckin place. Whin ah git back fae London, ah’ll need tae huv another wee word in this cunt’s ear. Fuckin junkies. A waste ay fuckin space. Rents’s still clean though. Ye kin tell by the wey he’s tannin the bevvy.
Ah’m lookin forward tae this London brek. Rents’s goat his mate’s flat, that Tony cunt n his burd, the shag, fir a couple ay weeks. Thair oan hoaliday somewhair. Ah ken a couple ay boys doon thair fae the jail; ah’ll look the cunts up, fir auld times’ sake.
That Lorraine’s servin Matty. She’s a fuckin wee ride. Ah goes ower tae the bar.
— Hi, Lorraine! C’mere the now. Ah pushes her hair back at the side ay her face n pits ma fingers behind her ears. Burds like that. Erogenous fuckin zones n aw that. — Ye kin tell whithir or no somebody’s hud sex last night by feelin behind thir ears. The heat, ken? ah explains.
She jist laughs, n so does Matty.
— Naw, but it’s fuckin scientific n aw that, ken? Some cunt’s ur fuckin clueless.
— Hus Lorraine hud sex last night then? Matty asks. The wee cunt looks fuckin awfay, like death warmed up.
— That’s oor secret, eh doll? ah sais tae her. Ah’ve goat a feelin thit she’s goat the hoats fir us, cause she ey goes that fuckin quiet, shy wey whin ah fuckin talk tae her. Once ah git back fae London, ah’ll fuckin move in thair, pretty fuckin sharpish n aw, ya cunt.
Fucked if ah’m gaunnae stey wi that fuckin June eftir the bairn’s here. N that cunt’s deid if she’s made us hurt that fuckin bairn. Ivir since she’s been huvin that bairn, she thinks she kin git fuckin lippy wi us. Nae cunt gits fuckin lippy wi me, bairn or nae fuckin bairn. She kens that, n she still gits fuckin smart. See if anything’s happened tae that fuckin bairn . . .
— Hi Franco, Rents sais, — we’d better be movin. Wuv goat that cairry-oot tae organise, mind.
— Aye, right. What ye gittin?
— Boatil ay voddy n a few cans.
Might’ve guessed. Hates a fuckin voddy, that rid-heided cunt.
— Ah’m gittin a boatil ay J.D. n eight cans ay Export. Ah might git Lorraine tae fill up a couple ay draftpaks n aw.
— Thill be a couple ay draftpaks gittin well filled up oan the train gaun doon, he sais. Sometimes ah dinnae understand that cunt’s sense ay humour. Me n Rents go back a long fuckin wey, but it’s like the cunt’s changed, n ah’m no jist takin aboot the drugs n that shite. It’s like, he’s goat his weys n ah’ve goat mines. Still a great cunt though, the rid-heided bastard.
So ah gits the draftpaks, one fill ay spesh fir me, n one fill ay lager fir that rid-heided cunt. We gits the cairry-oot n jumps a Joe Baxi up the toon n down a quick pint at that pub in the station. Ah gits crackin tae this cunt it the bar; boy fi Fife, ah kent the cunt’s brar in Saughton. No a bad gadge as ah remember. Harmless cunt likes.
The London train’s fuckin mobbed. This really gits ma fuckin goat, this. Ah mean, ye pey aw that fuckin dough fir a ticket, they British Rail cunts urnae fuckin shy, n then thir’s nae fuckin seats! Fuck that.
Wir strugglin wi they cans n boatils. Ma cairry-oot’s aboot tae burst oot the fuckin bag. It’s aw they cunts wi backpacks n luggage . . . n bairns’ fuckin go-carts. Shouldnae huv bairns oan a fuckin train.
— Fuckin mobbed man, Rents sais.
— The fuckin trouble is, aw they cunts thit uv booked seats. It’s no sae bad bookin fae Edinburgh tae London, capital fuckin cities n that, bit it’s aw they cunts thit’ve booked fae Berwick n aw they fuckin places. The train shouldnae stoap n aw they places; it should jist be Edinburgh tae London, end ay fuckin story. If ah hud ma fuckin wey, that wid be it, ah kin fuckin tell ye. Some cunts ur lookin at us. Ah speak ma fuckin mind, whitivir any cunt sais.
Aw they booked seats. Fuckin liberty, so it is. It should be first fuckin come, first fuckin served. Aw this bookin seats shite . . . ah’ll gie the cunts bookin fuckin seats . . .
