by Irvine Welsh
— Choatah! Choatah! C’mere you bleedin little . . . She picks the cat up and holds it protectively to her bosom like a baby, staring at us bitterly as if ah somehow intended tae herm the bag ay shite.
Ah fuckin hate cats, nearly as much as ah hate dugs. Ah advocate the banning ay the use ay animals as pets and the extermination ay aw dugs, except a few, which could be exhibited in a zoo. That’s one ay the few things that me n Sick Boy consistently agree aboot.
Cunts. Whair the fuck ur they?
Ah go back doon tae the pub n huv another couple ay pints. It’s fuckin soul destroying, what the bastards have done tae this place. The nights we used tae huv in here. It’s like the past hus been eradicated along wi the auld fittings.
Withoot thinking consciously, ah’ve left the pub, n ah’m walking back the wey ah came, towards Victoria. Ah stoap oaf at a pay-phone, pull oot some loose change n ma battered address book. Time tae look fir alternative digs. Could be dodgy. Ah’ve fucked up wi Stevie or Stella, no way I’d be welcome back there. Andreas is back in Greece, Caroline is oan hoaliday in Spain, Tony, stupid fuckin doss cunt Tony, is wi Sick Boy, whae’s ower fae France, back up in fuckin Edinburgh. Ah forgot tae git the cunt’s keys, n the bastard forgot tae remind us.
Charlene Hill. She’s Brixton. First choice. Might even git a ride, if ah play ma cairds right. Could certainly dae wi one . . . that’s whit being straight, well straightish, does tae ye . . . torture.
— Hello? Another woman’s voice.
— Hi. Can I speak to Charlene?
— Charlene . . . she don’t live ere anymore. Don’t know where she is now, Stockwell, I fink . . . ain’t got an address . . . old on . . . MICK! MICK! YOU GOT CHARLENE’S ADDRESS?. . . . CHARLEEENE Na. Sorry. Ain’t got it.
No ma fuckin day. Hus tae be Nicksy.
— No. No. No Brian Nixon. Gone. Gone; an Asian voice.
— Goat an address firummate?
— No. Gone. Gone. No Brian Nixon.
— Whair’s he steyin likesay but?
— What? What? I cannot understand you . . .
— Where-is-my-friend-Bri-an-Nicks-on-stay-ing?
— No Brian Nixon. No drugs. Go. Go. The cunt slams the phone doon oan us.
It’s gettin late, and this city has shut me oot. An alko wi a Glasgow accent taps twenty pence fi us.
— Yir a fuckin good boey, ah’ll tell ye that son . . . he groans.
— You’re orlroight Jock, ah tell um, in ma best Cockney. Other Scots in London ur a pain in the erse. Particularly Weedjies, whae irritate us at the best ay times wi thir nosey cunt patter, which they pretend is friendliness. The last thing ah want right now is tae be stuck wi a fuckin soapdodger in tow.
Ah think aboot gittin the 38 or 55 up tae Hackney, and callin oan Mel at Dalston. If Mel’s no in, and the cunt’s no oan the phone, then ma boats ur well n truly burned.
Instead ah find masel peyin tae git intae the all-night cinema in Victoria. It shows porno movies throughout the night, until five a.m. It’s a crash pad for every low-life under the sun. Winos, junkies, vagrants, sex-fiends, psychos, they all converge here at night. Ah pledged tae masel thit ah’d nivir spend a night here again, eftir the last time.
A few years back ah wis in here wi Nicksy n some boy goat stabbed. The polis came n jist lifted every cunt they could git thir hands oan includin us. We hud a quart ay hash oan us n hud tae eat the lot. We couldnae even fuckin speak by the time they goat roond tae interviewin us doon the station. They kept us in the cells overnight. Next day they took us roond tae Bow Street magistrates court, it’s right next tae the nick, and fined every cunt whae wis too incoherent tae give evidence wi a breach ay the peace. Nicksy n me goat stung fir thirty bar each; whin it wis thirty bar.
Here ah am again though. If anything, the place has gone downhill since ma last visit. Aw the films are pornographic, except fir one excruciatingly violent documentary, where various animals tear each other apart in exotic locations. Its graphic nature takes it a million miles fae David Attenborough’s jobs.
— Ya black bastards! Fuckin black bastards! roars a Scots voice as a group ay natives hurl spears intae the side ay a big bison-like creature.
A racist Scottish animal lover. Odds-on he’s a Hun.
— Dirty fucking jungle-bunnies, a sycophantic Cockney voice adds.
Whit a fuckin place tae be. Ah try tae git intae the films tae take ma mind oaf the screaming and heavy breathing gaun oan around us.
