by Irvine Welsh
That Maggie Orr, her fae Billy’s stair, she’s comin doon the road wi this lassie that’s goat glesses. Looks really nice but. They stoap ower by the chippy. — Terry, c’mere the now, she waves him tae come acroass.
Terry’s standin ehs groond but. — Nup, youse come ower here, eh goes, aw cocky.
— Naw, the nice-lookin lassie wi the glesses nods back at Maggie, n she’s screwin up her face, makin oot like Maggie doesnae want tae see Carl or Billy. Billy’s no botherin but, eh’s goat the paper, n Carl jist looks away, ehs hands oan ehs hips. Billy rolls the paper up n hits um oan the heid wi it. Carl says something like, — Wanker. Terry shrugs n goes ower tae the lassies.
That barry lassie wi the long black hair n the glesses looks ower at me n smiles. Ma hert goes boom. She seems dead nice, different fae some ay thum roond here. Then Terry looks roond at ays n aw, then laughs wi this lassie n eh pushes ehr, then grabs ehr, n it’s like eh’s ticklin ehr. She’s laughin away n tellin um tae stoap it. Eh shouldnae be daein that tae a lassie like that, a nice lassie. That’s okay tae muck aboot wi slags like that, but no the likes ay this lassie. Maggie doesnae like it either, n Terry sees this, so eh goes ower tae ehr n starts ticklin ehr, then eh picks ehr up, n she’s screamin, — TERRY! n we kin see ehr knickers, n eh lits ehr doon n she’s goat a beamer. Thir doon the road, n the bigger lassie that’s nice is laughin, but Maggie’s beetroot rid, hur eyes waterin. She’s sortay laughin a wee bit n aw but. Terry sprints back ower tae us.
— Shag-happy, thon pair, eh laughs, as they head doon the road. Eh sees me lookin at um. — Whoah, eh goes tae ays, — that big Gail, she fancies you Gally. She goes: ‘Whae’s the wee cutey-pie wi the big eyes?’
Cheeky fuckin cunt: takin the pish. Carl n Billy ur laughin at ays, n Billy pinches the side ay ma face. Ah’m ignorin that big wanker Terry, ignorin thum aw. — Aw aye, aw sure, ah goes.
Billy opens the Sunday Mail again. Terry, the fuckin big man, that cunt’s loving it aw. They made a huge fuckin deal aboot that shite at the match. They fuckin Glesgay papers: they nivir bother whin they scruffs run riot through here. Terry’s fuckin stupid face n that stupid fuckin hair. Aw ower the paper. Cunt thinks eh’s a fuckin star. It’s aw fuckin bullshit.
WE NAME HIBS THUG
The smirking, unrepentant thug who brought terror and shame to Easter Road on Saturday is aerated waters salesman Terence Lawson (17). Millions of armchair fans watched last night’s popular Sportscene programme where a George Best-inspired Hibs pulled off a victory against Rangers. But the match was overshadowed by serious disturbances in and around the ground. ‘These people are not real football followers,’ said Inspector Robert Toal of Lothian Police. ‘True fans should denounce them. They are hell-bent on destroying the game.’ The insolent face of Lawson being carted away from a serious affray he had instigated was too much for many genuine supporters. Bill McLean (41) of Penicuik said: ‘This is the first game I’ve been at for years and it’ll be the last. There’s too much hooliganism these days.’
MAFIA
Lawson is reputed to be the ringleader of a notorious Edinburgh football hooligans gang known as ‘The Emerald Mafia’ because of their attachment to the Hibs Football Club and their extreme ruthlessness.
VIOLENCE
Lawson is no stranger to violence. Last year the brawny, permed-haired thug was convicted of a brutal assault on another young man outside a city chip shop. We can reveal that he also has convictions for the vandalism of a telephone box and the malicious scratching of the bodywork of an expensive car with a set of housekeys. The car belonged to Edinburgh businessman Arthur Rennie.
