Glue

by Irvine Welsh

  KNOW OF A BENEFIT RIP-OFF?

  GIVE US A TELEPHONE TIP-OFF

  Thir wis a wee bit ay bother the last time ah wis here at one ay they things. They sent this fuckin wide cow tae sort ays oot, but it didnae work oot the wey the cunts had planned. She came in wi aw they particulars, tellin ays aboot this joab thit ah hud tae take or else they’d cut oaf ma benefit.

  The woman hud that stiff, brittle hair and she wore a print dress. Ehr nostrils wir twitchin in her beak tae see if she wis pickin up the scheme offay me; the fags, the beer, wherever the fucker’s prejudices took her.

  Ah looked over the particulars, then, in nae hurry, looked up at the woman. — Well, ah wis really lookin for full-time work, ah explained tae her.

  Gie her ehr due, she at least hud the good grace tae look a bit embarrassed as she explained, — This post is full-time, Mr Lawson, it’s eh, thirty-seven hours a week.

  — Mmmm . . . is thir nowt jist sellin aerated waters, ah ask her, — it’s jist thit ah’ve ey selt juice roond the hooses. Oaf the lorries, ken?

  — No Mr Lawson, she says coldly, — we’ve been through this a thousand times before. You can’t sell juice, as you call it, from the back of lorries any more. Soft drinks retail differently nowadays.

  — But how? ah ask, makin sure ah keep ma mooth a wee bit open eftir ah’ve asked the question.

  — Cause it’s easier for the consumer, she says aw snooty.

  Patronisin cow. Thick as fuck n aw. Didnae huv a fuckin scooby doo that ah wis jist stallin fir time. — Well it disnae make it easier fir the likes ay me. N thir’s people ah ken whae still ask ays tae this day, how is it thit thir’s nae juice bein selt roond the schemes . . . auld wifies thit cannae git oot n that.

  So wir gaun oan like that, but she’s no huvin it at aw. She tells me thit ah’ve goat tae take the joab in front ay ays n that’s that.

  Ah just couldnae afford it; it was as simple as that. It wis the time factor mair thin the money, even if the dosh wis a bad joke. Seventy-five pence an hour for fillin burgers? But the time wis worse; keepin ye in a burger shoap when ye could be oot makin real money. Ah’ve nae time for thon. Thirty-seven hours a week daein that shite? Fuck that.

  But ah hud tae take it. And, bein fair tae masel, ah did stick it fir two days. Me, workin away wi this wee gadgie, covered in plukes which wirnae gaunny git better very quick wi aw the grease aroond; servin burgers tae nippy drunks n daft students n housewives wi bairns, lookin like a muppet in this uniform.

  But no for long.

  Then there ah was oan Sunday evening, sittin in the pub ower the road fae the shoap. Aye, ah hud plenty witnesses tae say ah’d been thair aw night, and tae testify tae ma shock when auld George McCandles came in aw excited and telt us aw that the new burger shoap they’d opened up oan the Walk was oan fire. Sure enough, we heard the sirens wailin oan cue and we spilled out ontae the pavement, pints in hand, tae watch the fireworks.

  Beats the fuckin telly any time.

  The big surprise wis thit the polis didnae haul ays in right away. They wir oan the scene pretty quick n they clocked ays standin ootside the pub. — That’s ma work n aw, ah telt one copper, feignin outrage. — What am ah gaunny dae? Ralphie Stewart heard this and goes, — Aye Terry, it wid make ye take up a life ay crime, so it wid.

  So ah went in the next day, n the place wis gutted. The manager wis doon thaire wi a guy fae head office n some insurance boy. Eh telt us that the place wis closed n that wi should go back up tae the dole n sign back oan. So when ah goat up thaire, the auld cow made a loat ay they insinuations that time. The perr auld dragon, she ended up gittin it tight for oversteppin the mark. That’s the best approach; draw them in by playin the daft laddie, sittin thair n noddin away like the fuckin village idiot, then they git jist that wee bit too wide n cocky. That’s when ye lit the cunts huv it wi baith fuckin barrels. It’s that barry look ay shock oan thir coupons whin they see thit thuv been done, thit thir no jist messin wi any fuckin muppet who they kin short-change n who’ll jist take thir bullshit, thir dealin wi some real fuckin wideo wi an eye fir the main chance.

  So ah wis noddin away like a daft cunt n she’s gaun, — It’s funny, Mr Lawson, unable tae hide that she is fuckin beelin, — this is twice this has happened to places you’ve just started to work in.

  Bingo!