The best film is a German one overdubbed wi American English. The plot is no great shakes. It concerns this young lassie in a Bavarian costume who gets fucked in a variety of ways and locations by almost every male and a few ay the females oan the farm. The set pieces are quite imaginative though, and ah’m gettin intae it. These images are obviously the nearest most cunts in this dive ever come tae sex, although having said that, ye can tell by the sounds that some men and women and men and men are fucking. Ah find ah’ve goat a hard-on, and ah’m even tempted tae have a wank, but the next film crushes ma erection.
It’s a British one, inevitably. It’s set in a London office during the party season and is imaginatively entitled: The Office Party. It stars Mike Baldwin, or the actor Johnny Briggs, whae plays the cunt in Coronation Street. It’s like a Carry-On film wi less humour and mair sex. Mike eventually gets fucked, but he disnae deserve tae, lookin like an irritating wee sleazebag fir maist ay the film.
Ah keep driftin oaf intae a delirious sleep, and waking with a start, ma head jerking back like it’s gaunnae snap oaf ma shoodirs.
Out ay the corner ay ma eye, ah see a guy movin seats tae sit next tae us. He puts his hand oan ma thigh. Ah pull his hand oaf.
— Git tae fuck. You wantin yir heid n hands tae play wi, ya cunt?
— Sorry. Sorry, he sais in a European accent. He’s an auld cunt n aw. He sounds really pathetic, n he’s goat a wizened wee face. Ah actually start feelin sorry fir um.
— Ah’m no a buftie pal, ah tell um. He looks confused. — No homosexual, ah point at masel, feeling vaguely ridiculous. What a fuckin daft thing tae say.
— Sorry. Sorry.
This sortay gits us thinkin. How the fuck dae ah ken ah’m no a homosexual if ah’ve nivir been wi another guy? Ah mean, really fir sure? Ah’ve always hud a notion tae go aw the wey wi another guy, tae see what it wis like. Ah mean, yuv goat tae try everything once. Huvin said that, ah’d huvtae be in the drivin seat. Ah couldnae handle some cunt’s knob up ma erse. One time ah picked up this gorgeous young queen in the London Apprentice. Ah tookumback tae the auld gaff in Poplar. Tony n Caroline came in n caught us giein the boy a gam. It wis a total embarrassment. Giein a guy whae wis wearin a condom a blow-job. It wis like sucking a plastic dildo. Ah wis bored tae fuck, bit the boy hud sucked me oaf first so ah felt ah hud tae reciprocate. It wis a good blow-job he gave, technically speaking. However, ah hud kept gaun soft n collapsing wi laughter at the expression oan his face. He looked like this lassie ah used tae fancy ages ago, so wi a bit ay imagination and concentration ah managed, tae ma surprise, tae shoot ma load intae the rubber.
Ah took a real slaggin fae Tony fir this episode, but Caroline thought that it wis cool, n confessed tae us this she wis as jealous as fuck. She thought the guy wis a honey.
Anywey, ah widnae mind gaun aw the wey wi a gadge, if it felt right. Jist fir the experience. Problem is, ah only really fancy birds. Guys jist dinnae look sexy. It’s aw aboot aesthetics, fuck all tae dae wi morality.
The auld cunt disnae exactly look like he’d be high oan the list ay candidates tae lose yir homosexual virginity tae. He tells us though, thit he’s goat a place up in Stoke Newington n asks us if ah’d like tae crash the night. Well, Stokie’s no far fae Mel’s bit at Dalston, so ah thoat: Fuck it.
The auld cunt’s Italian, n he’s called Gi, short fir Giovanni, ah’d imagine. He tells us that he’s workin in a restaurant and that he’s goat a wife n bairns back in Italy. Ah git a feelin thit this disnae quite ring true. One ay the great thi
ngs aboot bein intae junk is thit ye come across loads ay liars. Ye develop a certain expertise in that area yirsel, and a keen nose for the bullshit.
Wi git a night bus up tae Stokie fi Victoria. Thirs loads ay young punters oan the bus; stoned, pished, gaun tae perties, comin fae perties. Ah wished tae fuck that ah wis in one ay they squads instead ay wi this auld cunt. Still.
Gi’s basement flat is somewhair oafay Church Street. Ah’m loast eftir that, but ah ken thit wir no as far in as Newington Green. It’s extremely fuckin dingy inside. Thir’s an auld sideboard, a chest ay drawers and a big, brass bed in the middle ay this musty smelling room, which has a kitchen and toilet off it.
Given ma previous vibe aboot this cunt, ah’m surprised tae see pictures ay a woman n bairns aw ower the place.
— Yir family mate?
— Yes, this is my family. Soon they will be joining me.
This still didnae sound plausible tae me. Perhaps ah’ve become that used tae lies, thit the truth sounds indecently false. But still.
— Must miss thum.
