by Irvine Welsh
A Slag’s Habit
She ain’t changed the fucking lock yet; she knows what she’d get if she tried that one. I’d kept my set of the keys for this shithole after I moved out. I told her that I needed a place of my own. It was best all round. But yeh, I still kept a key for this gaff though, so I could come round and see the little un; stands to reason that I’d want to do that. She hears my key in the lock and looks at me all funny as I step in. The little fellah’s here though, he comes out from behind her.
She smokes in front of him n all. Forty a day she fucking well smokes. Slag’s habit. I hate to see skirt smoking. Different in a geezer like, but common in skirt, especially young skirt. I mean, I ain’t talking about my old gel like. I mean she gets little enough bleedin pleasure out of life as it is, I wouldn’t deny her her snout. In young skirt though it’s too fucking tarty. Then there’s the health aspect to be considered. That’s what I said to her the last time I was up. I warned the slut about smoking in front of the nipper. You gotta consider the bleedin health aspect, I told her. Don’t bear thinking about.
– He needs new shoes, Dave, she says.
– Yeah? Well I’ll get him a pair then, won’t I, I tell her. I ain’t giving her no more bleedin dosh. It’ll only go on the cheapest pair with the balance on snout for that slag. I ain’t that fucking soft.
The little un’s looking at me.
– Ow’s my boy then, eh?
– All right, he says.
– All right? I goes, – Wot’s all this about all right? Wot about a kiss for your old pop then, eh? He comes over and gives me a nice wet slammer on the side of my gob. – That’s my boy, I tell him, ruffling his hair. I’ll have to stop this kissing lark though, he’s getting far too bleedin big for that. Could make him soft, that palaver could; even worse, turn him into one of them queer blouses you see hanging around. Ain’t natural that. I turn to her, – Oi, that queer-arsed nonce ain’t still hanging around the school, is he?
– Nah, ain’t heard no more about it.
– Well if you do let me know straight away. Ain’t no sick-beast coming near my boy, ain’t that right, son? Remember what I told you, if anybody mucks about with you at that school?
– Kick em in the bollocks! he says. I laugh, and give him a bit of shadow boxing. Heavy hands for a little kiddie; a chip off the old block that one, if The Slag brings him up good n proper that is.
The Slag. She does look pretty tasty today though, made up n all. – You seein anybody, gel? I ask her.
– Not at the moment, she goes, all sort of snooty like.
– Get your fucking knickers orf then.
– Dave! Don’t talk like that. Not in front of Gary, she says, pointing at the little fellah.
– Yeah, right. Listen, Gal, you take this dosh n get yerself some sweets. There’s the car keys, this one opens the door. Wait for us in the motor, right? I’ll just be a few minutes. Got some things to say to your mum; grown-up’s things like.
The little geezer toddles off with the dosh, then she starts giving me a hard time.
– I don’t wanna, she says.
– I don’t bleedin well care what you bleedin well want, do I, I tell her. No fucking respect, that was always The Slag’s problem, a sort of personality defect. She puts on that fucking face, but she knows the score and she’s getting her kit off and going through to the bedroom. I get her on the bed and start kissing her, my tongue in that horrible ashtray mouth. I get her legs open and get up between her easy enough, the dirty slag’s like a sodding dripping sponge down there, and I start giving her one. I just want to blow my fucking load and get on out of there, down to the bleeding car. The thing is, whenever I get into her, I can’t bleedin well come … and it’s fucking well happening again, I should’ve known better. She’s going fucking mad; her that didn’t fucking want any of it n all, she’s going bleeding well mad and I can’t fucking well come.
I FUCKING HATE THE CUNT THE FUCKING DIRTY COW AND I CAN’T BLEEDING WELL COME.
I want to rip her fucking smelly cunt apart, to really fucking hurt that dirty bitch, but the harder I go at it, the easier she takes it all, loving every minute of it she is, the fucking filthy warped evil fucking slag … it ain’t supposed to be this … I keep seeing him, Lyonsy from the Millwall, I keep seeing him in my head. I’m trying to fuck off Lyonsy instead of her. That rumble we had down the Rotherhithe Tunnel when I got in first and hit that big cunt three fucking times and he just stood there and took it all, gave me that fucking look as if I was just a little fucking toy.
Then he hit me.