SICK
Last night Lawson’s mother, Mrs Alice Ulrich (38), stood by her son. ‘My Terry can be a bit daft, but he’s no thug. He’s just been hanging around with the wrong crowd. I’m getting sick of this.’ Lawson was arrested along with two youths, aged sixteen and fifteen, who for legal reasons cannot be named. The case will be heard in a fortnight’s time at Edinburgh District Court.
— It’s no a fuckin perm, Terry goes, running ehs hand through ehs hair. — This isnae fuckin permed.
Eh thinks ehs shite disnae stink. Juice lorry skivvyin wanker. — It’s cause yir auld man wis a fuckin nigger, that’s aw it is, ah goes.
Ah wish ah hudnae said that. Terry disnae git oan wi ehs auld man. Ah think eh’s gaunny dae ehs nut, but eh disnae git angry. — Well at least eh hud fuckin good skin, eh goes back, pointin at ma face. — Skin like that n gittin yir fuckin hole, they dinnae mix mate, eh winks, n every cunt’s pishin thirsels. — Nae wonder yir S.A.V.
Ehs face is gaun aw tight n ah’m wonderin, what the fuck is he oan aboot . . .
Billy looks blankly at Terry. — What’s that?
— Still a virgin, Terry goes.
Thir aw laughin like fuck at me; shakin, hudin each other up. Whin ah think thuv stoaped, thir’s another wave that starts up as ah see somethin fir a minute in Terry’s eyes as they meet mine, it’s nearly like an apology before it’s blawn away by they big donkey brays. Muh hand flies up tae muh spot oan muh face. Ah couldnae stoap it gaun thaire. Ah’ve another one now. Aye, n thir laughin even mair. Carl, whae sneaked away wi that fuckin ginger boot n thinks eh’s the last ay the rid-hoat lovers cause some dog naebody else wants gied um it. Birrell, whae nivir even goat a neck . . .
— Fuck off you ya cunt, ah kin hear masel sayin, but ah’m that ragin that ma breath’s catchin in ma chist.
Terry.
Cunts.
Fuck them aw. Thaire no fuckin mates . . . — FUCK OFF LAWSON, YA POOF!
— N you’ll make ays like, aye? Terry goes, starin it ays.
Ah turns away, n ah think eh half-kens it’s cause ah’m feart ay what ah’ll dae rather thin ay what he’ll dae. — Dinnae go in the fuckin cream puff like a wee bairn, Gally. It’s you thit sterted it wi aw this nigger shite, eh goes.
— Ah wis only fuckin jokin, ya cunt.
Juice Terry. The fuckin big man. Hawkin fuckin boatils ay juice roond schemes . . .
— Well ah’m only jokin aboot your fuckin plukes, eh goes, n Ewart n Birrell ur laughin again.
Wankers . . .
Ah takes a step forward n squares up tae Terry. Ah’m no fuckin well feart ay that cunt. Nivir fuckin well huv been. Aye, they aw think eh’s a big hard cunt now, bit ah ken better. The cunt forgets thit ah fuckin well grew up wi um. Eh’s standin ehs groond awright, but thir’s a wariness aboot him.
Billy’s in between us. — Stoap gittin wide wi each other. Right? Supposed tae be mates. Youse two are brutal.
We’re still facin each other, glarin at each other ower Billy’s shoodir.
— Ah sais stoap gittin wide. Right? Birrell goes, ehs palm pushin against ma chist. That cunt’s gittin oan ma nerves as much as Terry. Ah wis oot ay order sayin that, right, but the cunt should’ve took it as a joke. Ah feel masel leanin forward intae Birrell’s shove, makin it soas eh either hus tae really push ays back or ease off. Eh nods tae me n eh eases oaf. — C’mon Gally, eh sais, firm but reasonable.
— Aye, c’moan boys, simmer doon eh, Carl goes, wrappin an airm roond Terry, then pullin at the cunt, forcin him tae brek ehs stare at me. Terry protests, but Carl’s play-wrestling um, forcin um tae join in. — Fuck off Ewart, ya milk-boatil-heided cunt . . .