Rents sits doon beside they two burds. Fuckin tidy n aw. Good fuckin choice by the rid-heided cunt!
— These seats ur free until Darlington, he sais.
Ah grabs the reservation cairds n sticks thum in ma tail. — Thir fuckin free the whole wey doon now. Ah’ll gie the cunts bookin, ah sais, smilin at one ay the burds. Too fuckin right n aw. Forty quid a fuckin ticket. No shy they British Rail cunts, ah kin fuckin tell ye. Rents jist shrugs his shoodirs. The posey cunt’s goat that green basebaw cap oan. That’s gaun oot the fuckin windae if the cunt fuckin faws asleep, ah kin fuckin tell ye.
Rents is tannin the voddy, n wir jist near Portybelly whin the cunt’s awready made a big fuckin dent in it. Hates a voddy, that rid-heided cunt. Well, if that’s the wey the cunt wants tae fuckin play it . . . ah grabs the J.D. n swigs it back.
— Here we go, here we go, here we go . . . ah sais. That cunt jist smiles. He keeps lookin ower it the burds, thir likesay American, ken. Problem wi that rid-heided cunt is thit he’s no goat the gift ay the gab is far is burds go, likes, even if the cunt dis huv a certain style. No likesay me n Sick Boy. Mibbe it’s wi him huvin brars instead ay sisters, he jist cannae really fuckin relate tae burds. Ye wait oan that cunt tae make the first fuckin move, ye’ll be waitin a long fuckin time. Ah fuckin show the rid-heided cunt how it’s done.
— No fuckin shy, they British Rail cunts, eh? ah sais, nudgin the burd next tae us.
— Pardon? it sais tae us, sortay soundin likes, ‘par-dawn’ ken?
— Whair’s it yis come fae then?
— Sorry, I can’t really understand you . . . These foreign cunts’ve goat trouble wi the Queen’s fuckin English, ken. Ye huv tae speak louder, slower, n likesay mair posh, fir the cunts tae understand ye.
— WHERE . . . DO . . . YOU . . . COME . . . FROM?
That dis
the fuckin trick. These nosey cunts in front ay us look roond. Ah stares back at the cunts. Some fucker’s oan a burst mooth before the end ay this fuckin journey, ah kin see that now.
— Ehm . . . we’re from Toronto, Canada.
— Tirawnto. That wis the Lone Ranger’s mate, wis it no? ah sais. The burds jist look it us. Some punters dinnae fuckin understand the Scottish sense ay humour.
— Where are you from? the other burd sais. Pair ay rides n aw. That rid-heided cunt made a good fuckin move sittin here, ah kin tell ye.
— Edinburgh, Rents goes, tryin tae sound aw fuckin posh, ken. Fuckin smarmy rid-heided cunt. He’s aw ready tae steam in now, aw Joe-fuckin-Cool, once Franco breks the fuckin ice.
These burds ur gaun oantay us aboot how fuckin beautiful Edinburgh is, and how lovely the fuckin castle is oan the hill ower the gairdins n aw that shite. That’s aw they tourist cunts ken though, the castle n Princes Street, n the High Street. Like whin Monny’s auntie came ower fae that wee village oan that Island oaf the west coast ay Ireland, wi aw her bairns.
The wifey goes up tae the council fir a hoose. The council sais tae her, whair’s it ye want tae fuckin stey, like? The woman sais, ah want a hoose in Princes Street lookin oantay the castle. This wifey’s fuckin scoobied likes, speaks that fuckin Gaelic is a first language; disnae even ken that much English. Perr cunt jist liked the look ay the street whin she came oaf the train, thoat the whole fuckin place wis like that. The cunts it the council jist laugh n stick the cunt none ay they hoatline joabs in West Granton, thit nae cunt else wants. Instead ay a view ay the castle, she’s goat a view ay the gasworks. That’s how it fuckin works in real life, if ye urnae a rich cunt wi a big fuckin hoose n plenty poppy.
Anywey, they burds take a wee bevvy wi us, n Rents is pretty steamboats, cause ah’m feelin it n aw n ah kin drink that rid-heided cunt under the fuckin table any fuckin day ay the week. Mind you, ah wis oan the pish last night wi Lexo, eftir we pilled that joab it the jewellers it Corstorphine. That explains how ah feel that fuckin pished now. Whit ah really fancy now though, is a game ay cairds.
— Git the cairds oot Rents.
— Nivir brought any, he sais. Ah dinnae fuckin believe that cunt! Last thing ah fuckin sais tae um the other night wis: Mind the fuckin cairds.