– DAAAAAVEEE! DAAAAVEE! she’s fucking well screaming her head off innit, – STAY, ALWAYS STAY, WE CAN MAKE IT WORK, OH DAVE … OH DAAAAVEEE! She’s bucking like a fucking stallion, I can feel the power of her under me and the size of her to me n all and I’m feeling dead inside as she come to rest and I pull out still as fucking hard as a brick and I got to get well away from this bleedin slag, cause if I don’t I ain’t gonna be responsible for what I might do.
I’m getting dressed and she’s got a big smile on her face and she’s going on about how nobody’ll ever change me and when she said that before it used to make me feel special, no doubt about that, but now it makes me feel like a big fucking stupid lemon that the whole world’s laughing up its fucking sleeve at.
– Yeah, I tell her, getting the fuck out of it and going down to the car, but I ain’t in the mood for the bleedin kid. Not now: now that that fucking slag’s spoiled everything. I dump him off at my sister’s: he’s happier there, playing with her little uns. I ain’t really much one for the kiddies if the truth be known.
I go back to my flat and pull out a copy of Playboy, the one with that Opal Ronson slag in it. I’ve taken out the staples so I stick it on the fridge using the magnets. It ain’t like I buy dirt mags usually, just if one of the stars is in getting their kit off. It’s good to see the fucking stars in the buff, sort of like seeing someone you know. Takes away the fucking mystique, makes them seem more sort of available like. I’ve got a fresh melon in the fridge and I’ve already dug in three holes the width and depth of my erection; two at one end and one at the other, for Opal’s cunt, arsehole and mouth. I put a bit lipstick on the mouth one. Then I squirt some Pond’s hand cream in the others and we’re fucking well off … where do you fucking want it, girl, your gob or your arse or your cunt … I’m concentrating on the image of Opal bending over, her back arched and I can’t work out what she’s saying to me, whether or not she wants it up her cunt or her arsehole and something about those dark eyes says to me that maybe Opal ain’t the sort orf gel to take it up the tradesman’s on a first date, I’m thinking of her in that Seductive Affairs … naah … but then in that Paranoid, definitely; then I think, fuck it, the bitch maybe needs to be taught a fucking lesson and in it fucking well goes … phoah, this is going to fucking well spilt you in two, my gel … phoah … KWWAAWWW!
My head’s fucking dizzy as my muck just pumps and pumps into the melon. A few imaginary seconds in Opal’s crapbox does it for me. God bless ya, my gel.
I take a little doze on my couch and when I wake I try to watch the box but I can’t bleedin settle. I do some work with the dumb-bells and examine my pecs. The definition’s coming on, but it’s still a bit poofhouse, like the strutting queerbeasts at the club. It’s beef I want, for punching power. After a bit I go down the Blind Beggar. There ain’t no cunt in, so I try the Grave Maurice. They’re all there: Bal, Riggsie, Shorthand, Roj, John n all. I get a pint of brown and bitter up and go over. It’s a nice crack n all and I’m just starting to relax and get into it when I hears this noise at the bar.
– HEEEYYYYGGGHHHH!
I turn around and see him. That pathetic old bastard, my bleedin old man. Look at him: lurching around out of his fucking tree, bothering people. Fucking pathetic, that’s what he is, that’s what he always was. Now the pest had fucking clocked us and he’s coming over here. Bal, Riggsie n Shorthand, well these cunts are loving ever
y minute of my fucking embarrassment, ain’t they.
– Awright, ma boey! Buy yir auld fella a drink then, eh? Eh! He says. He’s fucking sozzled, the cunt.
– I’m trying to have a bleeding conversation here, I tell him.
He raises his eyebrows n looks at me like I’m some kind of arsehole. Then he puts his hands on his hips. – Oh, a conversation, is it …
– ’Salroight Mr T., I’m just getting them in, ain’t I, Bal says and hits the bar. He comes back with a pint and a large Scotch for the old cunt.
– That’s a man, he points at Bal. – Young Barry thair … Barry Leitch … that’s a real fuckin man! he smiles, raising his glass to Bal, who does the same back. Then he clocks me staring at him. – Hi, whit’s wrang wi your face!
I’m fucking well seething at the old cunt.
– Whit’s wraaaannng …
That fucking ugly beery Scotch face, that stupid, breathless Jock voice; it never stops, not for one bleedin minute. I really want to shut that stupid voice up.
