by Irvine Welsh
– Cheers, boys! ah say, raising my pint, – Tell ye what, Eric, ah knew that you had the bools after seeing ye in action there. This gadge has bools, ah telt maself. That Brazilian spin, man! Whoa, ya cunt that ye fuckin well are!
– Aye, said Eric, smugly, – it wis a wee thing ah thought ah’d try. Ah said tae masel, Vaughan’s marshalled his defences well, but, ah thought, try a wee sneaky one roond the backdoor, and it just might come off.
– Aye, it wis a good shot, Vaughan conceded.
– It wis fuckin ace, ah told him. – You’ve heard of total fitba, the Dutch invented it, right? Well this man here, ah nodded towards Eric, – is total bools. You could’ve went for the blast there, Eric, tried that Premier League style huffing and puffing but naw, a bit ay class, a bit ay art.
The pint was drained. Vaughan hit the bar.
This was always a thing with Vaughan when he met me. He had a sense of duty, of the responsibilities ay a married man and a parent, so that whenever he did have an allocated time he would try tae squeeze as many units of alcohol into it as he possibly could. And he could drink. Thank fuck it was draught Becks ah was on. Ah wouldnae touch any Scottish shite, especially McEwan’s lager, the vile toxic pish that it is, for anything. The pints kept flowing and this speed was still digging in, and ah was almost hyperventilating. The thing is, it was like auld Eric got dragged in by the vibe, by the exuberance, and it was like the auld bastard had snorted a few lines n aw.
After a quick draining of the next pint he came back wi some mair beers, wi nips as chasers.
– Fuckin hell! ah said, – Expect the unexpected wi this man, eh?
– Aye, too right, Vaughan smiled. Vaughan was looking at us both with a big, indulgent those-are-mad-cunts-but-I-love-them smile. It made me feel close to him.
– Ye should go up n see Ma n Dad, Vaughan told me.
– Aye, ah guiltily conceded, – ah’ve been meanin tae drop by this tape ah made up for them. Motown, eh.
– Good. They’ll appreciate that.
– Aye, Marvin, Smokey, Aretha n aw that, ah said, then promptly changed the subject, turnin tae Eric, – Listen, Eric, that stunt you pulled wi the bools, ah began.
– Aye, Eric cut in, – fair took the wind oot ay Vaughan here’s sails, that’s if ye dinnae mind ays sayin like, Vaughan! Eric laughed. – Expect the unexpected!
– Do-do-do-do, do-do-do-do, ah start the Twilight Zone theme tune, then ah think of something, – Listen, Eric, your second name isnae Cantona, by any chance, is it?
– Eh naw, Stewart, he said.
– It’s just that there wis a Cantonaesque quality aboot that final shot thair, ah began giggling, a real dose ay the Flight Lieutenants, and Eric did too, – it fair blew fuckin Vaughan Ryan’s Express right out the water …
– Aye … awright then, ya cunts, Vaughan sulked.
– Ooh ah, Cantona, ah started, and Eric joined in. A few groups of drinkers and auld couples looked over at us.
Encouraged, auld Eric and ah were up doing the can-can: na, na na, na na na na na na na, na, na na, na na na na na na …
– Hey, come oan now, that’s enough. Thir’s folk here tryin tae enjoy a drink, a mumpy cunt with a blazer and badge moans.
– Aye, well nae herm done! auld Eric shouts back, then says in lower voice tae us, but still enough for every cunt tae hear, – What’s his fuckin problem?
– C’moan Eric … Vaughan goes, – Lloyd’s no a member here.
– Aye, well, the laddie’s been signed in. Signed in as a guest. It’s aw bona fide. Wir no daein herm. Like ah sais, nae herm done, Eric shook his heid.
– Procedures have been observed, eh, Eric, ah smirk.
– The situation’s completely bona fide, Eric confirms stoically.
– Ah think a certain Monsieur Vaughan Buist may be smarting over a recent sporting setback, n’est-ce pas, Monsieur Cantona? He ees, ow you say, ay leetal peesed off.
– Je suis une booler, Eric cackles.
– It’s no that, Lloyd, Vaughan mumps, – Aw ah’m tryin tae say is thit you’re no a member here. Yir a guest. Yir the responsibility ay the people that bring ye. That’s aw ah’m tryin tae say.
– Aye … bit nae herm done … mumbles Eric.
– It’s jist like that club you go tae, Lloyd. That place up at The Venue. What’s that club called?
– The Pure.