—Ah telt ye tae mind the fuckin cairds, ya doss cunt! Whit wis the last fuckin thing ah sais tae ye the other night? Eh? Mind the fuckin cairds!
— Jist forgot, the cunt goes. Ah bet the rid-heided cunt’s forgot they fuckin cairds oan purpose. It’s fuckin borin withoot cairds eftir a bit.
That fuckin borin cunt starts readin a fuckin book; bad fuckin manners, then him n this Canadian burd, thir baith sortay students like, start talkin aboot aw the fuckin books thuv read. It’s gettin oan ma fuckin tits. Wir supposed tae be doon here fir a fuckin laugh, no tae talk aboot fuckin books n aw that fuckin shite. See if it wis up tae me, ah’d git ivray fuckin book n pit thum on a great big fuckin pile n burn the fuckin loat. Aw books ur fir is fir smart cunts tae show oaf aboot how much shite thuv fuckin read. Ye git aw ye fuckin need tae ken ootay the paper n fae the telly. Posin cunts. Ah’ll gie thum fuckin books . . .
Wi stoap it Darlington n these cunts git oan, checkin thir tickets against oor seat numbers. The train’s still fuckin stowed, so they’ cunts ur fucked fir a seat.
— Excuse me, these are our seats. We booked them, this cunt sais, flashin a ticket in front ay us.
— I’m afraid there must be some mistake, Rents sais. The rid-heided cunt kin be quite fuckin stylish, ah huv tae gie um that; he’s goat style. — There were no cards to indicate a seat reservation when we boarded the train at Edinburgh.
— But we’ve got the reserved tickets here, this cunt wi the John Lennon specs sais.
— Well, I can only suggest that you pursue your complaint with a member of the British Rail staff. My friend and I took these seats in good faith. I’m afraid we can’t be held responsible for any errors made by British Rail. Thank you, and goodnight, he sais, startin tae laugh, the rid-heided cunt thit he is. Ah wis like too busy enjoyin the cunt’s performance tae tell they cunts tae git tae fuck. Ah fuckin hate hassle, but this John Lennon cunt’ll no be telt.
— We have tickets here. That’s proof that these are our seats, the cunt sais. That’s it.
— Hi you! ah sais. — Aye, you, lippy cunt! He turns roond. Ah stands up. — Ye heard whit the gadge sais. Oan yir fuckin bike, ya specky radge! C’moan . . . move it! ah points doon the fuckin train.
— Come on Clive, his mate sais. The cunts fuck off. Jist is fuckin well fir thaim. So ah thought that wis endy fuckin story, bit naw, these cunts come back wi this ticket gadge.
The ticket boy, ye kin see the cunt doesnae really gie a fuck, the perr cunt’s jist daein his joab, starts gaun oan aboot it bein they cunts’ seats, bit ah jist tells the boy straight.
— Ah’m no fuckin carin what they cunts’ve goat oan thir fuckin tickets, mate. Thir wis nae fuckin reservation notices oan they fuckin seats whin we fuckin sat doon in thum. Wir no fuckin movin now. That’s aw thir is tae it. Ye charge enough fir yir fuckin tickets, make sure thirs a fuckin sign up the next time.
— Somebody must have taken it down, he sais. This cunt’ll dae nowt.
— Mibbe they did, mibbe they didnae. That’s no ma fuckin business. Like ah sais, the seats wir free, n ah wis right fuckin in thair. End ay fuckin story.
The ticket boy jist gits intae an argument wi they cunts, eftir tell in thum thit thirs nowt he kin fuckin dae. Ah jist leave thum tae it. Thir threatenin tae complain aboot the guy, n he’s gitting stroppy back.
One cunt in the seat in front’s lookin roond again.
— You goat a fuckin problem mate? ah shouts ower. The cunt gits a beamer n turns roond. Shitein cunt.
Rents faws asleep. The rid-heided cunt’s pished oot ay his fuckin skull. His draftpak’s half-empty n maist ay the cans’ve been tanned. Ah takes his draftpak tae the bogs wi us, empties a bit oot, n fills it up tae the same level wi ma pish. That’s what the cunt gits fir forgettin the fuckin cairds. Thir’s aboot two parts lager, one part pish in it.
Ah gits back n slips it intae place. The cunt’s fast asleep, so’s one ay the burds. The other’s goat her fuckin heid intae that book. Two rides. Dinnae ken whither ah’d rather shag the big fuckin blonde piece or the dark-heided yin the maist.