– Nuffink! I snap. Then the old cunt’s got an arm around me and he’s turned to Bal n Riggsie. I’m going to swing for the old cunt, fucking sure as Christ …
– This is ma boey here. And he’s a fuckin arsehole! A FUCKIN EEEEERRRRRSSSSE! Bit he’s still ma boey, he says. Then: – Hi son, gaunny sub us but? Ah’m expectin a big insurance cheque, son. They telt us it wid’ve been here by now, so thair wis me up the dug track last night, thinkin ah’d be flush n ah wid be sorted oot this mornin … ye know what ah mean, David … eh, son?
I pulled out a couple of tenners. Anything, anything to get rid of the fucking old ponce.
– Yir a good boey, son. A good PRAWSTINT boey!
He looked around, then rolled up his sleeve. – Ma blood, he said to Riggsie, – Prawstint blood.
– I’m sure it’s one hundred per cent proof, Mr T., Riggsie says, n Bal n Shorthand n Roj n Johnny n that, they all have a bleedin laugh n I do n all, but I don’t like Riggsie’s mouth. Cunt or no cunt, this is still my old man we’re talking about here. A bit of fucking respect is called for.
– That’s it, son. One hunner per cent prawstint! The old clown says. Then thankfully he looks around and sees another old pisshead staggering into the bar. – Ah’m gaunny huv tae love yis and leave yis, boys. Ower thair at the bar, a very good friend of mine’s ah’ll have ye know … well, take care ma boeys. Nae fitba bother! Ah’m relyin oan youse boys tae screw the nut. Yis huv goat tae huv the big match temperament … interfuckincityfirm … shite! The Billy Boeys … we could’ve showed youse a thing or two … that wis real hard men … the Bricktin Billy Boeys, the original Bricktin Billy Boeys ah’m talkin aboot here! Remember, boeys, yuv goat tae git in first n take nae prisoners. Yuv goat tae huv the big match temperament!
– That’s the game, Mr T., Bal says.
The old cunt stands up and lurches over to this other sad old fucker at the bar.
– BIG MATCH TEMPERAMENT! he turns back and shouts over.
I’m fucking well wound up. There’s only one place to go when you’re feeling like this. I turn to Bal. – I fancy a little walk over the river. A bus to London Bridge and a pleasant stroll down Tooley Street, along Jamaica Road and back home by Tube from Rotherhithe. Just the six of us.
Bal smiled, – I’m up for that. Let’s piss all over the bastards.
Riggsie shrugs, so does Shorthand and the rest. They’ll come along, but their bottle ain’t really up for it.
Mine is. I down the pint, relaxing my gullet and taking it in one swallow and feeling that gassy burp as it fills my gut. It’s time to move.
Toronto, 1967
Bob looked at the youngster in his wife’s arms. For a second he thought about another country, another wife and another child … no. He stopped himself as he stroked the baby’s warm red cheek. That was another time, another place. That was Wolverhampton Bob Worthington. This Bob Worthington had made a new life for himself in Toronto.
He stayed at the hospital for a few hours, then, exhausted but elated after sitting up all night, took the long drive home out to the suburbs. All the houses were different in his street, not like the mass-built redbrick slums he’d come from, yet a strange air of uniformity still pervaded his district. He parked the car in the narrow driveway outside the garage.
Bob looked at the basketball hoop which was suspended the regular ten feet above the garage door, and imagined his son growing – even saw him as a young man, leaping up like a salmon to send the ball home. This child would have the opportunities which circumstance had denied him. He would make sure of that. Tomorrow he had to go back to work; that was what you had to do when you worked for yourself. Just now he was shattered. As he went to bed, Bob prayed for a deep sleep with his dreams defined by the marvellous events of the day. He hoped the demons wouldn’t come.
That was what he hoped more than anything.
Decent Skirt
There's us fucking sitting out in the car-park, in the back of the van. No cunt wants our fucking gear; it’s all been a waste of bleeding time. Well, I’m thinking that if things don’t liven up around here soon, I’m gonna take a good E and just get right into the flaming action. Bal’s with some geezers in the other motor, he ain’t up for going in. Well, he can do as he pleases, I ain’t hanging about, am I; flaming skirt galore in there.
– That was a great fucking ruck the other week, in that pub like, Shorthand says.
