Glue

by Irvine Welsh

  Terry’s been listening tae aw the debate and chips in tae Wolfgang, — C’moan Wolfie-boy, lit’s git back tae your bit then, mate.

  Wolfgang’s no that chuffed. — There are too many people and there is work to be done tomorrow.

  — Behave yirsel, mate, Terry says wrapping one arm around him and one around a stiff, tense Marcia. — Wir buddies, we’ll see you awright back in Schottland. Mates, eh winks. Then eh announces tae everybody, — As soon as ah saw they cunts, ah jist thoat: mates. That wis it, one word thit sprung right intae ma mind: mates.

  Billy looks at Terry and raises ehs eyebrows. — You wirnae even thaire, eh goes. — Eh wisnae even thaire, eh exclaims tae the posh English boy. Eh’s now decided that this boy’s awright n eh’s goat ehs airm roond ehs new best mate’s shoodir. — This is Guy, eh sais tae me. — Eh’s some guy, eh laughs, and the boy nervously joins in.

  Ah’m thinkin: ah wonder how many times the poor cunt’s heard that yin.

  — If ah’d been thaire ah’d’ve helped n aw, Birrell, Terry protests.

  — Helped yirself tae the contents ay the boy’s hoose, ya radge, Billy goes. — Eh even pished the boy’s mattress. You’re brutal, Lawson.

  Terry smiles, and just disnae gie a fuck. Eh’s goat that look oan ehs face, like a dug that’s been lickin its ain baws and the taste is so good that nothing else comes up tae scratch. — Fuck off, Birrell. C’moan, a wee perty . . .

  Ah think Wolfgang’s startin tae get the message aboot the mattress. — What do you mean . . . what is he saying? the boy asks, still a bit confused.

  Terry pits ehs airm roond ehs shoodirs again. — Ah’m just windin ye up, mate. Bit we’ve goat plenty space back at yours, so lit’s git a move oan. Eh shouts. — Throw a fuckin perty! Spread a bit ay love! C’moan! Git the boys here tae bring the gear.

  Rolf nods his heid, the unwitting stooge of the Saughton Mains Svengali. — Wolfgang’s is good for a party.

  Ah’m thinkin aboot ma records back thaire, n gittin a shoat wi thum oan they decks, showin the German cunts a bit ay Jock style. Jock style . . . that’s a laugh, like Gally, eh’s bletherin shite tae Elsa and Gudrun. Eh’s taken ehs T-shirt oaf n flung it away. Thir aw eyes, teeth n smiles. Eh’s gaun oan aboot how thir hair is beautiful n how German guys urnae as romantic as Scots guys n ah’m laughin ma heid oaf, but ah suppose thir’s naebody as romantic as Gally E’d up. Except me.

  — It would be a fuckin great place n aw Gally, ah goes at him, interruptin the cunt’s flow ay bullshit.

  — Fuck it, Terry sais.

  — But the police . . . Wolfgang protests.

  — Fuck these cunts. They kin only brek it up again. Lit’s dae it fir disco!

  Terry generally hus the last word, so we scramble intae a series of vans and motors, and the convoy heads off doon tae Wolfgang’s, who’s shitein it. Marcia’s almost incandescent in her silent fury. Rolf builds a spliff n ah take a toke, passin it back, avoidin Birrell whae waves it away anywey. Gally’s goat in between they two lassies n eh’s restin ehs heid on one’s shoodir.

  Fight for the Right to Party

  We get back tae Wolfgang’s n set things up. Every other cunt’s waitin in the front gairdin. The balcony makes a barry deejay space. The boys uv goat enough cable for the speakers n ah’ve got the amp an mixer up wi ays. It takes aboot twenty minutes tae rig the whole thing up.

  They kick oaf, wi this boy called Luther oan the decks. Eh’s no bad n aw. Ah’m itchin tae git oan, tae show they Jerry cunts whit ah kin dae.

