by Irvine Welsh
Ya beauty!
That Marcia says something in German tae him, then she puts oan this dead false smile and turns tae us. — You are on holiday, and you are not wanting to be tied down to us, she goes.
— Naw, ah goes, — it’s been great, honest. Youse are the nicest people we’ve met, ah say, aw stoned. — Eh Gally?
— Aye, n no jist here. Wherever we’ve been, eh coos, lookin starstruck at Gudrun n Elsa. — N that’s gen.
Ah look ower at Birrell, who’s sayin nowt as usual. — If it’s no problem wi youse it would be great, ah goes.
— Then it is settled, Wolfgang goes, lookin curtly at Marcia, as if tae say, This is ma folks gaff, mind?
— Magic, Gally says, nae doubt thinkin ay the dosh he’ll save.
Billy’s lookin mumpy but. — We’ve jist went n goat settled. N thir’s Terry tae think aboot.
— Right . . . ah wis tryin tae forget that cunt . . . ah turns tae Wolfgang n Marcia. — It’s really kind ay ye, and we’d be delighted tae stey wi youse. There’s another one of us though, ah explains.
— One more is no problem, Wolfgang says.
Marcia makes nae attempt tae hide her exasperation. She blaws oot some air and heads away, hands flying, talking in German, slamming the door behind her. Wolfgang gives us a couldnae-care-less look accompanied by a stoned shrug. — She is just a little uptight on this day.
Gretchen looks at Wolfgang mischievously, — Wolfgang, you must be for giving her more sex.
Wolfgang, completely cool, goes, — I am trying but maybe I am smoking too much dope to be very good at the fucking.
Everybody starts hee-hawing in stoned laughter, well almost everybody. Birrell manages a slight smile for a few seconds. What an impression tae gie cunts ay Scottish people. Still, it just makes me n Gally try aw the harder.
— Brilliant! Deutschland Über Alles, ah goes, raisin ma bottle. Everybody but Birrell toasts, n eh shoots me that boxer’s look, which is useless through this stoned haze.
We’re aw fucked though, and ready tae turn in. Rolf and lassies leave and Gally’s giein them the eyebrow as they depart. — See yis the morn, girls, eh slurs. Birrell seems edgy, probably the fight, but eh gets up and does ehs handshaking routine again.
We get our billets. Birrell n Gally go into this one room. It’s a boys’ room wi two beds. Ah’m next door in the wee lassies’ room, and it seems like I’m gonnae be sharing with Terry, as thir’s two single beds. Gas mask time. Ah pick the bed nearest the windae and slip oaf ma clathes and slide under the sheets. They’re that fresh and clean, ye’d be scared tae even huv a wank n them. Ah can imagine that Marcia just like them; aw stiff and cool. Ah’m even gittin worried aboot sweatin, fir fuck sakes. Ah mind ay thinkin in they hotels that it’s a long time since ah’ve slept in a bed wi sheets n blankets rather thin a duvet. Now ah’m in another yin. Wi ma luck, ah’ll be spunkin the sheets right up wi a technicolor wet dream.
Even though ah feel a wee bit like one ay they cunts in a haunted-hoose horror movie, ah’m totally fucked n ah drift oaf intae a deep sleep.
And here ah ahm in the dock and thir aw thaire, accusing ays, pointin the finger. Juice Terry’s standin up, lookin ower tae the prosecutor, who looks like McLaren, the manager ay hud whin ah worked in the furniture manufacturing warehoose. The cunt who accused ays ay bein a fascist cause ay that daft salute that appeared in the Record when we wound the photographer boy up ootside The Tree, pretendin we wir John Cleese oot ay Fawlty Towers.
Terry’ll pit the cunts right aboot ays.
— Carl Ewart . . . I can’t defend his behaviour, eh shrugs. — We’ve all made mistakes in the past, but for Ewart to publicly align himself to a regime which practised genocide on a systematic scale . . . it’s frankly unforgivable.
Birrell gits up. — I would ask that the full penalty of this war crimes commission be visited upon the Jambo cunt, eh sneers, before turning tae me and whispering, — Sorry, Carl.
There’s a faint noise comin fae the gallery . . .
Then the judge comes intae ma vision. It’s fuckin Blackie n aw, the housemaster fae the school . . .
The noise is gittin louder though. Blackie bangs ehs hammer oan the desk.
Then Gally gits up, and eh’s ower beside ays in the dock. — Fuck aw youse cunts, eh shouts, — Carl’s fuckin sound! Who the fuck ur youse cunts tae judge anybody? WHO THE FUCKIN HELL ARE YOUSE!?!
