by Irvine Welsh
The Wheatsheaf
Gally’s a bit shaken, so ah take the cunt up the Wheatsheaf whaire ah hud half-arranged tae meet Alec. Birrell’s bloused oot tae keep fit fir ehs fight. Ah gie the cunt it tight, but good luck tae the boy. Eh’s good at it n aw, eh’s no a bad boxer. Ah dinnae think eh’s as good as every cunt’s makin oot mind, they aw git cairried away wi this ‘local hero’ shite. Ye cannae say that though; every cunt just thinks it’s jealousy. But good luck tae um.
Gally n Alec, what a pair. Gally starts oan aboot the wee lassie, then Gail, then Heid-The-Baw, the Polmont cunt, n Alec’s greetin intae ehs beer aboot ehs wife that died n that fire, n how ehs son disnae talk tae um. Sad, but it wis yonks ago now, n eh wants tae try n screw the nut a bit. Thir’s no much ah kin say tae either ay thum. Some fuckin drink this hus turned oot tae be. — C’moan boys, wir huvin a wee bevvy here!
They both look at me like ah’ve suggested a spot ay fuckin child molestin.
We end up at Alec’s wi a cairry-oot but the night continues in the same depressin wey for a bit; Gally n Alec giein it aw that ‘we’ve fucked up everything’ shite.
It really did fuck perr Gally’s heid when Gail told him she was shagging Polmont. That she was leaving him, for Polmont, of all people. Anybody else in the fuckin world. They fought, n Gail was the same size as Gally, n ah dunno whae ah’d’ve pit ma money oan there.
Ah mind us talkin aboot it eftir. Ewart sais that Gally wis wrong to hit Gail, no matter what. Billy said nowt. So ah asks Carl if Gail was right to hit Gally. Then it wis his turn tae say nowt. And now Gally’s recountin it all, what happened that night, aw fir the benefit ay Alec, whae’s loast in ehs ain misery. — Ah shouted at her, then she did back at me. We battered each other. She struck the first blow. Ah loast it, ah hud her by the hair. Then Jacqueline had ran through from the bedroom to stop her mummy and daddy hurting each other. Gally coughed, looked at Alec. — Gail hud her hands roond ma throat. Ah lit go ah her hair, and made a fist, drawing back ma arm tae punch her. Ma elbaw hit Jacqueline in the face, broke her cheekbone like it was the frame ay some . . . small mammal. Ah didnae ken she’d come intae the room. Ah couldnae look at ehr smashed, battered wee face. Gail called the ambulance, the cops and ah was back in the jail.
— This is fuckin cheerful, ah say.
— Ah’m sorry . . . sorry tae be a drag. Fuck Gail n that cunt, eh goes. Eftir a long pause where wir aw sittin like spare pricks, eh gets another set ay beers fae the fridge. Ah go tae pit oan some music. Alec’s goat an extensive record collection awright, the trouble is, it’s a Daily Record collection: auld issues lyin aroond everywhaire. Ah find a Dean Martin tape which is aboot the only thing listenable. Eventually the bevvy kicks in and they feel thir sorrows flushin away. Ye never drown the sorrows though, ye jist submerge the cunts till the next day.
Eventually Alec crashes. This gaff ay his is like the land that time forgoat. The Sunhoose fire wi the wee twirly bits in the veneered teak surrounds has seen better days. That cairpit’s so worn and impregnated wi years ay shite ye could skate acroass it like it wis Murrayfield Ice Rink. Thir’s a big cracked mirror oan the waw, in one ay they fancy imitation gold frames. The maist depressin sight is the crumpled photaes ay faimlay in the frames oan the mantelpiece n telly. They look like thuv been hand-crushed in an alcoholic fit, then lovingly restored the next day in sober self-loathin. Auld clathes are piled ower the back ay the couch which is covered in fag burns and burst springs hing oot fae the underside ay it. The air smells ay fags, stale beer and auld fried grub. Apart for oor cans, n a mouldy piece ay cheese, the fridge is empty and the rubbish spills fae an overflowin bin oantae the lino. Fuck Glesgay wi its European City ay Culture shite, thir’s a loat mair culture oan Alec’s plates, aw piled intae the sink, covered in green mould and black slime. Eh’s been oan some bender right enough.
The next day Gally’s away and ah wake up wi a thick heid. Eh might jist be doon the shoaps fir fags. Anywey, ah’m no stickin aroond tae see they cunts gittin intae that orgy ay self-hate. It’s time tae git oot before ah’m dragged oan another maudlin session wi Alec.
Ah’m oan the bus and Chesser’s passin by. Ah’ve goat some fuckin root oan, and ah’ve no even seen any fanny. Ah start tae feel a bit Zorba the Greek, buses dae that tae ays sometimes. So ah decide tae spring oaf n walk back across the park tae git some air. Sniffin ma airmpits ay decide that the fresh sweats ur okay.