  Marcia’s still miserable, her distress compounded by Lawson’s haverings. — It’s awright, doll, a perty eh, Terry goes. — See, eh explains tae her, — we huv tae fight tae perty. The difference, eh elaborates tae her and the other bemused Germans standing around, — is that we’re West Edinburgh Hibs. We’ve hud tae fight fir years against the Jambos . . . eh turns and looks at me, — no sayin nowt against the likes ay Carl here, — but we’ve no hud it easy like aw they cunts doon Leith. They dinnae ken whit bein real Hibs is like.

  This bullshit impresses nobody, far less the lassie. She has her hands ower her ears. — It is so loud!

  Wolfgang’s nodding away in time tae the beat, eh’s vibin intae it. Eh’s well intae ehs techno. — Our Scotland friends must have their party, eh says, tae a big cheer fae Terry n me.

  Gally’s got intae a wild, sensuous, ecstasy lock wi they two Bundesliga birds, it takes ays a while tae see it’s that Elsa n Gudrun. The three ay them are snoggin each other slowly in turns. Eh stoaps fir a bit and shouts at ays, — Carl, c’mere. Stand here. Elsa. Gudrun.

  — Tell yis what, ah goes, — you two are the most beautiful-lookin birds I’ve ever seen in ma life.

  — You’re no wrong there, Gally confirms.

  Elsa laughs, but in an engaged way and goes, — I think that you are saying this to every girl you meet when you are taking ecstasy.

  — Too right, ah tell her, — but ah eywis mean it. And ah do. Elsa and Gudrun, what a package. Aye, that’s what’s so great about these kind ay scenes. You can admire the beauty of a woman, but when you see a load of them standing together, the sheer, overwhelming effect really does just blow you away.

  Eh positions ays close tae them. — Right, try this.

  The lassies are aw smiles so ah go ahead, snoggin wi one bird, then the other. Then Gally snogs thum baith again. Then the two birds start snoggin each other. Ma hert’s gaun boom-boom-boom n Gally raises they eyebrows. Women are so fuckin beautiful and men are such dogs, if ah wis a burd ah’d be a dyke for defo. Whin they brek oaf, one ay thum goes, — Now you two must do the same.

  Gally n me jist look at each other n laugh. — Nae fuckin chance, ah goes.

  — Ah’ll gie the cunt a hug, that’s aw, eh sais, — cause ah love the big bastard, even if eh is a Jambo cunt.

  Ah love that wee cunt n aw, it wis good ay him tae include me in ehs wee scene thaire. That’s a true mate. Ah crush the fucker in a hug, whisperin ‘CSF’ sweetly in his ear.

  — Git a fuckin mob, eh laughs, breakin off n pushin ays in the chest.

  Ah head oaf back tae the decks tae check oot the sounds situ. Ah’m gled ah bought some records n eftir borrowin some fae Rolf ah’ve goat enough tae dae a good forty-five minutes quality mixin. Ah git ready tae hit the decks. The mixer looks a bit unfamiliar or maybe it’s just the pills, but fuck it, jist git in thaire.

  Terry’s jumping aroond beside ays. — C’moan, Carl. Blow these German cunts away! N-SIGN Ewart. That’s ma man, eh sais, shakin this German guy n pointin at ays — N-SIGN. Ah gied um that stage name. N-SIGN Ewart!

  Ah dunno what Terry’s daein talkin aboot German cunts, cause ehs ain Ma wis shaggin one ay thum fir long enough. Bit ah git oan, n line up Beltram’s Energy Flash. Instant explosion oan the flair! Ah’ve soon goat the punters gaun, the music’s flowing through me, through the vinyl, right oot the speakers and intae the crowd. Even though wi some of the tunes ah’m just hearing them in bits through the headphones, before ah play them, but it’s coming out fine. It’s a dug’s breakfast as well; I’m mixing UK acid-house rave tracks like Beat This and We Call It Acieed in with old Chicago house anthems like Love Can’t Turn Around and taking it right back up through to Belguim hardcore, like this track Inssomniak.