  Ah clicked intae second gear. Ah just sat up, and focused right oan her. Gie’d her that Birrell-before-the-bell look. — What are you on aboot, ah asked.

  — I was just saying . . . She started tae get aw flustered, that change in gaze, posture n tone ay voice.

  Ah looked at her, leaning across her desk. — Well, ah’m just saying that I’d like you to get your supervisor out here and repeat what you’ve said to me just now. I’m sure the police will also be interested in these allegations. Prior to that, of course, I’ll get in touch with my solicitor. Okay?

  She started exploding wi sweat, fart and slaver, her hert fuckin well gaun like the clappers and her big fat face flushin like a newly installed top-ay-the-range Armitage Shanks. — I . . . I . . .

  — Get him, ah smiled coldly, drummin in cheerful insistence on the desk, then added, — or her. If you please.

  So the supervisor wis sheepishly called; of course by this time the big fuckin cow has gone intae shock that what started oot as the routine harassment ay some dodgy cunt fae a scheme has flipped over intae the nightmare scenario. The disciplinary fuckin stain oan the otherwise exemplary record. Aye, n they type ay stains kin be stubborn fuckers n aw missus, yir Ariel n yir Daz urnae gaunny dae the biz here. The thing is, even if it’s just a verbal, the next promo board will say, ‘Yes, the fat cunt is maybe evil and warped enough to be a good DHSS supervisor, but she lacks the necessary customer care smarm. Consign the silly fucker tae routine mundane filing duties until the early retirement or redundancy opportunity presents itself.’

  So that fucker goat a dressin doon n ah goat a half-ersed letter ay apology:

  Dear Mr Lawson,

  I am writing to apologise on behalf of the Dept of Employment regarding comments that were allegedly made to yourself by one of our officers. It is accepted that the alleged comments were inappropriate to the investigation of your case, and may have been misconstrued.

  Rest assured that the matter is being dealt with internally in the appropriate manner.

  Yours sincerely,

  RJ Miller

  Manager.

  America, that would be the place fir me. Any cunt gits wide thair, they slap a fuckin lawsuit up thir erse, or up their goddamn ass, as they Shermans pit it. What dae ye get here fir being abused by they official cunts? A half-herted apology which makes nae sense. Alleged comments ma fuckin hole. Even wi ma Edinburgh School Leavers Certificate ah ken shite English when ah see it. Naw, the Yanks wid huv it aw worked oot. It’s aw aboot rights thair, nane ay that class-system shite like here. They’d pit fuckin snobby auld tarts like that right in thir place. Too right hen; stick a few fuckin bools in yir mooth n think ye kin gie that dry auld fanny ay yours a wee frig under the table cause ye see a boy wi a scheme address comin in. Ye think ahm gaunny play the subject in your wee domination game?

  Nein, mein schwester, nein, cause ich bin ein Municher soon. So jist youse keep the auld civil tongue in yir heid, cause yir up against an international man ay the world here.

  Italia ’90, shaggin fir Scotland. Be the same in Munich. Guaranteed.

  One thing ah wis right aboot though: the polis wirnae interested. Ah’m surprised they didnae go right tae Birrell’s hoose, wi his rep for startin fires. No now but, as eh said tae that boy in the News when they exposed the cunt’s arson convictions, ‘the only fires I start these days are in the ring.’

  See the dole the day but; well, credit whair it’s due. Ah’ve goat tae fuckin well hand it tae the cunts, lessons have been learnt. Firstly, it’s a tidy bird oan the counter that calls ays up intae her booth and second, she’s much cooler, it’s the softly-softly approach.

  �
�� This is the third time that’s happened to me, ah explain, tryin tae keep a smirk oaf ma face. — The last place ah started in only went n caught fire. The one before it hud tae shut wi flood damage. Ah’m starting tae think ah’m cursed!

  The flood damage one wis for Italia ’90 back in the summer thaire. Aye, ah’m really gaunny sit in a piazza n Rome, surrounded by fine vino and grade-A fanny when ah could be workin in the blazin hoat kitchen ay a restaurant at the beck n call ay some rid-faced frustrated alko art-school reject called a chef, and at the height ay summer, for twenty pence a week.

  Aye, right. Why did ah no think ay that yin?

  But this wee yin here oan the desk jist smiles back at ays. Aye, this lassie’s cool awright. As her eyes go tae the forms ah’m gittin a deek ay her tits, but surprisingly she’s no that well-stocked in that department. It’s funny, but she looks like she should huv a good bit ay tit oan her. It’s the smile, n the kind ay confidence, that fuckin vivaciousness. Still, it takes aw sorts, n ah widnae say no if it wis pit in front ay ays oan a plate, ah’ll tell yis that fir nowt. Yuv goat tae, it’s the spice ay life, that’s what ah eywis say.