– Aye, right. It’s like if you’re at The Pure n ah wis tae come up n you were tae sign ays in …
– As ma guest, ah snorted, laughing uncontrollably at the thought. Ah heard auld Eric start as well. It got soas we were gaunnae peg oot.
– As your guest … Vaughan had started now. Ah thought: this is me fucked. Flight Lieutenant Biggies, hovering over the grim metropolis of Cunt City … Auld Eric started wheezing, as Vaughan carried on, – as the guest of one’s brother Lloyd at the exclusive club in town he frequents …
We were interrupted by a choking sound as auld Eric boaked thin beer-sick over the table. The humpty cunt with the blazer and badge was right over to him and grabbed up his pint. – That’s it! Oot, c’moan! Oot!
Vaughan grabbed the pint back. – That’s no fuckin well it at aw, Tommy.
– Aye it bloody well is! That’s it, the humpty cunt snapped.
– Dinnae fuckin well come ower tae this table n say that’s it, Vaughan said, – cause that’s no it at aw.
Ah slapped Eric on the back and helped the auld cunt to his feet and through to the lavvy. – It’s a sair ficht, right enough, ah caught him gasp between mouthfuls of sick as he spewed up into the bog pan.
– Aye, Eric, yir awright, man. Nae danger, ah said encouragingly. Ah felt like ah was at Rez, talking Woodsy down when he had his freak-out, but here ah was with a daft auld cunt in a bowling club.
We got Eric hame. It was an auld hoose where the door led straight oantae the main road. We propped him against it and rang the bell and moved away. A woman answered and pulled him in and slammed the door shut. Ah heard the sound of blows and Eric’s screams from behind the door, – Dinnae, Betty … ah’m sorry, Betty … dinnae hit ays again …
Then we went back tae Vaughan’s. The meal was a bit dried oot, and Fiona wisnae pleased at our state. Ah didnae want tae eat anything, but ah scranned with fake enthusiasm.
Ah felt heavy and embarrassed and ah left early, opting tae walk doon tae the port. As ah was coming doon Leith Walk, ah saw The Poisonous Cunt on the other side. Ah crossed over.
– Where ye gaun? ah asked.
– Just gaun back tae yours. Ah phoned Solo and he wanted ays tae pick up some stuff for him. You’re pished!
– A bit, aye.
– Did ye git the speedballs?
Ah looked at her for a bit. – Naw … ah didnae see the boy, eh. Ah ran intae some cunt, eh no. Ah had a sudden twinge of fear. – Whaire’s The Victim?
– Still at yours.
– Fuck!
– What is it?
– The Victim’s bulimic! She’ll clean oot aw that fuckin shoppin! Ye shouldnae huv left her oan her ain!
We hurried back to find that The Victim had eaten and vomited up the three raw cauliflowers ah had earmarked for Mrs McKenzie’s soup.
Ah had to hit the Asians for some rotting overpriced ingredients – but fair enough ah suppose as the cunts’ve pulled ays oot a hole wi bevvy and skins many times – and then it took me ages, half pished, tae make the soup. The Poisonous Cunt had some tabs ay acid which she gave me in lieu of cash the scabby hoor owed ays. – Go lightly wi this stuff, Lloyd, it’s the fucking business.
She played around on the decks with the phones for a while. Ah had to admit it, The Poisonous Cunt wisnae that bad, she seemed to have a good feel for it. Ah noted that she had a ring through her navel, exposed as it was by her short T-shirt. – Cool ring, ah shouted at her, and she gave me the thumbs-up and did a strange wee dance and flashed me a weird, ugly smile. If a Hollywood special effects department had been able tae reproduce that rictus g
rin it would have made several careers.
The Victim sat and sobbed at the TV, chain-smoking. The only thing she said to me was, – Any cigarettes, Lloyd … in a breathless, hoarse voice. Eventually they left and ah took the tupperware bowl down to Mrs McKenzie. Ah was heading through to Glasgow for the weekend to see some mates there. Ah was looking forward to it, fucked off as ah was wi Edinburgh. The thing was that ah had said tae ma mate Drewsy that I’d help him out the morn’s morning which ah wisnae really up for but it wid be cash in hand and ah needed hireys for the weekend.
7 Heather
Happy families.
Me and Hugh and my Mum and my Dad. My Dad and Hugh are talking politics. My Dad’s saying that he’s for the NHS while Hugh’s saying that we need to build a:
– … responsibility-orientated society. That’s why people should be free to choose the sort of health care and education they want.
– That’s just Tory rubbish, my dad says.