  But it aw works; these shaking erses and the fill dance-space are sending me a message:

  I am fucking right on it here.

  Some cunt’s been oan the blower cause thir’s mair cars comin in n the whole party’s below me oan that front lawn wi thir hands in the air n ah’ve never felt sae good. This is the best yin ever. At the end ay it, every cunt’s ower, shakin ma hand, huggin me, fill ay praise. It’s real praise as well, no bullshit. Ye get soas ye can tell the difference. It embarrasses the fuck oot ay ays when ah’m straight, but E’d up, ye just accept it.

  Gally comes ower tae ays. Eh’s goat one ay they lassies by the hand n eh’s pointin ower at Wolfgang who’s dancin slowly, shakin ehs heid n huggin every cunt that cr
osses his path. — That Wolfgang, eh, a definite capital gadge!

  Eh pills oot the eckies n tries tae gie ays one. — Ah’ll take it in a minute, ah goes, stickin it in the top poakit ay ma shirt. The pill ah hud earlier is runnin doon but ah want tae keep oan this adrenalin rush right now. Eh’s hingin aboot wi Rolf; thir talkin aboot gear, n quality n aw that. Ah look at Rolf; a mair pristine, German, less manic, less fucked-up Gally. What Gally might’ve been like hud circumstances been different fir um. Mind you, ye dinnae really ken the Rolf boy, it’s just that eh seems so sussed oot.

  Galloway: what is that wee cunt like? The boy’s oaf ehs tits, talkin aboot lovin every cunt n this bein the greatest night ay ehs life. At one point eh stands oot oan the balcony tae a big cheer n gies a clenched-fist salute. Rolf just smiles, hudin oantae Gally’s leg, n helpin um doon.

  The sun comes up and we’re tryin tae help by tidyin up the debris, while still pertyin at the same time. Thir isnae too much ay a mess, the punters have respected the hoose. Despite the warmth fae the sun, it’s mistier and caulder now. It’s startin tae feel like October; winter’s diggin in. Gally’s still up, as high as a kite, eh’s goat Gudrun oan ehs knee n eh’s talking shite. Ah’m sitting next tae them oan the couch, wonderin where that Elsa lassie has goat tae. Ah swallay the other pill and wait for it tae kick in. Thir’s still a few people left ower, though the main heads fae the system have packed up. We’re back oantae Wolfgang’s smaller amp, mixer and speakers. Rolf’s daein a mellow set, which sounds okay. Gally says tae me, — Ah’ve goat tae gie it tae ye, Carl, ye wir brilliant. You’ve goat something, man. Like Billy, wi the boxin. Ye kin mix a tune. The likes ay me, we’ve goat fuck all. You’re Business Birrell, eh nods tae Billy, whae’s sittin crouched oan the floor, then tae me, — n you’re N-SIGN.

  Ah make fleetin eye contact wi Billy n we’re shruggin. Gally’s never talked like this before, bummin us up, and the cunt means it n aw. Then ah look ower at Terry, sittin oan a beanbag wi Hedra. Eh’s no worked for ages. Ah kin see thit eh’s no happy aboot what Gally’s said. — Hi Gudrun, that’s N-SIGN Ewart, eh points at me and eh’s said that one hundred times at least aw night, which is still less than Terry, but eh’s shakin the lassie soas she looks at ays, n eh’s gaun, — N-SIGN. Eh wis in that magazine, DJ, youse might no git it here . . . it hud a bit aboot the up n comin deejays fir the nineties . . .

  Ah dinnae think Terry bothers that much but. He’ll always get by, duckin n divin. It’s the nature ay the beast.

  The Gudrun lassie stands up n goes tae the bogs. She’s a wee honey n aw, n ah watch her depart, appreciating her easy, graceful movements. Gally doesnae seem tae be noticing though, cause eh looks at ays, then eh’s starin ahead intae space. — They tell ye that ah seen the bairn, wi her n him, before we came oot here?