N ah kin see Terry n Billy changin thir minds now, n the chant’s gaun up, n we’re aw standin thegither. Thir’s a mob ay faces fae the gallery, Hibs n Herts n Rangers n Aberdeen n wir aw singin WHO THE FUCKIN HELL ARE YOU at the bench and first thir lookin angry, then worried, then thir retreatin; the judges, the teachers, the bosses, the councillors, the politicians, the businessmen . . . thir aw runnin oot the court . . . Blackie’s the last tae go . . . — Do you see the mentality of this scum, eh shouts, but it’s drooned oot by oor laughter . . .
. . . fuckin brilliant dream . . . the best one ah’ve hud. Ah wake up but, burstin fir a pish.
Ah get up and go oot intae the hallway. It’s as dark as fuck. Muh bladder’s burstin n ah cannae find a bog. Ah cannae even find a fuckin light, cannae work oot where ah’m gaun. Ah runs ma hand along this waw until it hits a door frame, and the door itself is slightly ajar so ah slide through the space intae the room. It’s no a bog though, ah ken that much, though ah kin hardly make oot anything . . .
Oooohhhfuckincuntthatyeare ah’m gaunny pass oot n pish masel . . .
Then ah nearly trips ower something oan the flair n ah think ah’m definitely ruptured now, but ah grit ma teeth, crouch doon n see that it’s a bag ay some kind. Ah pills ma pants away fae ma cock, baws n achin bladder n ah jist pish n pish n pish intae it, n ah hope thit it’ll no seep oot bit the bag seems waterproof. Ah dunno what’s in it, but fuckin hell . . . aw . . . fuck orgasms and drug highs, this is the best feelin in the world, tae have this pain taken away!
Ah finish in grateful relief as the pain subsides n the room comes mair intae definition. Thir’s two beds wi some cunts fast asleep in them. Ah dinnae stoap tae find oot whae it is, ah nip swiftly and silently back oot and intae ma ain room n git under the sheets n ah’m back in the land ay nod in nae time.
Contingency Planning
Ah gits up in the mornin and immediately clock thit the bog wis right next door oan the other side, bit ah fuckin missed it. So fuckin what, unless you’re caught red-handed, fingers in the till, you have tae deny aw knowledge. The shower’s excellent and high-tech for such an auld gaff n ah stey under it for a long time, littin the jets pummel ays awake, then ah dry off and git dressed then head doonstairs. Gally’s already up, sittin oot oan the patio overlookin a big gairdin. It’s a misty mornin though n wi cannae see much. Thir’s nae sign ay Birrell yet. — Good morning Mr Galloway, ah goes, Morningside tea-room style.
— Mr Ewart! eh goes back in the same voice, the cunt seems on the up again, — how goes it, my fine fellow? How’s the capital gadgie this morning?
— Excellent Mr G. Whaire’s Secret Squirrel? What’s happened tae the big fit sportsman then? Eh’s no still goat the hump wi us for sortin um oot some free digs, hus eh? ah laughs. — Thoat he’d be up in the trees lookin fir nuts.
— Playin wi ehs nuts in ehs fuckin scratcher ah bet, the lazy cunt, Gally laughs. — Couldnae wake the fucker up. Some sportsman!
Ah starts tae tell Gally aboot ma dream.
Dreams are funny cunts, nae doubt aboot that. Ah’ve read a lot about them, from pop psychology tae Freud, but naebody kens for sure. That’s what ah hate most aboot the world. Too many twats sayin this is how it is. This is how it is for thaim, they mean. Where’s the fuckin doubt? Where’s the fuckin humility in the face ay the wondrous complexity ay this great cosmic universe?
— Sounds a load ay shite tae me, eh laughs, but ah think eh’s chuffed thit he came oot the best in it.
— But you must huv some weird dreams n aw ya cunt, ah sais tae um as Billy comes out ontae the ba
lcony.
Gally shakes ehs heid. — Naw, ah nivir dream, eh goes. Billy’s lookin really angry n eh’s hudin up a wet tracksuit.
Ah decide tae tactically ignore Billy for a bit. Gally husnae seen um yit. What Gally says sounds like a load ay shite tae me. Every cunt dreams. — Ye must fuckin dream Gally, ye jist cannae mind ay it, mibbe cause yir a deep sleeper n that, ah tell um.
— Nup. Ah’ve nivir dreamt, eh sais, shakin ehs held. The cunt’s huvin nane ay it.
— Even as a wee laddie?
— No since ah wis a kid.
— What did ye dream ay then?
— Ah cannae mind, jist daft stuff, eh goes, lookin ower the gairdin as the mist starts tae clear.
Billy’s carrying the soaking wet tracksuit n runnin shoes by his fingertips, hudin them oot fae him. Eh’s goat this sportsbag turned inside oot. Eh wrings them oot for a bit. Eh’s looking well nippy as eh hings the drippin tracksuit ower the balcony. Ah feel masel shrinkin doon in the seat.
— Galloway, did you pish oan ma tracksuit last night?
— What’s aw this, Billy? Gally asks.