– Yeah, after I pulled them geezers off you, I told him. If I hadn’t the slag would have been finished. – Final fucking chapter, weren’t it.
– Yeah, I thought that I was well fucked there for a bit. See once I got hold of them glasses though, phoarr … I was taking all them cunts out: left, right and bleeding centre.
– That fat bastard behind the bar, Johnny says, – he was pretty fucking tasty.
– Yeah, I goes, – he was until I copped him with that metal barstool. That was fucking ace. I remember that all right: fucking brilliant the way the cunt’s eyebrow just split right open.
I clock Shorthand ferreting in the plastic bag for beer. – Oi, Shorthand! Give us a fucking can, you cunt, I shout over at him. He passes a lager. McEwan’s.
– Fucking Jock piss, he says, then: – Sorry, mate, I forgot.
– Don’t worry about it.
– I mean, it ain’t as if you’re really flaming Scotch n all. It’s like my old man, he’s a Mick, and my old gel, she’s Polish, innit. Don’t make me a flamin Pole now, does it?
I just fucking shrug, – We’re all sodding mongrels, mate.
– Yeah, Shorthand goes, – but we’re all white men though, innit. Purity of race n all of that.
– Yeah, I suppose you got a point there, mate, I say.
– I mean, I ain’t saying that Hitler neccessarily had it right, mind you. It ain’t his fault he wasn’t an Englishman.
– Yeah, Hitler was a fucking wanker, I tell him, – Two World Wars and one World Cup, mate. All won by the claret n blue.
Shorthand starts singing. Ain’t no holding him when he gets started on some of the old West Ham classics. – No re-li-ga-shin for the claret n blue, just ju-bi-la-shin, for the claret n blue …
Riggsie climbs into the van. Bal’s behind him with that cunt Rodger. – Come inside, you cunts! Riggsie says, – It’s fucking kicking in there! The sounds, I’m tellin ya, make the hairs stand up on the back of your bleedin neck!
– Tell ya wot makes the fucking hairs stand up on the back of my neck, I say.
– The bagpipes, Shorthand goes.
– Nah. There’s cunt’s dealin in there, and they ain’t bleedin Firm, I tell Riggsie.
Bal says, – Yeah, that’s fucking well right, Thorny. Some fucker’s on a broken face in there.
That shuts Riggsie up good n proper. He’s a fucking soft touch, the stupid cunt. Them smarmy gits, the skinny fuckers with the big bags full of pills, they just crawl up his arse. It’s no bleedin wonder we can’t shift our Paracetamols and b
icarbs.
– Nah, it ain’t that, Riggsie’s going, – What’s happened is that every fucker seems to have got sorted out before they came along tonight. He hands Bal a pill, – Here, take one of them.
– Fuck off, Bal snorts. He still ain’t up for it. Fuck it, I swallow an E and head indoors with Riggsie. Shorthand’s necked one n all and he’s right behind us.
Inside I’m checking out this group of skirt standing by the wall. One of them I can’t stop looking at. I’m feeling a bit ropey, like I need to do a big fucking shit and then I realise that it’s because I’m coming right up off my fucking threepenny bits on this fucking gear and them bleedin sounds.
– Wot you fucking well staring at? She just came over and said it right out to me. I don’t really stare at skirt as such. I mean, as far as I see things it’s down to manners. Shorthand, well, he just intimidates a Doris. Stares straight at them; they probably think that they’re gonna get fucking raped or something. I’ve pulled him up about it. Don’t you fucking well stare down skirt, I tell him. You wanna stare some cunt down, you go down the Old Kent Road and try it with some Millwall geezers. You gotta treat birds with respect, I said to him. How’d you like some Bushwacker or Headhunter starin at your sis like that?
But here I am, staring at this gel. And it ain’t just cause she’s so pretty, cause she is, she’s fucking beautiful. It’s just that I’ve had this ecstasy and I’m staring at this gel who ain’t got any arms.
– Wasn’t you on the telly? It’s all I can think to say.
– Nah, I wasn’t on no telly and I wasn’t in no bleedin freak show either.
– I never …
– Well, just piss off, she snaps at me, turning away. Her mate puts an arm around her neck. I just stands there like a right bleedin turnip. I mean, nobody likes a slag with a mouth; let’s just take that one as given, but what can you say to a gel who ain’t got no bleedin arms?