  Terry and Billy both mentioned it tae ays. It didnae sound good. Ah grind ma teeth. Right now ah’m no really wantin tae hear aboot the Gally n Gail n Polmont show, featuring special guests Alexander ‘Dozo’ Doyle and Billy ‘Business’ Birrell, yet again. No here. No the now. But the boy is upset. — How’s she daein? ah ask.

  Gally’s still lookin oaf intae space. Eh disnae want tae meet ma eyes. Ehs voice goes low. — Didnae really ken me, eh no. Calls him daddy. Him, eh.

  Terry’s heard this, and eh takes a toke fae a spliff before turnin and shruggin tae Gally. — That’s the wey it goes. Mine calls that cunt daddy n aw. A big, fuckin gawky twat, n he calls him daddy. It’s jist the wey it goes but, eh. He’s the cunt that pits the nosh in her mooth n that’s it.

  — Disnae make it right! Gally says, it comin oot in a panicky primal shriek. And ah’m feelin for the cunt now, really feelin for Gally, cause it’s the worst thing in the world for him.

  — She’ll mind ay ye, Gally, it jist needs time, ah say. Ah dinnae ken why ah opened ma mooth, ah’ve no goat a clue, it jist seemed the right thing tae say.

  Gally’s really gone intae a bad frame ay mind. It’s like thir’s a cloud above ehs heid n it’s gittin blacker by the minute. — Naw, the bairn’s better oaf withoot me. Yir right, Terry. It’s just a blob ay spunk, that’s aw ah wis ivir fuckin worth, eh sais, ehs face aw twisted. — Jist aboot ma first fuckin ride. Offay Gail. Eighteen years auld. Delighted that ah’d popped ma cherry. How unlucky is that . . . ah mean . . . ah dinnae mean that . . .

  Ah glance at Terry, whae raises his eyebrows. Ah’ve nivir heard Gally talk like that before. Mind you, ah thought the cunt never goat ehs hole back in the early days. Thir wis eywis talk but a lot ay it wis silly talk. The playgroond, the canteen, the pub. No always, but often.

  Ah’m feelin great n aw. Ah dinnae want this, ah want Gally tae feel like me. — Look, this conversation’s gittin a wee bit depressin. It’s a perty! Fuck sake, Gally! You’re a young, fit man!

  — Ah’m a fuckin waster, a fuckin druggy, eh scoffs in self-loathing.

  Ah look at his wee baby face n pinch ehs cheek between ma thumb and forefinger. — Tell ye what, ye still look in pretty good nick, Gally, for aw the abuse ye gie yirsel.

  Eh’s still no huvin it but. — It’s aw inside but, mate, eh laughs in a low, hollow wey that chills me. Then eh looks a bit thoughtful and says, — Ye kin scrape a dug’s shite oot the gutter n pit it in a fancy gift box wi a glittering bow, but it’s still a piece ay dug shite in a boax, eh says harshly. — The rid bill’s in the post, eh laments.

  — C’moan, Gally, ah sais tae um, — ah said that ye looked awright, ah widnae go as far as a fancy gift box wi a glittering bow. Keep the fuckin heid, son! Eftir aw, ah stand up n launch intae ma impersonation ay auld Blackie fae the school; — Some say that there is no room for social education and religious knowledge in a modern comprehensive education system. I differ from this fashionable view. For how can an education system be truly comprehensive if it does not have SOCIAL education and RELIGIOUS knowledge?

  At last the cunt starts laughin. Billy’s been listenin tae aw this and rises tae his feet. — C’moan, Gally, lit’s take a wee walk, Billy says, n Gally stands up. That Gudrun lassie’s comin back n Billy stands back n nods tae Gally. Eh cheers up even mair and they head off thegither, intae the gairdin.

