Marabou Stork Nightmares

by Irvine Welsh

  harm do – – coming

  up – – Darren Jackson's solitary strike was enough to put No

  Hibs into another League Cup final where they will

  face Rain-chirs. . .

  —Ah'm gaunny pit this oan fir the laddie, the laddie's no wantin tae hear aboot fitba. Ma says.

  — How dae you ken that but Vet? Ah'm askin ye! How dae you ken whit the laddie wants tae hear?

  So would ye like tae have fun, fun, fun,

  How's about a few laughs, laughs, laughs,

  Let me show you a good time . . .

  DEEPER

  DEEPER

  DEEPER – – – – and now Sandy and I are drinking cocktails in a bar which is in a city which is possibly Nairobi or somewhere in Africa, not beautiful enough to be the Cape and this is all wrong because these two slags we saw on the road are in here and Sandy's being all smarmy and saying: – Can I buy you ladies a drink?

  The slags flash predatory smiles at us.

  I cut in, – No, you two slags can fuck off. This is just me and Sandy, mates like. We don't want youse cunts spoiling our adventure, spoiling our mission, spoiling our fun! It's just boys! Boys only, boys only, boys only!

  I hear myself squealing petulantly at them. I fear that I've made a fool of myself in the bar, but it unsettles the women as they have dropped their disguise and are now giant praying mantises with blonde and auburn wigs, lipstick smeared on those deadly pincher-like insect jaws.

  — Look Sandy, see them now, I smile, triumphant and vindi cated. — See those fuckin slags as they really are!

  Sandy turned away from them and smiled at the white, silver-haired barman, — These so-called ladies will not be joining us after all. He gave him a nod and a wink and the barman picked up a baseball bat from behind the bar.

  — You leave. Now you leave, he shouted at the insects. They made some whirring mechanical insect sounds and backtracked awkwardly towards the door. As they exit onto the street they leave the door jammed open. We can see people passing by on the pavement outside. The draught is cooling.

  I feel a great admiration for Jamieson and the way he equipped himself in circumstances which were obviously difficult. I consider whether or not to tell him so and then I think, the hell of it, yes I will, when I see something outside, shuffling awkwardly past the pub, in a slow, crippled, waddling walk.

  Sandy sees it too. He throws back his drink, — Quick, Roy! It's our fucking Stork!

  And now he's singing his New Year special:

  From Russia with love . . .

  I fly to you,

  Much wiser since my

  Goodbye to you . . .

  SOME CUNT SWITCH OAF THAT FUCKIN TAPE

  I've travelled the world

  To learn I must return

  From Russia with love.

  I remember when Matt Monro played the Bird's Cage at the Doocot up Ferry Road. Matt's career was on the slide by then, but Ma and Dad really enjoyed that night out. Ever since that Bond movie and that song he'd been Dad's hero and the auld man did a passable imitation of Matt.

  I've seen faces, places

  and smiled for a moment.

  But oh

  You haunted me so.

  Still my tongue-tied

  Young pride

  Would not let my love for you show

  In case you'd say no.

  — This is great though, eh Vet?

  — Aye.

  — We'd better be makin a move but, thirs the tea tae git n a new David Attenborough series is oan the night. Like ah sais, a new David Attenborough. It's goat the birds in it. The secret life ay the Barn Owl's the first yin. See what yir missin, Roy! Any other news fir the laddie Vet, like ah sais, other news?

  — No really, everybody's fine.

  — The only other news is that ah nivir voted Tory this time, in the local elections like, as a protest against this fuckin poll tax. Mind you, ah should be protestin against the fuckin Labour council; it's these cunts that keep it sae high. Ah voted SNP, no thit ah believe in Scottish independence. The Scots built the empire n these daft English cunts couldnae run it withoot us. That's ma philosophy anywey. Right Vet, ye fit?

  — Aye. Tro, Roy.

  — Cheerio, son.

  They switch off the tape and leave as the nurses come to attend to me. I am turned over and given an enema by Nurse Patricia Devine.

  At one time this would have been a fantasy.

  10 Bernard Visits

  Bernard has come to see me in the hospital. He comes in every few days or weeks or months, I think: time has no meaning in my state. Bernard comes to read his poems to me. At last the sad queen has found a captive audience.