Ah wakes up that rid-heided cunt at Peterborough. — C’moan Rents. Yir fuckin strugglin wi that fuckin bevvy. A fuckin sprinter, that’s aw you are. A sprinter’ll nivir fuckin stand the pace wi a distance man.
— Nae problem . . . the cunt sais, takin a big fuckin swig oot ay the draftpak. He screws his face up. It’s hard no tae fuckin pish masel.
— The lager’s loupin. Seems tae huv gone dead flat, ken. Tastes like fuckin pish.
Ah’m daein ma best tae haud it in. — Stoap makin fuckin excuses, ya crappin cunt.
— Ah’ll still drink it like, the cunt goes. Ah try tae look oot the windae, wi that daft cunt finishing the fuckin loat.
Ah’m really fuckin ootay it by the time we hit Kings Cross. They burds’ve fucked oaf; ah thoat we wir oantae a fuckin good thing thair n aw, n ah sortay loast Rents comin oaf the train. Ah’ve even goat that rid-heided cunt’s bag instead ay ma ain. That cunt better huv mines. Ah dinnae even ken the fuckin address . . . but then ah clocks the rid-heided cunt talkin tae this wee cunt wi a plastic cup ootside the entrance tae the tube. Rents’s goat ma fuckin bag. Lucky fir him, the cunt.
— Any change fir the boy Franco? Rents sais, n this daft-lookin wee cunt hauds oot the fuckin cup; lookin it us wi they fuckin sappy eyes.
— Git tae fuck ya gypo cunt! ah sais, knockin the cup oot ay his hand, n fuckin pishin masel it the daft cunt scramblin aroond oan the deck between cunts’ legs, tae git his fuckin coins.
— Whair the fuck’s this flat then? ah sais tae Rents.
— No far, Rents sais, lookin it us like ah wis fuckin . . . the wey that cunt looks it ye sometimes
. . . he’s gaunnae git a sair face one ay they fuckin days, mates or nae fuckin mates. Then the cunt jist turns away n ah follay um doon oantae the Victoria Line.
Na Na and Other Nazis
The Fit ay Leith Walk is really likes, mobbed oot man. It’s too hot for a fair-skinned punter, likesay, ken? Some cats thrive in the heat, but the likes ay me, ken, we jist cannae handle it. Too severe a gig man.
Another total downer is being skint, likesay. Pure Joe Strummer, man. Aw ye dae is walk aroond n check people oot, ken. Every cat’s dead palsy-walsy likesay, but once they suss that you’re brassic lint, they sortay just drift away intae the shadows . . .
Ah clock Franco at Queen Sticky-Vicky’s statue, talkin tae this big dude, a mean hombre called Lexo; a casual acquaintance, if ye catch ma drift. Funny scene, likesay, how aw the psychos seem tae ken each other, ken what ah mean, likes? Such alliances are unholy man, just unholy . . .
— Spud! Awright ya cunt! How’s it gaun? The Beggar is one high catboy.
— Eh, no sae bad likesay, Franco . . . yirsel?
— Barry, he sais, turnin tae this square-shaped mountain beside um. — Ye ken Lexo, a statement likesay, no a question. Ah just sortay nods, ken, and the big hombre looks at us for a second, then turns and talks tae Franco again.
Ah can tell that those cats have, likesay, binliners tae slash open, n rubbish tae rummage through. So ah sortay sais, like: — Eh . . . goat tae nash like, catch yis later.
— Haud oan mate. How ye fixed? Franco asks us.
— Eh, basically man, ah’m totally brassic. Ah’ve goat thirty-two pence in ma poakit and a pound in ma account at the Abbey National. No really the kind ay investment portfolio tae cause the Charlotte Square dudes sleepless nights, likesay.
Franco slips us two tenners. Nice one, the Beggar-boy.
— Nae skag now, ya radge cunt! he gently chides us, likesay. — Gie us a bell at the weekend, or come doon fir us well.
Did ah ever say anything derogatory against ma man Franco? Well, likesay . . . he’s no a bad punter. Pure jungle cat, ken, but even jungle cats sit doon n huv a wee purr tae themselves now and again, likesay, usually after they’ve likes, devoured somebody. Ah sortay cannae help wondering who Franco n Lexo’s devoured, likesay. Frankie-baby wis doon in London wi Rents, hidin oot fae the labdicks. What had the boy been up tae? Sometimes it’s better no tae ken. In fact, it’s always better no tae ken, likesay.