  Wolfgang’s oan the decks now, and eh’s takin things back up again. Rolf’s shakin ehs heid n laughin. The big cunt’s pit a killer track oan though, n ah’m feeling the tingling nausea ay this pill digging in and if ah dinnae git up right now ah’ll gouch right oot. People are comin oaf the beanbags n chairs, oantae thir feet, oantae the flair. Ah must git a copy ay that yin, find oot what it is. The flair’s fill ay Germans dancing, aw except Marcia, who is, as they say, not amused. The Germans are awright, that Nazi shite could happen anywhere. They tell us that Nazis are weird, but thir probably nae weirder or mair perverted thin liberals. It wis jist thit times changed n every cunt flipped ower. It could happen anytime, anywhaire. It seems tae me that the wey things are gaun, capitalism’s eywis gaunny be volatile. The rich’ll throw in thir loat wi any cunt that restores order but’ll let them keep what they’ve goat. It’ll happen again within the next thirty years.

  That’s the thing that goat me. The Nazis arenae some cunt else. Every cunt, every nation’s goat it in them tae dae evil jist like every person hus. N they usually dae it cause thir scared or cause thir pit doon by every cunt else. The world’s only gaunny git better wi love n ah’m gaunny help spread it through music. That’s ma mission, that’s why ah’m N-SIGN. Carl Ewart, they nivir liked that boy, cause he wis the daft laddie that gave the Nazi salute in front ay the tabloid photographer tae wind them up when eh wis wi ehs fitba mates. A daft laddie, didnae even ken what a Nazi wis, only that he’d always been taught tae detest them. Eh jist kent that it wound up every posh cunt in the work who looked at him and heard his schemie voice and thought that eh was white trash.

  They didnae like Carl Ewart, white-trash schemie. But they liked N-SIGN. N-SIGN’s played at warehoose perties in London, raised funds for anti-racist groups, aw sorts ay deserving community organisations. They
love N-SIGN. They’ll never, ever get thir heids roond the fact that the only difference between Carl Ewart and N-SIGN is that one worked liftin boxes in a warehoose for nae money while the other played records in one fir tons ay it. That they choose tae treat the two so different tells ye a loat mair aboot thaim than it does aboot Carl Ewart or N-SIGN. Fuck all that though, ah’m gaunny be smart and righteous fae now on. Tae be touched by real love requires great fortune, it’s no in your hands. The best ye can do, what is in yir power, is tae acquire grace.

  Ah git up and shuffle for a bit oan the flair wi Rolf and Gretchen. Then ah hear Terry talkin tae Billy in the big hallway, n go n investigate. Billy’s oan the stairs, close tae this amazing-looking lassie. She’s a fuckin Amazon, dressed tae kill in this tight, black and white diagonal-striped dress, her blonde hair piled up, and with the bearing of total arrogance and self-obsession that tells you that she’ll be a brilliant ride but nothing else. In Billy’s state ay mind that’ll be mair than enough. Hedra’s there as well, I think the big lassie’s her mate. The cunts dinnae see me. — Gally’s oaf ehs fuckin heid; ah worry aboot that boy sometimes, Terry goes. — Aw that stuff aboot ma foreskin. What wis that aboot? You tell me!

  — Eh’s jist takin the pish. Huvin a wee laugh, eh, Billy says, annoyed that Terry’s distracted him fae that big bird eh wis obviously chatting up. Lawson’s probably tryin tae muscle in, even though eh’s wi Hedra.

  — Aye, bit thir’s weys n means ay huvin a laugh. Ah dinnae ken what happened tae him in the nick. Cunt wis probably gittin shagged by some big fuckin soapdodger screw. That’s how eh’s obsessed wi other guys’ cocks.

  — Your friend is for going both ways? Hedra smiles.

  — Bullshit, Billy says, at Terry though, looking at me to back him up.

  Terry’s goat a point eh feels eh hus tae make though. — Eh nivir talks aboot it. Something went oan wi him in thair. Ye see how eh’s been since we’ve been here? Up and doon like a fuckin yo-yo.