— Yes. Oh yes, he goes, then he sais — Lie down on the bed my friend. You can sleep. I like you. You can stay for a while.
Ah gie the wee cunt a hard stare. He’s nae physical threat, so ah thought, fuck it, ah’m knackered, n ah climbed oantae the bed. Ah hud a flicker ay doubt as ah remembered Dennis Nilsen. Ah bet thir wis some cunts whae thought thit he wis nae physical threat; before he throttled thum, decapitated thum n biled thir heids in a big pan. Nilsen used tae work in the same Jobcentre in Cricklewood as this guy fae Greenock ah knew. The Greenock guy told me that one Christmas Nilsen brought in a curry he’d made fir the staff ay the centre. Mibbe bullshit, but ye nivir know. Anywey, ah’m so fucked that ah shut ma eyes, succumbing tae ma tiredness. Ah tensed slightly when ah felt him gittin oantae the bed beside us, but ah soon relaxed because he made nae move tae touch us n we wir both fully clathed. Ah felt masel driftin oaf intae a sick, disorientated sleep.
Ah woke up, wi nae idea ay how long ah’d been asleep; ma mooth dried oot and a strange wet sensation oan ma face. Ah touched the side ay ma cheek. Egg-white strands of thick, sticky fluid trailed from ma hand. Ah turned n saw the auld cunt lyin beside us, now naked, spunk drippin fae ehs small, fat cock.
— Ya dirty auld cunt! . . . wankin ower us in ma fuckin sleep . . . ya fuckin mingin auld bastard! Ah felt like a dirty hanky, just used, just nothing. A rage gripped us n ah smacked the wee cunt in the mooth n pulled um oaf the bed. He looked like a repulsive, fat gnome wi his bloated stomach n roond heid. Ah booteduma few times as he cowered oan the deck, then ah stoaped as ah realised he wis sobbin.
— Fuck sake. Dirty wee cunt. Fuckin . . . Ah paced up and doon the room. His greetin wis disturbing. Ah pulled a dressing-gown oaf one ay the brass knobs oan the edge ay the bed n draped it roond his ugly nakedness.
— Maria. Antonio, he sobs. Ah realise thit ah’ve goat ma airm aroond the wee bastard n ah’m comforting him.
— S awright mate. S awright. Sorry. Didnae mean tae hurt ye, it’s jist likesay, nae cunts wanked ower us before.
That wis certainly true.
— You are kind . . . what can I do? Maria. My Maria . . . He wis howling. His mooth dominated his face, a huge black hole in the twilight. He smelt ay stale drink, sweat n spunk.
— Look, c’moan we’ll go doon tae a cafe. Huv a wee blether. Ah’ll git ye some breakfast. Oan me. Thir’s a good place doon Ridley Road, by the market, ken? It’ll be open by now.
My suggestion wis as much motivated by self-interest as altruism. It took us nearer tae Mel’s place at Dalston, and ah wanted oot ay this depressing basement room.
He goat dressed n we left. We padded the hoof doon Stokie High Street n Kingsland Road, doon tae the market. The cafe wis surprisingly busy, but we goat a table. Ah hud a cheese n tomatay bagel n the auld cunt hus this horrible black boiled meat, the stuff that the Jewish punters up at Stamford Hill seem tae be intae.
The cunt starts gabbin aboot Italy. He wis married tae this Maria woman fir years. The family found oot thit him n Antonio, Maria’s younger brother, wir fucking each other. Ah shouldnae really put it like that, mair like thit they wir lovers. Ah think he loved the guy, but he loved Maria n aw. Ah thought ah wis bad wi drugs, but the mess some cunts make ay thir lives wi love. It disnae bear thinkin aboot.
Anywey, thir wis two other brothers, macho, Catholic n according tae Gi, involved wi the Neopolitan Camorra. These cunts couldnae handle this. They goat a haud ay Gi, ootside the family restaurant. They kicked ten types ay shite oot ay the perr wee cunt. Antonio goat the same treatment later oan.
Antonio topped hissel eftir that. It means a loat in that culture, Gi telt us, tae be disgraced in that wey. Ah’m thinkin, it means a loat in any fuckin culture. Gi then tells us thit Antonio flung hissel in front ay a train. Ah thought, mibbe it does mean mair in that culture eftir aw. Gi fled tae England, whair he’s been working in various Italian restaurants; living in seedy gaffs, drinking too much, exploiting or being exploited by the young guys and auld wifies he picks up. It sounds a pretty miserable life.
Ma spirits soared whin we goat doon the road tae Mel’s and ah heard reggae music blastin intae the street and saw the lights oan. The fag-end ay what must huv been a considerable party wis still gaun.