  The only interesting thing about Bernard's visits is that he alone actually seems to believe that I can hear him. When the others talk to me their tones are strained, forced; full of self-obsessed pity, confessional and self-justifying. Bernard is the only one who seems completely at ease. We were never so at ease with each other. Why is he being so nice to me?

  — Mind South Africa, Roy? Johannesfuckinburg, he spits. — I fuckin hated inhere. Mind you, there was bags of talent. Ah hudnae really come oot then but. That was the onewaste, these boys of all races . . . but of course, you scored more than me in that department, he giggles,— You mercenary wee closet rent-boy you.

  EH? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU OAN ABOOT YOU SILLY FUCKIN QUEEN . . .

  —Oh aye. Ah kent aw aboot you and Gordon. Poor old Uncle Gordon. Fascist prick. How the fuck . . .

  — Oh, he tried it on with me too. With me first. Disappointed Roy? Oh yes, I'm a queen alright lovey, but a damn sight more choosy than that. I mean, it's a bit like you and Gran, both hetero's, right? Well, I'm assuming, possibly naively in light of your track-record, that you wouldn't go down on her arid old cunt. Right? His voice is teasy, jesting, rather than malicious.

  FUCK OFF YOU HIDEOUS QUEER . . .

  —No more than I'd take Uncle Gordon into my gob. But you did. didn't you, eh Roy? What else did that sick low-life do to you, Roy?

  DID AH FUCK. . .WEDIDNOWT. . . IT WIS A WANK, THAT WIS AW . . .

  —Sorry Roy. That was out of order. Do you mind ay South Africa though? I still think of it now. It inspired a few poems. that year did. Remember when Gordon took us to Sun City for that weekend?

  I remember that. We took a short flight down from the City of Gold to the African Vegas, in the nominally independent homeland of Bophuthatswana. Gambling was, of course, illegal in the Republic. The Sun City jaunt was a little package Gordon put together to get John and Vet down there to do what he always tried to do; make them feel inadequate by showing off his wealth and his many business interests.

  I remember it okay. It was a great time. We stayed in the Cascades Hotel, the most expensive and luxurious in Sun City. As the name of the hotel suggests, water was its principal theme. Its liberal use of the stuff produced rich, tropical, landscaped grounds. Kim and I spent ages wandering through this homemade rainforest, with its waterfalls, streams, paths and bridges. We were the only kids there and it was like our own private paradise. We found this little clearing by the lake where we would just go and sit, and pretend that all this was ours and we never had to go home. I was a bit of a cunt, and I'd make Kim burst oot greetin just by saying that we would be going back to Muirhouse. I wish I hudnae joked aboot it. Like me, she loved it in South Africa. But these gardens, they were like the promised land. In fact, the hotel grounds were a microcosm of the whole of Sun City. Vast quantities of water had been used to create this literal oasis in the desert, which had been landscaped imaginatively with flowers, lawns, exotic trees and streams all over the place.

  It was a wonderful few days.

  —with Tony and I being old enough to go out to the casinos and all that shite with Mum, Dad and Gordon

  it was paradise

  —the sickening greed and avarice, the front-line of South African exploitation, the playground where the settlers enjoyed the fruits of the wealt
h they'd ripped off

  SHUT UP YOU FUCKIN POOF, IT WISNAE LIKE THAT, IT WAS BRILLIANT

  —but even worse than the casinos was the fuckin cabaret. You and Kim were the lucky ones, tucked up back at the hotel. I had to sit in silence as we watched Doreen Staar's show.She was crude and extremely racist. I wrote a poem about that time.

  OH GOD, SURPRISE, SURPRISE. HERE WE GO.

  He bursts into a lisping rant: —This one's called: Doreen Staar's Other Cancer.