Then ah says, — Ah meant it as a fuckin joke. Dinnae go fuckin thinkin yir the big wideo cause ye goat lifted at the fitba, Terry. Dinnae go fuckin well thinkin that, ah tell the cunt.
Terry pushes Carl aside n looks at ays. — Dinnae you fuckin well go thinkin that you’re the big wideo cause yuv been cairryin a fuckin knife.
A knife. The boy’s face.
Ah feel cauld. Ah feel thit ah’m alaine, thit they aw hate ays.
Birrell’s backin the cunt up n aw. — Aye, you pack that shite in, yir gaunny git in big bother, ah’m tellin ye Gally. N ah’m sayin that cause ah’m yir mate. Yir patter’s gittin brutal.
Tellin mi fuckin
Ivray cunt fuckin tel
lin mi
The boy’s face. That Polmont cunt. Nivir flung a fuckin punch at the fitba, the fuckin shitein cunt. Greetin oan ehs ain like a wee lassie doon at Spencer’s. Nivir jumped in for Dozo whin they Clerie boys wir ready tae go until they saw me wi the blade. N what eh did tae the boy wis takin real liberties. Dozo wis pannellin the boy. Thir wis fuckin nae need. N ah jist stood thair n lit um hand ays back the blade. Ah took it, ah took it like a fuckin tube. Ah’m fuckin shitein masel. Ah turns tae Carl. — What’s aw this?
— You’re oot ay order, Gally, Carl goes, pointin at ays. — Nae fuckin chibs.
Ewart, the fuckin Herts cunt, tellin me ah’m oot ay order. Aw aye. Aw sure.
Billy’s starin at ays. — The polis came last night, eftir you legged it. Asking everybody what went oan.
Ah’m lookin at thum aw. Thir aw lookin at me the same wey the likes ay Blackie n aw they cunts at the school dae. Supposed tae be yir fuckin mates. — Aye, n what did youse fuckin well say tae thum? Bet yis fuckin well grassed ays!
— Aw aye, aw right, aye, dae ays a favour, Billy goes. Terry jist looks at ays like eh hates ays. Carl’s standin back a bit, shakin ehs heid.
— Youse ken nowt, ah goes n ah turns n starts walkin away.
Carl shouts, — C’moan Gally!
Billy goes, — Jist leave um.
Ah hears that cunt Lawson shoutin in an American voice, aw high, — Cue-tee-pie . . . bye, bye cue-tee-poi . . . n ma blood’s fuckin boilin.
He’s fuckin gittin it.
Ah goes doon the road, past the church n the Birrells’ stair, then ower intae oor scheme. Ah sees auld Mr Pender comin doon the hill fae the Busy Bee pub, n ah shout, — Hiya, but eh ignores ays, lookin away quickly. What’s up wi him now? Ah’ve nivir done nowt tae him.
When ah pass Terry’s square, ah look ower tae his bit tae see if Yvonne or any ay her mates are aroond. Ye wonder how it is that Terry’s such a cunt, n Yvonne’s that nice.
Yvonne’s lovely.
Thir’s naebody aboot but, n ah goes ower tae ma ain square n up the stairs. Ah wis jist in time, cause ah sees a big bunch ay Herts boys, Topsy n that, headin this wey. Topsy’s awright, n eh’s Carl’s mate, but thirs some ay thum thaire that wid be bound tae git wide if they saw thit ah wis oan ma ain. Ah’m no in the mood for any cunt gittin wide the now. Thir’s that graffiti thaire oan the stair waw in rid felt pen:
LEANNE HALGROW
4
TERRY LAWSON
True by both.
The cunt probably wrote it ehsel. Ah splatter it wi gob, watchin the colour run doon the waw. Cheap fuckin ink. Fuckin Terry thinks eh’s that wide, wi ehs nigger fuckin hair n the cunt’s fuckin Ma’s shaggin a fuckin Nazi now. Fuckin wide fat stupid fuckin tube. Supposed tae huv rode every fuckin bird n battered every fuckin laddie in the scheme. Like fuck. The hard man. Like fuck. N fuckin Birrell n fuckin Ewart . . . backin um up . . . cunts.