  This lassie’s as sweet as an unexpected tax rebate. We agree thit ah’ll jist huv tae keep up the good fight until they kin send ays along tae dae something suitable. — It wis whin the juice lorries finished, that’s what snookered me, ah explained tae her.

  It did n aw; eftir that ah changed ma line ay work.

  Speakin ay which, it’s time tae see Uncle Alec, cause thir’s real work tae dae. Ah’ve yet tae meet a cunt that goat rich fillin burgers.

  Domestics

  Ah call Alec ‘Uncle Alec’ as a joke, cause ah goat tae ken the auld cunt yonks ago when ah wis shaggin ehs niece. So ah step intae the Western Bar n eh’s thaire, watchin the go-go but no really watchin ehr if ye ken whit ah mean. Ah’ve never been intae the go-go’s masel; ah like tae see birds gittin thir kit oaf whin thir wantin shagged, no jist whin thir wantin tae dance. The whole thing seems a bit too remote tae me. No enough fuckin romance. But that’s jist me.

  Eh’s standin at the bar wi ehs Daily Express oot. That’s how auld-school that cunt is; a remnant fae the time when the Express hud the best racin section. Nae cunt buys it now. Ehs eyes move fae the racin form, tae the go-go’s form. — Alec, ah goes, pushin through tae the auld fucker.

  — Terry . . . eh slurs. The cunt’s half-pished again. — What ye wantin?

  Ah look aroond the cramped bar. Too many pryin eyes aroond here. Ye kin jist see that pished auld cunt now, shoutin in ma ears aboot this joab eh’s sorted oot, then the music stoaps n the whole bar kens what yir up tae. Naw. It’s startin tae worry me thit ah’m the one that’s huvin tae dae mair n mair ay the thinkin fir the both ay us. And it’s aw aboot basics n aw, that’s what gits oan ma nerves, it’s aw aboot fuckin basics, basics that cunt should be aware ay. — Naw, lit’s take a walk doon tae Ryrie’s.

  — Awright . . . eh goes, finishin ehs pint, and follayin me oot the door.

  So wir paddin the hoof doon through Tollcross and along Morrison Street, n ah’m pickin up pace cause thir seems tae be a nice, tight erse ahead.

  Yes . . . fuckin wee doll. Short skirt, barry thighs.

  Alec’s puffin and huffin cause eh cannae keep up wi ays. — Hud oan, Terry, whaire’s the fuckin fire?

  — Doon below, ah say, pattin ma groin, n noddin ahead.

  Alec hacks up some green n yellay phlegm n coughs it intae the gutter withoot brekin a stride.

  — Ye can only git a good idea ay the bum by checkin the thighs, ah’m tryin tae explain tae the cunt as we’re bouncin doon the street behind this cute erse n long hair. Of course, it’s a waste ay time tryin tae explain this tae a jakey whae husnae hud a ride in years, naw decades, n whae’d walk ower a crowd ay naked supermodels tae get tae a tin of Tennent’s Super, but there ye go.

  The point ah wis tryin tae make, hud eh been receptive, wis that some punters see an erse oan a bird and go, phoah, nice erse, but that’s jist amateurs. The point is they only see the erse. The pro always checks the thighs (and the waist) and how they relate tae the erse. That wey ye kin gauge the whole bird. Any cunt can huv a nice erse, two buttocks, but how does that fit wi the rest ay it?

  Well, in this case fuckin good. The thighs are shapely and firm, thick enough tae suggest power and tae display the erse but no big enough tae dominate it or pit it in the shade. Good thighs should display an erse, tae its best advantage. Every trophy needs a decent plinth. Spice ay life.

  Alec’s mind is elsewhere. — It’s a tidy gaff, eh explains breathlessly, referrin tae the doss wir gaunny dae ower next week, the big hoose up the Grange. — The security’s piss-poor . . . the boy’s a professor at the Uni . . . the cunt’s written a book oan the new security state in Britain. Says private-security firms run by gangsters are takin ower fae law n order . . . so the cunt doesnae huv any alarms or fuck all . . . cryin oot tae be done . . . hud oan, Terry!

  Cryin oot tae be done, eh sais. No half, ah’m thinkin, but the bird turns doon the side street and heads up the hill.