Thir’s a few games gaun oan; a team in blue are tearin up another in gold and black. They look aboot ten years younger and five times fitter than the gold-and-black boys. Ah move ower, passin through the swing park, n ah stoap because somebody looks familiar.
She’s goat the bairn oan the roundabout, and she’s keepin an eye oan her, but she’s deep in thought. Ah slips up alongside her, feelin this stirrin ah nivir fail tae git when ah’m close tae her. — Aye, aye, ah goes.
She turns and looks at ays slowly, her eyes tired, no hostile, no approving. — Terry, she says wearily.
— Some performance yesterday, eh.
She wraps her airms roond herself and looks at ays n sais, — Ah dinnae want tae talk aboot him . . . or the other yin, nane ay them.
— Suits me, ah smile, takin a step closer. The wee yin’s still playin oan the roundabout.
She doesnae say nowt.
Ah’m thinkin aboot how she looked the day. It’s been a while, a good four or five years. When Gally went inside again, then eftir ah did that wee bit ay time. Her n me . . . we were eywis a dirty pair ay cunts thegither. Thir’s eywis been something . . . ah jist feel the slow tickle n my cock and words comin oot ay ma mooth. — What ye daein the night then? Youse oot paintin the toon rid?
She looks at ays in a wey that says, aye, here we go again, playin our daft game. — Nup. He’s away up tae Sullum Voe for a fortnight.
— Still, it’s aw money though, eh, ah shrug, wi anything but money oan ma mind. We both ken this bullshit backwards.
She just smiles in quite a sad wey, lettin me ken that it’s no aw hunky-dory wi them, and giein me the room tae make ma move.
— Well, if ye kin git rid ay the bairn, ah widnae mind takin ye oot the night, ah tell her.
That gits her dander up a bit and she starts lookin ays up n doon.
— Ah’ll be a perfect gentleman, ah tell her.
So ah gits this humourless smile back offay her that could crack a fuckin plate, — Ah’m no comin then, she says, n she’s no fuckin jokin n aw.
That puts me right oan the spot awright. Why the fuck am ah gittin back intae this? It’s aw gaun sae well wi me n Viv. It’s that post-hangover root. Too much blood that should be in the heid gaun tae the cock, makin ye aw daft, makin ye say things ye shouldnae fuckin well say. But what dae ye say, what dae ye dae? When confused, ye always revert tae type. If in doubt flatter. — Well, ah’ll try ma best tae keep tae they good intentions, but ah’m sure ah’ll be powerless tae resist your charms. They’ve nivir failed ays yit.
That suits her, ye kin tell by the dilation ay the pupils n the twisted smile across her mooth. They lips. She eywis wis a first-class gam; could sook tadger for Scotland. Could sook it for Brazil, nivir mind fuckin Scotland. — Come doon at eight, she says, gaun aw that coy way, like a wee lassie, which is fuckin ridic if ye ken the history. History’s the last thing oan ma mind now but.
— Eight it is.
So that’s me wi a hot date. Ah feel like a right bad bastard, but ah ken that ah’ll be thaire. Ah head off, leavin her wi the bairn, whae’s still playin away.
Don’t think wee Jacqueline even saw ays.
As ah go ah look back at aw the other young mas thaire, wonderin if they aw go like her. Mibbe some ay thaim uv goat men away workin, blissfully unaware that some wideo’s cleanin thir missus’s pipe while the daft cunt’s pittin in the graft tae bring hame the breed. A few ay they birds thaire’ll be in the same boat, that’s fir certain. Sittin in parks n hooses n shoaps wi a couple ay bairns aw day cannae be what every bird’s intae.
Fuck waitin oan some exhausted, clapped-oot cunt comin hame, whae probably disnae even fancy ye anymair n whae’s jist tryin tae fire intae some other piece aw day at ehs work.
Thir’s some women here that are ages wi lassies that are dancin aw night in fields and warehooses, travellin up and doon the country, huvin the time ay thir lives. These perr cows must want some ay that: some good-lookin skinny young cunt, wi a big cock n nae worries whae kin fuck aw night, tellin them that they’re the maist beautiful thing they’ve ever seen, and meanin it n aw. Aye, wi aw want tae huv oor cake n eat it; we aw want the money, the fun, the fuckin loat. And why the fuck no? It’s the spice ay life. How they expect fanny tae be different fae cock in this day n age is beyond me.
Ah pass through the park gates, n the main road stretches ahead. The scheme’s strugglin, well this side ay it is. The other side ay the road wi the aulder hooses that us in the flats once thought wir slums, well it’s thrivin ower thair awright. They’ve goat it aw, new windaes n doors n neat, tidy gairdins. Ower here in the maisonettes that nae cunt wants tae buy, everything’s jist fawin tae bits.