Ah goes tae ma room n puts oan the first LP ah ivir boat, The Jam’s This is the Modern World. Cropley comes in n ah pat him wi a tremblin hand as ma tears splash oan ehs heid. Tears that nae cunt’ll see. Ever.
Ah’ll nivir stey oan at school. Ah’ll nivir get a joab. Ah’ll nivir get a ride.
Thi’ll pit ays away.
The Rockford Files v. The Professionals
Sunday night is as borin as fuck. Ah’m pillin the yellay rubber ring fae Cropley’s mooth. Eh’s growlin through ehs nostrils. Eh’s goat some grip oan um. The ring’s aw covered wi ehs slavers.
— Andrew, enough! muh Ma goes, — yir gaunnae pill that animal’s teeth oot! Ah cannae afford tae pey vet’s bills tae git um a set ay false teeth, or whatever it is that they need, she starts laughin, n me n Sheena do n aw, at the thought ay Cropley wi falsers.
So ah lits the ring go. Eh’s goat it, n eh jist brings it back tae ays tae git ays tae tug it wi um again. — Yuv goat it, Cropley, gaun, blow, ah sais. Dugs urnae that bright really. It’s just a load ay shite: that Barbara Woodhoose oan the telly. She couldnae train a dug like Cropley or one ay they stray dugs that attack ye whin ye try tae go across the park tae school. Birrell booted one in the throat the other week n it went away whinin. Eh sais that dugs are like people, some ay thum urnae as wide as they think. Carl sais eh wis gaunny start bringin ehs airgun tae school fir protection. Ah telt um eh’d better no shoot ma fuckin dug, or ah’d shoot him, mates or no.
Cropley gits bored or forgets, n leaves the ring. But muh Ma hus tae whack um whin eh tries tae ride Sheena up the leg whin she gits up tae go tae the lavvy. She’s laughin n sayin — Git doon Cropley! Git doon! Sheena probably disnae even ken what it is thit the dug’s daein, or mibbe she does. Muh Ma does but, n she’s thrashin um wi her slipper n it takes ages before eh lits go.
Ah’m laughin like fuck so she gies me a clatterin n aw, wi her hand, right acroass the side ay ma heid. It wis a beauty, n ah felt ma ears pop. — It’s no bloody funny, she screams at ays.
It’s throbbin whaire she’s thumped ma heid n ah’m still laughin, even if ah feel aw dizzy n deef in one ear. — Whit wis that fir?
— That’s you teasin the dug, Andrew Galloway. Yi’ll huv the perr animal wild, she says.
Aw aye. Ah jist rubs ma heid n ah picks up the paper at the telly page. The eardrum jist sortay pops back n ah kin hear fine again. What ah hate maist aboot Sunday night is thit thuv goat The Rockford Files oan the BBC n The Professionals on STV, right at the same fuckin time. Takin the fuckin pish these cunts, ye think they could plan better.
Ah feel muh Ma sittin doon beside ays oan the couch n she’s pittin her airm roond ays n giein ays a hug n rubbin ma heid n it’s like she’s nearly greetin. — Sorry darlin . . . sorry ma wee darlin, she sais.
— It’s awright Ma, it nivir hurt, behave yirsel! ah laughs, but ah’m nearly greetin n aw. It’s like wi her daein that, ah’m turnin intae a wee bairn again.
— Sometimes it no easy for me, son . . . she looks at me, — . . . ken?
Ah’ve goat a lump in ma throat n ah cannae say nowt, so ah jist nod.
— Yir a good boy, Andrew, always have been. You’ve been nae problem tae me at aw. Ah love ye, son, she sobs again.
— Aw Ma . . . Ah gies her a hug back.
Sheena comes ben fae the lavvy n me n muh Ma pill away fae each other oan the couch like wir a young couple huvin a sly snog n huvin tae quickly sit up straight. — What’s wrong? Sheena goes, aw feart.