  That wis the Tories’ biggest achievement: tae make huvin principles cost ye. Private health care, cooncil-hoose sales, mortgages, floggin the nationalised industries, if ye dinnae join in and tow the line yir a mug, even if aw thir daein is helpin them tae stick thir hand in yir poakit fir the rest ay yir puff. Bit yir that chuffed wi yir wee bit ay paper n yir wee piece ay plastic ye cannae see it. Aye, principles cost. Well, thir gaunny cost this cunt dear enough soon, and his insurance, if eh’s goat any, that’s guaranteed.

  — . . . faimlay’s away tae Tuscany fir two weeks so it’s all systems go, eh gasps, as we stroll intae Ryrie’s and order a pint for me and a half n half for him. Alec’s face is flushed even mair thin usual as eh nods tae ehs cronies. First exercise the cunt’s probably hud in years.

  — Whaire’s that?

  — Italy, eh says, lookin at me as if ah’m a radge. — Thoat you wir no long back fae thaire! Eh nods as eh slides doon a wee gold yin.

  Well, thir widnae be any World Cup games thaire n besides, ah wis eywis shite at geography back at the school. Ah ken how tae git tae the Grange awright, n back tae oor lock-up at Sighthill n that does ays fine, thank you.

  Italy was barry but, the World Cup. The standard ay fanny wis superb, particularly the young birds. They fair seem tae pit oan the beef as soon as they’ve goat the ring oan thir finger but; like that auld Benny Hill sketch. What’s aw that aboot?

  Alec’s dented the half n goat another round up, even if ma pint’s barely an inch doon. Eh’s the best housebreaker in the business, or eh used tae be. Now it’s a struggle tae keep um straight. Ye dinnae want any cunt fuckin up oan the joab. So it’s no that ah dinnae trust the cunt, just that ah fancy headin up tae the Grange tae check it aw oot tae ma ain satisfaction. Ah cannae tell that auld fucker this though; eh’d git as nippy as fuck. Ah’m still the young apprentice tae him, n ah eywis will be, but eftir another pint ah make ma excuse and take a fast black up thaire.

  Home on the Grange

  It’s pissin doon up the Grange, n ah stand under a big elm tree, one ay the cunts that survived the plague ay Dutch Elm disease that hit here a few years ago. That’s fuckin Edinburgh fir ye, even the fuckin trees’ve goat thir ain epidemic. Surprised the Weedgies didnae make mair oot ay that. Still, ah’m gled ay this cunt’s cover cause it soon rains oot tae a misty shower. The backstreets here are weird, aw guest hooses. Ah dinnae like this; too much to-ing and fro-ing. Our street’s mair residential though, but ah dinnae stoap too long. Casin this area, ah kin feel the curtains twitchin oan schemie alert every time ah step oaf one ay the main roads. Aye, the gaff looks quite secluded, but it’s crazy gaun too near it in this state ay paranoia. Mibbe head back up later oan when it’s darker.

  Ah’m walkin doon taewards the bus stoap when ah sense this car pullin up alongside ays.

  It’s the fuckin polis. Guaranteed.

  Fuck.

  Ah hear some cunt
shout ma name n announce themselves as Labdicks n ah nearly jump oot ma skin but ah stey cool n turn slowly n and it’s fuckin Birrell, in ehs motor. So ah gits in, gled ay the lift, cause it’s sterted tae pelt doon again. Birrell’s hair’s gittin quite long for him, it’s damp n it’s sterted tae lie oan the scalp. The motor smells like a tart’s bedroom, aw aftershaves, mooses n gels. Sporty cunts are the biggest closet poofs under the sun. N ah dinnae really think that birds go fir that tartyness in a man. They prefer the mair natural boady smells, real birds anywey. Ah suppose the kind that Birrell’s intae, but; these prissy wee anorexic tarts wi expensive clathes and soor faces that wid split in two if they hud a decent fuckin length up thum, they probably lap up that shite.

  So we huv a blether aboot Italy n start lookin forward tae Munich in October, no that thir’ll be anything for me tae look forward tae if this joab disnae come oaf.

  When wi gits back doon oor bit, jist at the shoaps, we’re ready tae pill intae the scheme when ah clocks Gail wi the bairn. Then ah looks up the road n thaire’s fuckin Heid-The-Baw n wee Gally, squarin up tae each other!

  Ya cunt ye!

  Wee Gally looks aw cocky n Heid-The-Baw’s well upset. — Billy, stoap here, look, ower at the shoaps, ah tell um.

  Birrell does a barry Miami Vice-style halt n reverse n we’re straight oot the car. Billy shouts ower n Gally turns tae us. Heid-The-Baw’s straight doon the fuckin road as if ehs life depended oan it. It does n aw; that cunt’s gittin his. No that Gally or anybody else wid need any help wi that wanker.