Ah decide that ah cannae face gaun hame. The auld lady’s been as nippy as fuck since ah moved back in and Vivian willnae be hame fae her work yet. Ma guts ur settlin but the heid’s a wee bit nippy. Ah opt for an Evening News and a beer in The Busy. It’s no livin up tae its name but, empty apart fae Carl n Topsy oan the pool, Soft Johnny oan the fruit machine and this cunt called Tidy Wilson, a fifty-five-year-auld Pringle-jersey’d cunt at the bar. Ah pass the nods roond n take up ma stance. It’s funny seein our Mr Ewart doon the scheme, eh doesnae come here that often now, no wi his flat in toon n wi his ma n dad huvin moved away tae somewhaire snobby.
Carl’s ower n slaps ays oan the back. Eh’s goat a big smile oan ehs face. Cunt kin be a bit fill ay ehsel sometimes, especially now that eh’s daein this Fluid club, but ah lap the fucker up really. — Awright Mr Lawson, eh goes.
— No bad, ah shake ehs hand, then grip Topsy’s. — Mr Turvey, ah goes.
— Tez, Topsy winks. Eh’s a bouncy, skinny, fidgety daft laddie, eywis seems a bit young fir ehs age but eh’s as game as fuck. Was a top Hearts boy for a bit until thir auld mob evaporated when the Hibs cashies took over the toon. Topsy took a sair one offay that Lexo, eh wis nivir the same eftir. Always liked the cunt but, old-school sort ay boy. Bit ay a Nazi mind you, that’s how eh goat our Mr Ewart intae that trouble. But Carl thinks the sun shines oot ay Topsy’s erse though, always been as tight as fuck they two. A funny pairin but, Mr Ewart and Mr Turvey.
— So what brings you slummin it doon here then, Carl? ah goes.
— Checkin up oan you, ya cunt, makin sure thit yir still oan fir the Munich Beer Festival.
— Ah’ll be thaire, dinnae worry about that. Birrell’s oan the firm n aw. The cunt tae bother aboot is Gally.
— Aye? Carl goes, aw concerned.
So ah tell them the story ay what happened the other day. Aboot how weird Gally’s been lately.
— Reckon eh’s back oan the gear? Carl’s askin. Eh worries aboot wee Gally. It’s daft, but ah do n aw. Eh’s one ay the gamest wee cunts that ye could hope tae meet, but thir’s eywis been something vulnerable aboot him. The likes ay Ewart, Birrell n Topsy, ye ken they’ll eywis be awright, but sometimes ye worry aboot Gally.
— Better fuckin no be. Ah’m no gaun oan fuckin hoaliday wi a fuckin junkie. Fuck that.
Topsy looks at Carl, then at me. — Serves um right in a wey, that fuckin Gail . . . a hingoot, eh goes. — Ah mean, ah fuckin rode her silly back in the day, every cunt did, but ye dinnae mairray some cow like that.
— Fuck off, ya cunt, Carl says. — What’s wrong wi a bird that likes a bit ay cock? It’s the fuckin nineties.
— Aye, Topsy goes, — fair enough, but whin ye git mairried, ye want tae ken that she’s changed her weys. N she didnae, eh said, giein me a wee glance.
Ah’m keepin shtoom. Topsy’s oan a wind-up, but the cunt does huv a point. Gail is jist ridin material, but ah suppose back then that wis aw Gally wanted when eh came oot ay the Y.O.’s nick wi that cherry still tae be popped. It’s easier tae criticise the Mars Bar supper fae Hampstead than fae Ethiopia. Funny, it wis me that introduced thum n aw. Goat thum thegither, when Gally came oot the nick. Ah thoat ah wis bein Cupid at the time, well, fixin Gally up wi a ride anywey.
Sometimes ye cannae help it if yir best mate’s a mug.
The Persistence of Shagging Problems
Guilt and shaggin, they go thegither like fish n chips. Guilt and good shaggin. In Scotland ye goat Catholic guilt and Calvinist guilt. Maybe that’s why Ecstasy really took oaf here. Ah talked tae Carl aboot this in the pub and the cunt went oan aboot illicit pleasure eywis bein the best. N it’s true. For me the problem’s eywis been loyalty. Love n sex have nivir been the same things wi ays and maist boys’ll tell ye that, but choose tae live a lie. Then it aw comes oot n the big problems start. As they say, denial isnae jist a fuckin river in Egypt.
Vivvy’s a right wee cracker, and ah am in love wi her. Muh Ma hates her, blames her for me n Lucy splittin up. That isnae really fair at aw. She’s jist nippy cause ay the Kraut fuckin oaf. Good riddance tae bad rubbish. Aye, ah love Vivian, but what ah find is when ah’ve been wi a bird for aboot six months, ah start tae want tae ride other lassies again.