It wis good tae git amongst auld faces. They wir aw thair, aw the cunts, Davo, Suzy, Nicksy (bombed oot ay his boax), n Charlene. Bodies wir crashed oot aw ower the place. Two lassies wir dancin wi each other, n Char wis dancin wi this guy. Paul n Nicksy wir smokin; opium, no hash. Maist English junkies ah know smoke horse rather than shoot it up. Needles seem tae be mair ay a Scottish, Edinburgh, thing. Ah take a toke fae the cunts anywey.
— Farking great tuh see yah again, me old sahn! Nicksy slaps us oan the back. Clockin Gi, he whispers, — Oose the old cahnt then, eh? Ah’d brought the wee bastard along. Ah didnae huv the heart tae leave the cunt eftir listening tae aw his tales ay woe.
— Sound mate. Great tae see ye. This is Gi. Good mate ay mines. Steys up in Stokie. Ah slaps auld Gi oan the back. The perr wee fucker wears an expression like ye’d see oan a rabbit at the bars ay its cage asking fir a bit ay lettuce.
Ah go fir a wander, leavin Gi talking tae Paul n Nicksy aboot Napoli, Liverpool and West Ham, the international male language ay fitba. Sometimes ah lap up that talk, other times its pointless tediousness depresses the fuck oot ay us.
In the kitchen, two guys are arguin aboot the poll tax. One boy’s sussed oot, the other’s a fuckin spineless Labour/Tory Party servile wankboy.
— You’re a fuckin arsehole oan two counts. One, if ye think the Labour Party’s goat a fuckin chance ay ever gettin in again this century, two, if ye think it would make a blind bit ay fuckin difference if they ever did, ah jist butt in and tell the cunt. He stands thair open-moothed, while the other guy smiles.
— That’s joost wot oi was troi-ing to tell the bastid, he sais in a Brummie accent.
Ah split, leaving the servile cunt still bemused. Ah go intae in a bedroom whair this guy’s licking oot this lassie, aboot three feet away fae whair some junkies are usin. Ah look at the junkies. Fuck me, thir us in works, shootin up n that. So much fir ma theories.
— You want a photograph mate? this skinny wee Goth wide-o whae’s cookin asks.
— You want a fuckin burst mooth, cunt? Ah answer his question wi a question. He looks away n keeps cookin. Ah stare at the toap ay his heid fir a bit. Content that the cunt’s shat his load, ah loosen up. Whenever ah go doon south, ah seem tae huv that kind ay attitude. It goes eftir a couple ay days. Ah think ah ken why ah huv it, but it wid take too long tae explain, n sound too pathetic. As ah leave the room, ah hear the lassie groanin oan the bed n the guy sayin, — Wot a fucking sweet cunt you got gel . . .
Ah stagger through the door, wi that soft, slow voice resonating in ma ear: — Wot a fucking sweet cunt you got gel . . . and it starkly makes explicit to me just what ah’ve been looking around for.
&nb
sp; Ah’m no exactly spoiled fir choice here. The scene’s pish-poor in the potential bag-off stakes. At this time ay the morning, the most desirable women huv either bagged off or fucked off. Charlene’s copped, so’s the woman that Sick Boy shagged oan her 21st birthday. Even the lassie wi the eyes like Marty Feldman and the hair like pubes, is spoken for.
Story ay ma fuckin life. Arrive too early, git too pished or stoned oot ay boredom n blow it, or git thair too fuckin late.
Wee Gi’s standing by the fireplace, sipping a can ay lager. He looks frightened and bemused. Ah think tae masel, ah might end up whappin it up the wee cunt’s choc-box yit.
The thought depresses the fuck oot ay us. Still, we are all slags oan hoaliday.
Bad Blood
I first meet Alan Venters through the ‘HIV and Positive’ self-help group, although he wasn’t part of that group for long. Venters didn’t look after himself very well, and soon developed one of the many opportunistic infections we’re prone to. I always find the term ‘opportunistic infection’ amusing. In our culture, it seems to invoke some admirable quality. I think of the ‘opportunism’ of the entrepreneur who spots a gap in the market, or that of the striker in the penalty box. Tricky buggers, those opportunistic infections.
The members of the group were in a roughly similar medical condition. We were all anti-body positive, but still largely asymptomatic. Paranoia was never far from the surface at our meetings; everybody seemed to be furtively checking out everyone else’s lymph glands for signs of swelling. It was disconcerting to feel people’s eyes stray to the side of your face during conversation.
This type of behaviour added further to the sense of unreality which hung over me at the time. I really couldn’t conceive of what had happened to me. The test results at first just seemed unbelievable, so incongruous with the healthy way I felt and looked. Part of me remained convinced that there had to be a mistake, in spite of taking the test three times. My self-delusion should have been shattered when Donna refused to see me, but it was always hanging on in the background with a grim resolution. We always seem to believe what we want to believe.