– I think we have to face facts – that old-style socialism, as we used to perceive it, is long dead. It’s now about appeasing different interest groups in a more diffused society; about taking what’s best from both traditional right and left philosophies.
– Well, I’m afraid I’ll always be a Labour man …
– I’m Labour as well, always have been, says Hugh.
– You’re New Labour, though, Hugh, I say. My mum looks disapprovingly at me.
Hugh looks a bit startled. – What?
– You’re New Labour. Tony Blair Labour. Which is the same as Tory, only Major’s probably further left than Blair. Blair’s just a snidier version of Michael Portillo, which is why he’ll do better than Portillo will ever do.
– I think it’s a wee bit more sophisticated than that, Heather, Hugh says.
– No, I don’t think it is. What’s Labour planning to do for working-class people in this country if they get back in? Nothing.
– Heather … Hugh says wearily.
– Well, I’m afraid I’ll always vote Labour, my dad says.
– Labour and Tory are now both exactly the same, I tell them.
Hugh rolls his eyes in the direction of my mother as if to apologise for my behaviour. We agree in silence to change the subject and my dad says, – It wouldnae do if we all had the same opinions, would it?
The rest of the evening is pretty uneventful. Outside, in the car as we leave, Hugh says to me, – Somebody was a bit bolshy this evening.
– All I did was to say what I believe to be true. Why such a big deal?
– I wasn’t making a big deal. You were. There was no need to be so combative.
– I wasn’t being combative.
– I think you were a little, honey, he smiles, shaking his head. He looks that kind of wee-boy way and I want to kill him because of the horrible tenderness I feel inside towards him. – You’re some broad, baby, he then says in an American gangster accent, and squeezes my leg. I’m happy to seethe inwardly as the tenderness evaporates.
8 Lloyd
Drewsy and me are in this Gumleyland ghetto. Ah think it’s Carrick Knowe but it could be Colinton Mains. Ah was fucked and hungover in the van. – It’s just a skirtin job, Lloyd. That and new doors. Take nae time at aw, he telt ays.
Drewsy always seems to be smiling because he has laughing eyes and Coke-bottle glasses. The thing is that he is a very happy cunt and gives off a good vibe. Ah worked with him ages ago out at Livingston in a sweatshop where we built house-panels, and since he went tae graft for himself he always puts a bit of casual my way if he can; which was champion the fuckin wonderhoarse fir the Double L. Oh. Y. D.
At the house, the boy, a Mr Moir, makes us a cup ay tea. – Anything you need, lads, just give’s a shout. I’ll be in the garden, he told us cheerfully.
Anywey, wir knockin oaf the rooms finestyle, and I’m starting tae feel better, looking ahead tae the night oot wi the weedgie cunts. Drewsy and me are in this room which is like a young lassie’s bedroom. There’s a big poster ay the boy fae Oasis oan one waw, one ay the gadge fae Primal Scream and one fae the dude oot ay Blur oan the other. Close tae the bed, though, is the boy oot ay Take That, him that went and left. There’s a few tapes thair n aw. Ah pit oan Blur’s Parklife, cause ah quite like the title track where ye hear the boy that wis in Quadrophenia spraffin away. That wis a fuckin good film.
Ah start singing along as ah rip oot the old skirting-board.
– Hey! Phoah … look at this! Drewsy shouts. He’s rummaging through the lassie’s chest ay drawers and ah know which one he’s looking for. He locates the underwear drawer pretty sharpish, pulling a pair ay panties oot and sniffing at the crotch. – Wish tae fuck ah could find the dirty laundry basket, he laughs, then, suddenly inspired, goes out into the hallway and opens a few presses. There’s nothing there though – Bastard. Still, some nice wee panties here, eh?
– Fuckin hell, man, ah’m totally in love wi this wee chick, ah tell him, hudin up a pair ay scanties tae the light and trying to mentally visualise a nice fuckin hologram tae fit intae them. – How auld dae ye reckon she is?
– Ah’d say between fourteen and sixteen, Drewsy smiles.
– What a fuckin ice-cool wee bird, ah say, looking through the spot-on-sexy collection of undies. I take out Blur and put on Oasis who are giving it laldy and ah don’t really like bands being mair ay a club sort ay cunt but ah decide that I’m up for this. Ah go back to my skirtings but Drewsy’s still intrigued.