  Did you see her on the telly

  the other day

  good family entertainment

  the tabloids say

  But when you're backstage

  at your new faeces audition

  you hear the same old shite

  of your own selfish volition

  She was never a singer

  a comic or a dancer

  I can't say I was sad

  when I found out she had cancer

  Great Britain's earthy northern

  comedy queen

  takes the rand, understand

  from the racist Boer regime

  So now her cells are fucked

  and that's just tough titty

  I remember her act

  that I caught back in Sun City

  She went on and on about

  'them from the trees

  with different skull shapes

  from the likes of you and me'

  Her Neo-Nazi spell

  it left me fucking numb

  the Boers lapped it up with zeal

  so did the British ex-pat scum

  But what goes round

  comes round they say

  so welcome to another dose

  of chemotherapy

  And for my part

  it's time to be upfront

  so fuck off and die

  you carcinogenic cunt.

  — What do you think then, Roy?

  He asks as if I can reply. He knows I can hear him. Bernard knows.

  Bernard

  — Went doon a fuckin storm at the club.

  Bernard

  I thought it was one of your better efforts.

  part three

  On

  The Trail

  Of

  The Stork

  11 Casuals

  I first met Lexo on the train from Glasgow Central to Motherwell. I was sitting with Dexy and Willie, out the road fae the top table and the top boys. This was my first away run with the cashies and I was determined to make an impression.

  Dexy and Willie had been running with the boys for a while, rising from the baby crew. At first their stories bored me; they seemed exaggerated and I couldnae take their versions of the events, far less their supposed roles in the proceedings with any real degree ay seriousness. However, I got intrigued enough to check out some of the vibes at the home games where you had a substantial casual visiting support, and this was only really games against Aberdeen, and I became hooked on the adrenalin.

  It was when Aberdeen were down with a huge crew that I was first bitten. The sheepshaggers had just signed that Charlie Nicholas cunt fae Arsenal, the soapdodger, and there was a heavy atmosphere. These cunts fancied their chances. I did a bit of mouthing and jostling up Regent Road, but there were too many polis aboot for any real swedgin tae take place.

  On the train, on this dull Wednesday night, we were assured that it would be different. Dexy, Willie and myself were eager lieutenants, laughing sycophantically at any jocular top boy who played to the gallery, but remaining stern, impassive and deferential when a psycho held court.

  Lexo went around the train giving a pep-talk. — Mind, nae cunt better shite oot. Remember, a cunt that messes is a cunt that dies. We're the hardest crew in Europe. We dinnae fuckin run. Mind. We dinnae fuckin run.

  We didnae have tae wait long before meeting up with the Motherwell casuals. They were upon us at the station and I was shit-scared. I didn't know why; it seemed as if I'd been surrounded by latent and manifest violence all my life. This was different though, a new situation. It's only now I realise that behaviour always has a context and precedents, it's what you do rather than what you are, although we often never recognise that context or understand what these precedents are. I remember thinking; swallow the fear, feel the buzz. That was what Lexo said. Then I saw this thin, spectacularly white guy, almost albino, just charging into the Motherwell boys and scattering them. I steamed in swinging, kicking and biting. This cunt I was hitting was hitting me back but it was like I couldn't feel a thing and I knew that he could because his eyes were filling up with fear and it was the best feeling on earth. Then he was on his arse. The next thing I knew was that I was being pulled off one cunt by some of our boys, and dragged away down the road as polis sirens filled the air. I was snarling like a demented animal, wanting only to get back and waste the cunt on the ground for good.

  At the game I was trembling inside with excitement. We all were. We laughed with liberating hysteria at any banal joke or observation made about the swedgin. I don't remember anything about the match, except wee Mickey Weir running up and down the wing, trying vainly to play fitba, surrounded by claret and amber giants and a blind referee. We lost one-nil. Back on the train with a police escort to Glasgow then Edinburgh, the match was never mentioned once. Aw the talk was aboot the swedge.

  Lexo came over to us. Dexy, looking sheepish, got up to let him sit beside me. Hovering over the table, he was dismissed as Lexo snapped, — Nose fuckin botherin ye, cunt?

  He departed looking like a timid dog. Dexy had not acquitted himself well in the swedge tonight.

  — Fuckin wanker, he smiled, then shouted back down the train, — Ghostie! C'mere the now, ya cunt!