Billy wrings oot the legs ay the tracky bottoms again. — Ah hud tae wash oot aw the runnin clathes in ma bag. They wir soaked n they wir boggin, it wis like some cunt hud pished ower thum, eh sais, lowering ehs voice. — It’ll be that cat through thair, that filthy bag ay shite. This is brutal. If it comes near me it’s gittin tanned, ah’ll tell yis that for nowt.
— We’re enjoyin thir hospitality, Gally goes. — Dinnae start gittin aw wide wi folk, Billy.
— Ah’m no gittin wide wi anybody. Ye’d ken aw aboot it if ah wis gittin wide. Ma fuckin tracky . . . it’s fuckin desperate.
— N we’ll have tae pey them back, huv thaim ower tae Edinburgh, ah goes.
Gally goes, — Aye, tae the scheme. Thi’ll fuckin well lap that up, right enough.
— Naw, ah goes. — Ah’ve goat ma gaff, Billy’s goat his. Thir’ll be plenty room.
— Aw aye, you n Billy’ve goat yir nice city pads. How could ah forget that? eh sneers. — And I did not piss oan yir precious fuckin tracksuit, eh turns tae Billy. Ah jist raise ma eyes, Billy does n aw. This isnae like Gally.
— Fuckin hell, ah goes, — you two’ve goat right oot ay the wrong side ay bed this mornin. Ah’m almost lookin forward tae seein Juice Terry again.
Wolfgang and Marcia come through. They’ve goat some breakfast thegither ben the kitchen. — Good morning my friends . . . how are you? Wolfgang goes.
— Jist keep that cat oot ma road, Billy sais.
— I am sorry . . . what has happened?
Gally tells him the story.
— I am sorry, he repeats.
— So ye should be, Birrell goes. Gally nudges him. — Well, ma tracksuit . . . I’ve goat tae keep trainin, Gally. Ah need tae dae at least five miles a day.
We get our breakfast and agree that we’ll stay for the week. To be quite frank, Gally and I were embarrassed by Birrell’s moaning, thinking that he would be the last yin tae let the side doon. We head out back tae the hotel to get our bags. Gally and I open the door on Terry’s room, and he’s lying on the bed channel-hopping, but he seems furtive before he sees it’s us.
— Disturb ye huvin a wank thaire, Tezzo? ah asks.
A delicious smile plays across the cunt’s mooth as eh raises ehs eyebrows. — Some ay us dinnae need tae handle oor cocks tae shoot spunk, son. Some ay us kin git other people tae dae it fir us.
— Who wis the unfortunate felly ye peyed, n how much did eh coast ye? Gally asked.
Our dear Mr Lawson gies Gally the type ay glance a gatecrashing community-care jakey would git at a cheese-and-wine party. — Aye, well he wis a she n yis’ll meet her later. But speakin ay fuckin poofs, whaire huv youse cunts been? Cosy wee threesome?
We telt him aboot the gaff and wondered whether eh would be up for it. At first he wisnae too sure; eh’d pilled this bird n eh wis meant tae be seein ehr later oan. Also, Terry’s stepfaither wis German and he hated the cunt, so by extension he hated aw Germans, except ones wi fannies. That wis the wey the cunt’s mind tended tae work. Whin wi mentioned the words ‘big hoose’ n ‘rent-free’ the bastard’s attitude changed pretty fuckin sharpish but. — Sounds no bad bit, mair dosh tae spend oan drink n that eh. As long as it’s no too far oot. Some ay us’ve goat shaggin duties tae attend tae in the city.
Birrell’s gittin nippy wi aw this poof’s talk. This fight must be oan ehs mind. In the past it never seemed tae bother him but. Eh wis eywis dead phlegmatic aboot things. No now but. — You said ye liked this hotel, Terry. Ah’ve went n goat settled here now, eh moans, brekin intae a yawn.
— Nivir mind Vilhelm, Terry goes, never yin tae see a good thing passed up. — C’moan, lit’s git packed n check oot ay this doss.
— Ah need tae save some cash, Billy, Gally pleads, turning they big lamps ontae Birrell.
— Right then, c’moan, he concedes, rising from the bed. Poor Billy looks knackered. This change in routine really seems tae have knocked the cunt oot ay kilter. As we’re getting our gear packed (again), he pulls me aside. — Wi’ll need tae huv a word wi Lawson aboot behavin ehsel at this boy’s gaff. Ah dinnae want tae huv the embarrassment ay searchin the radge for pieces ay silverware everytime wi go oot.
Ah’d been thinkin aboot this n aw. — Eh’ll surely no take the piss, the boy’s hospitality n that, ah consider warily, — but yir right, wi’ll monitor the situation.
The cunts at the hotel were far fae pleased when we telt them that we wir checkin oot a week early. — You booked for two weeks, the manager goes. — Two weeks, eh repeats, hudin up two fingers.