Ah cannae help the wey ah’m fuckin made. Sometimes but, whin ah see her lying by ma side eftir we’ve made love, dozin away softly, ah could nearly scream tae be made different.
But that’s nivir gaunny happen.
When ah gits back tae mine muh Ma’s ben the hoose n she’s goat the tea oan. — Awright, ah goes. Nae response. But she’s makin a racket in the kitchen, cupboard doors slammin, pots n pans rattlin, buildin up tae somethin. It’s in the air, as that spamy gadge says, ah kin feel it comin in thee air to-ni-hite . . . oh yeah . . .
And it’s fuckin salad, n it’s even boiled tatties instead ay chips. If thir’s one thing ah hate it’s fuckin salad. N she’s even pit beetroot oan it, stainin everything!
Ah’d jist hud a few wets wi Carl, Topsy n Soft Johnny. The auld girl kin smell it oan ays. Daytime drinkin really annoys her. The wey ah see it but, ye huv tae take yir pleasures whaire ye find the cunts.
— What’s up wi your face? she asks ays. — A nice healthy salad! Ye should be eatin mair greens. It’s no good fir ye jist livin offay fish suppers! Fish suppers n chinkies! That’s nae good tae man nor beast.
That gits me thinkin how ah could fuckin well handle some lemon chicken and egg-fried rice right now. Instead ay this shite. The lemon chicken doon the chinky’s eywis barry. — Ah dinnae like salad. It’s fuckin rabbit food.
— You start bringin in a proper wage then ye kin pick n choose what ye eat.
She’s goat a fuckin nerve. Ah try tae weigh her in every time ah’m flush. — That’s well out of order. Ah offered ye money last week, two hundred quid ah offered, n ye widnae fuckin take it!
— Aye, cause ah ken whaire it’s come fae! Ah ken whaire aw your money comes fae! she nips, as ah sit doon n eat this shite in silence, crammin it between two slices ay breed. Then she goes — Ah saw Lucy wi the wee felly the day. Up Wester Hailes centre. Wi went fir a coffee.
How fuckin cosy. — Aye?
— Aye. She telt ays you’ve no been tae see him fir a while.
— Whae’s fault’s that? Every time ah do go roond thaire ah git the cauld shoulder treatment fi her n that big gawky twat.
She goes aw quiet for a bit, then she says in a low voice, — N that other yin phoned. That Vivian.
Ah call Vivvy back, tellin her that ah forgot that ah’d arranged tae play in a snooker tourney, n thit wi’ll hook up the morn. N what that means is that fir the first time since we’ve been oot thegither, the first time since the World Cup in Italy, ah’m playin away fae hame.
Freedom of Choice
This nicotine problem’s gittin serious, the yellay stain oan ma finger is well set oaf by the white ay the bell buzzer. Ah poke
the wee button oan her door n it makes a right racket. Ah fair git a shock when ah see her. In the three ooirs since we met she’s gone blonde. Ah’m no that sure if it suits her, but the novelty ay it sets up the horn in ays. Fir the first time ah realise that she’s goat a really good tan n aw. They went tae Florida; her, the bairn n Heid-The-Baw.
— Hiya, she goes, checkin the hooses oan either side fir pryin eyes. — Moan in.
— Bairn at yir Ma’s? ah ask, steppin in.
— Ma sister’s.
Ah grin n wag ma finger. — If ah didnae ken you better ah wid think thit you hud planned tae seduce me.
— Whatever gave ye that idea, she says.
— The new image, ah like it . . . ah start, but she’s undaein the belt fae her jeans and pillin them doon and kickin them oaf. She’s pullin her toap oaf n aw.
Ah feel like tellin her tae cool her jets, cause ah wanted tae savour the build-up a bit. It might be the spice ay life, but spices huv tae be savoured oan the palate, no just wolfed right doon. She’s obviously wantin that lum swept really badly but, so fuck it, she kin call the shots. Ah starts gittin ma gear oaf n aw, suckin in that auld beer gut. It’s been some time since ah gied her the message, n the gut’s gittin a bit flabby.
— You goat a condom? she goes.
— Naw . . . ah said. Ah wis aboot tae say, ye nivir used tae be that fussy, but things’ve changed a lot since wi used tae fuck regularly. What dae ye say n what dae ye dae? Ah suppose the fact that Gally wis intae gear n aw that, it must make her think aboot things like that.
She heads through tae the kitchen. Thir’s a couple ay bags ay Safeways shoapin oan the worktops. Inside one ay them thir’s a packet ay condoms. She gies ays one n ah sticks it oan.
She turns, restin her elbaws oan the work toap and presenting her erse which has a distinct bikini tan line, fae that Florida hoaliday. Goat tae gie ehr her due, she kens how tae spend Heid-The-Baw’s dosh awright. She grabs one ay her buttocks. — Ye always liked ma erse. No think it’s startin tae git a bit flabby?