— It’s awright darlin, she says. — Jist huvin a wee blether. Come and sit doon oan the couch wi us, she pats the seat next tae her, but Sheena sits doon oan the flair at her feet and Ma’s goat an arm roond me n one roond Sheena, strokin her hair, sayin daft things like: — Ma wee bairns . . . n ah feel nice but embarrassed at the same time, cause ah’m a bit fuckin auld for this, but, well, she’s upset, so ah say nowt, n Sheena’s goat one ay her hands n she’s hudin it in baith hers n ah’m gled that ma mates cannae see me now.
Wi settle doon tae the telly n the bell goes eftir a bit n it’s Carl. — Want tae come roond ma bit n watch The Professionals? eh asks, ehs eyes aw eager.
Ah look at um, sortay hesitatin fir a wee second. Eh kin tell that ah dinnae want tae come. But ah dinnae want um thinkin it’s because ah dinnae want tae leave muh Ma right now though. So ah switches it ontae Terry n this eftirnoon. — That Terry’s a wide cunt. Eh’s gittin ehs fuckin mooth burst.
— Aye, Carl sais, aw weary. Eh kens that Terry n me are the best ay mates, even if wi git oan each other’s tits sometimes. — C’mon tae mines n watch The Professionals.
— Awright, ah goes. Ah wanted tae watch The Rockford Files wi Ma n Sheena, but fuck it, it’ll be good tae git oot the hoose.
Ah tell muh Ma ah’m gaun roond tae Carl’s, feelin a wee bit guilty aboot leavin her n Sheena, a bit awkward aboot no steyin. But she’ll be awright! It’s jist women fir ye, as ma Uncle Donald says. Muh Ma’s fine aboot it but, she nivir bothers if it’s Carl or Billy’s but she doesnae like ays gaun doon tae Terry’s. Sometimes whin we go tae Terry’s t
ae dae glue or huv a bevvy, ah tell muh Ma wi wir doon at Carl’s or Billy’s n it’s jist cider. Ah think muh Ma n Mrs Birrell n Mrs Ewart really ken that we’re doon at Terry’s but.
So we go roond tae Carl’s bit. Ah like it at Carl’s cause it eywis feels warmer than in our hoose, but ah think that’s jist cause ay the fitted cairpits thit go waw tae waw. It gies ye the feelin thit it’s mair sealed. Likes in oors we’ve jist goat the auld cairpits thit ma uncle hud, n they dinnae go aw the wey tae the waw. Thir’s new furniture n aw, sort ay big comfy chairs in a light wid frame thit ye jist sink intae. Carl says thit they come fae Sweden.
— Aye, aye, here’s the other fitba hooligan! Carl’s auld man sais, but eh’s jist jokin. That’s the thing aboot Carl’s auld boy, eh eywis hus a crack wi ye n eh disnae go aw mumpy like other auld cunts.
— No us, Mr Ewart, that’s jist Terry, eh Carl? ah goes, ah couldnae resist that yin.
— That laddie’s gaunny git ehsel intae big trouble one ay these days, you mark ma words, Mrs Ewart goes.
Carl looks at her and says, — Ah telt ye before Ma, it wisnae Terry’s fault. It wis nowt tae dae wi him really.
That’s one thing aboot Carl: eh eywis backs everybody up.
— Ah saw um oan the telly, walkin roond that pitch wi a big, daft grin oan ehs face. Perr Alice must’ve been affronted, Mrs Ewart says, headin oaf intae the kitchen.
Mr Ewart shouts eftir her, — It wis aw a bit silly, but aw the boy wis daein wis laughin. Whin they make a law against that then wir right up the Swanee, eh says, but Mrs Ewart’s no responded.
Ah lowers ma voice n looks ower at him. — Did you ever git intae bother at fitba, Mr Ewart? ah goes. Ye kin say they kind ay things tae Carl’s faither, even though ah expect him tae say, ‘Dinnae be bloody cheeky, aw that sort ay thing didnae happen in ma day.’
Eh jist smiles at me and winks. — Aw aye, that’s always gone oan, eh sais, — youse think ye invented it aw, but yis dinnae ken the half ay it.