— Aye, change ay plan but eh. Goat tae be fuckin flexible, mate, Terry winks, pulling ehs rucksack ontae ehs shoodir. — That’s a wee lesson tae youse cunts, that’s how yis fucked up in the war. Sometimes ye goat tae change the plan, take advantage ay the new situ that arises. Contingency fuckin plans but, eh.
The manager felly isnae amused at aw. Eh’s a big fat ruddy-faced cunt wi silver, slicked-back hair n glesses. Eh’s dressed in a smert jaykit n tie. Looks mair like one ay ma auld man’s mates fae the Gorgie BMC club oan a Friday night thin eh does ein Municher. — But how can I find someone to take the rooms at this notice? eh moans at us.
Terry shakes ehs heid in tired annoyance. — Your problem, mate. Ah dinnae ken how tae run a hotel, that’s your biz. Ask ays aboot sellin juice oaf the back ay lorries n ah’ll git ye clued up. Hotel management: no ma bag, eh tells the boy. Ye huv tae gie it tae Lawson, standin thaire, acting as if the manager ay a German hotel should automatically ken the biography ay a Scottish schemie.
Anywey, the cunt kin huff n puff aw eh wants, ehs erse is oot the windae n we’re offski doon the road.
Eftir wanderin roond the toon fir a bit we head tae the meat market for a beer. As we’re in the queue fir pints and pretzels, Terry’s eyes are dartin aroond n Gally’s are as well, checkin oot the fanny. It’s mainly office workers n that, but a few tourists n aw. — Tidy, Terry goes, then, — Tell ays that manager cunt wisnae as nippy as fuck. Hotel management! What does eh think ah am? Mind you, oor Yvonne did some ay that at Telford, eh considers. Then eh turns tae Birrell. — Your brar Rab no gaun tae college?
— Aye. Dinnae ken whit eh’s daein but. Billy’s gittin the drinks in n eh’s goat ehsel a Steiner ay lager. Ah nods at um, thinkin aboot the fight. — Take it easy, Billy.
— Entitled tae the odd drink oan hoaliday, eh goes. Ah think eh’s a bit miffed that ehs routine’s been upset wi the pish-saturated running clathes.
— That’s the game Birrell, git it doon yir neck, Terry toasts, smashin thir Steiners thegither. — Birrell means business!
Ah’m thinkin aboot Terry’s sister, Yvonne. She’d shagged both Billy and Gally. No me though. Ah suppose ah’ve always felt a bit left oot, cheated in a sense, as if part ay ma birthright was taken away. But that’s unfair tae Yvonne, it’s just my rivalry with Mr Lawson talking. Maybe when we get hame I’
ll invite Yvonne up tae the club, try tae get oaf wi her, just tae see Lawson’s puss! Anyway, it’s no just Birrell who means Business now, as we instinctively head ower tae a table quite near tae whaire a group ay birds are sittin. Gally’s leadin the charge and it’s an ideal spot. The lassies are just finishin though, and they’re straight up as soon as we sit doon. Ah catch one’s eye n gie ma airmpits an obvious sniff. The lassie smiles and ah ask, — Not going to stop for another drink?
She looks at her mate and then back at me, — I do not think so, she sais, turning and walking away.
Terry looks acroass the table at ays. — Still got the gift ay the gab, eh Carl? Thir fairly fawin at yir feet thair, mate.
This is Lawson heaven; a beer in his hand and him shagging; us celibate.
We had a couple mair, and it’s great sittin here wi a beer, enjoying the crack, watching the world go by. I’m starting tae feel a bit of a cunt aboot Billy’s bag though. Eh’s gaun oan aboot the fuckin cat and ehs training routine. It gits soas ah’m oan the verge ay confessin a couple ay times, which ah ken wid be a mistake, so ah head oaf tae this record shop ah’d clocked earlier, tae check out some techno before the bevvy makes ays too loose-lipped. Gally’s no bothered, he seems distracted, and neither is Billy, but Terry makes a wee comment which ah dinnae react tae. Ye never ken whether that cunt’s sayin it in fun or meanin it fir real. As eh’s meetin ehs bird in a bit I expect it’s probably aw jist a wind-up.
— Behave, Lawson! You fool of a boy! ah shout back as ah depart, and this gets a laugh fae Gally n Billy n the Vs fae Terry. That yin stuck fae way back, ah think it wis fae the school.
So I teamed up wi them later and we moved oot tae Wolfgang and Marcia’s. Terry approved ay the doss, but didnae stick around long. — Shaggin duties back in toon, boys. Dinnae wait up, eh smirked, before departing. We’d gied Terry the address and directions, Billy drawing a meticulous map. We thought we’d gie our hosts a bit ay space, so that night the three ay us went oot. We steyed local, heading fir a meal at this traditional pub: big wooden tables, sparse decoration.