  The albino-looking guy named Ghostie came and joined us. You would never think to look at him that the cunt was particularly hard, but every fucker knew him as a crazy radge. He was on-form at Motherwell. He'd been first in, he had given me the confidence. I'd never seen anything so fast, so ruthless and powerful.

  — Whit's yir name, pal? he asked.

  — Roy. Roy Strang.

  — Strang. Got a brar?

  — Aye, Tony Strang.

  He nodded in vague recognition. – Whair ye fi?

  — Muirhoose.

  — Schemie, eh? he laughed.

  I felt anger rise in me. Whae the fuck did this wide-o think he wis? I tried to control it. I knew who he was. Ghostie. The Ghost. I'd seen him in action; only briefly as I'd been too involved myself, but enough tae ken that ah'd never mess wi the cunt.

  — Me n aw, he smiled. Fi Niddrie. Stey in toon now, though. Cannae be bothered wi the fuckin scheme any mair. Ye ken satellite dishes? he asked.

  — Aye.

  — Whit dae they call the wee boax oan the back ay the satellite dish?

  — Eh, dunno likes.

  — The council's, he laughed. I was pleased to join in.

  That was the start of my cashie activities. The season was in its infancy and I was already known tae the top boys.

  I was arrested at Parkhead for breaking a Weedgie's jaw; fortunately I managed to sling my knuckleduster. Our strategy for Glasgow games was to merge with the crowd and just start laying into every cunt to panic them. All it took was organisation and bottle. The organisation was really just about timing, moving at the right time. I stiffened some stupid fucker for the crime of being a total spaz-wit with loads of badges of the Pope and IRA on his scarf, but a couple of polis came straight after me. I ran through the crowd, but one sneaky soapdodging cunt stuck a leg oot and I lost my balance and fell and was huckled.

  Ma and Dad were fucked off at the court case.

  — Ah'm no wantin you gittin intae bother, Roy. Ye could lose yir joab, son. You're supposed tae be the sensible yin in the faimlay, Dad mused. He was in a strange position; concerned, but gratified that all those boxing lessons hadn't gone to waste. — Ah kent wi shouldnae huv come back here. We should've steyed in Sooth Efrikay.

  — Aw, c'mon, Dad . . .


  — Dinnae come oan Dad me. Like ah sais, Sooth Efrikay.

  — Like ah sais, he droned on, — ye could lose yir joab. They dinnae grow oan trees nowadays, eh. Specially no in computers. Thing ay the future.

  — Aye, right.

  — N whit fir, eh? Whit fir? Ah'm askin ye! Fir they fuckin casual bampots. Ah mean, it's no as if thir even interested in the fitba these cunts. Ah see yis aw at Easter Road. It's aw designer labels wi these cunts, like ah sais, fuckin designer labels.

  — Shite.

  — Aw aye, ye kin shite aw ye want tae, bit ah've read aw aboot it. In the Evening News. Fuckin mobile phones, the loat. Ye tryin tae tell ays that's aw rubbish, eh? Ah'm askin ye!

  — Aye. It's shite. Pure shite.

  I was less scared of the auld man now. He seemed a sadder, weaker figure, broken by his brother's death and the end of the South African dream. He now worked as a store detective in John Menzies.

  I was getting on, leading a compartmentalised life. The weekends it was clubs and fitba with the boys, and I had been shagging a few birds. Joining the cashies had been a bonus on that score. Although I was never happy with the wey ah looked, being a cashie I had access to aw the fanny I needed. Sometimes just skankers likes, but a ride's a ride. It was something to do eftir the swedgin; it was better than no gettin a ride. That fucks up a cunt's self-esteem. Too right. At work I was getting on alright, doing well in my day release in computer studies at Napier College. I enjoyed setting up programmes to run policies: it was a challenge and the money was okay. I still resolved to get into a flat in town and away from my family. The thing was that I was spending a lot of dough as well, mostly on clathes. Nearly every penny I had went on new gear.

  The rumours about me being a cashie started to circulate at the work. It was a busy time for us and the newspapers were on our case. Big-time soccer violence in Scotland had always been aboot really thick Weedgies who never went to church knocking fuck oot ay each other to establish who had the best brand of Christianity. We were big news because we were different; stylish, into the violence just for itself, and in possession of decent IQs.