Ah look up and jump as Drewsy’s dancing around tae the music, but he’s goat a pair ay the lassie’s knickers stretched ower his heid and his glesses oan toap. At that point ah at first think then I definitely know that I’m hearing something from outside and before ah can shout tae Drewsy the door opens and it’s the guy, Mr Moir, standing there, in front of Drewsy who’s dancing away. – What’s going on! What are you doing? That’s … that’s …
Poor Drewsy pulls the pants off his heid. – Eh, sorry, Mr Moir … jist huvin a wee joke, eh. Ha ha ha, he says adding a playful, stage laugh.
– Is that your idea of humour? Going through someone’s personal belongings? Acting like an animal in my daughter’s underpants!
It was that bit that got me. Ah started laughing uncontrollably. Ah had the Flight Lieutenant Biggles in a big way. Ah was contorting like ah was having a fit and ah could feel my face reddening. – Heagh heagh heagh heagh …
– And what are you sniggering at? He turned to me, – You think that’s fuckin funny! This … fuckin sick imbecile rummaging through my daughter’s personal items!
– Sorry … Drewsy weakly lisped, before ah could speak.
– Sorry? Fuckin sorry are ye! Have you got children? Eh?
– Aye, ah’ve got two laddies, Drewsy said.
– And you think that’s the way a father should behave?
– I’ve said I’m sorry. It was a stupid thing tae dae. We were just having a laugh. Now we can stand here and discuss how faithers should behave or me and my mate can get on and finish the job. Either way, you get billed. What’s it to be?
Ah thought Drewsy was cool, but the cunt Moir didnae think so.
– Take your tools and leave. I’ll pay ye for the work that you’ve done. You should think yourself lucky you aren’t getting reported!
We tidied up, the cunt coming back in and moaning at us occasionally, oblivious tae the fact that he was carrying his daughter’s underpants around with him, clenched tightly in his hand.
Drewsy and me hit the pub. – Sorry ah couldnae tip ye oaf in time, Drewsy. It wis the music. Ah never heard the sneaky cunt. One minute nae sign, the next the cunt wis standin over ays watchin you daein yir wee dance.
– One ay they things, Lloyd, Drewsy smiled. – Good fuckin laugh though, eh. Did ye see the cunt’s face?
– Did ye see yours?
– Right enough! he exploded with laughter.
Drewsy peyed ays and we drank up. Ah got a taxi up tae Haymarket and got oan the train tae Soapdodge Ci
ty. When ah got off at Queen Street ah took a taxi up tae Stevo’s flat in the West End, travelling the same distance as in the Edinburgh taxi but for about a third of the price. It reminded me what cunts Edinburgh taxi drivers were. Ah wis nearly fuckin well cleaned oot already. Ah would have tae try tae flog they shitey E’s ay The Poisonous Cunt’s.
Claire, Amanda and Siffsy were at Stevo’s and they were all getting togged up. – What the fuck’s this fashion parade fir, man? ah bleated nervously, checking the inadequacy ay ma ain togs.
– Wir no gaun tae the Sub Club now, cause Roger Sanchez is on at the Tunnel, Claire said.
– Fuckin hell … ah whinged.
– You’re awright, Stevo said.
– Ye think so?
– Aw aye, Claire nodded.
Siffsy kept buttin in and oot ay the front room, treatin it like a fuckin catwalk. He wis takin ages. – Ah don’t know about they shoes n strides wi this toap, eh said.
– Naw, ah said, – the strides dinnae really go wi the toap, eh no.
– Ah cannae no wear the toap though, man. Sixty-five bar oot ay X-ile. Thing is, if ah wear they broon strides they’ll clash wi the shoes.
– We need tae go, said Claire rising, – c’moan.
Amanda and Stevo followed her lead. Ah couldnae get it together to stand up, it was a cracker ay a couch, you just sank doon intae it.
– Hud oan a minute! Siffsy begged.
– Get tae fuck, Stevo shook his head. – C’moan, Lloyd, ya fuckin east-coast poof. Ye fit?
– Aye, ah said, rising.
– Ah’ll no be a minute … Siffsy pleaded.
– See ye in the next life, Stevo said, exiting, as we followed. Siffsy came behind feeling self-conscious about the Gordon Rae’s.
His embarrassment evaporated at the Tunnel. They Es Stevo had got were shit-hot, much better than the crap I’d brought through if the truth be telt. Roger S was on fine form and we were well away with it when we headed back to Stevo’s the next morning. Siffsy started tae get self-conscious again as the E ran down, and fucked off hame tae get changed. Ah dropped one of The Poisonous Cunt’s ‘business’ acids back at the gaff on the proviso that if her eckies were shite then her acids wouldnae be too hot either.