Authors: Irvine Welsh
— Ah’m just too wasted. Takes ages tae git it up eftir ah bang this shit … chasin a bit ay broon, nae worries, root like a Californian Ridwood, but see bangin this stuff …
Lesley isnae really ma type, wi her big bust, but of course ah’d still ride her if ah wisnae fucked up. We baith take oor tops off, then hug and kiss for a bit, but she’s as wasted as me, n we mumble shite for a while, then faw intae something like sleep, wi her still cuppin ma soft genitals.
Ah’m aware ay a passage ay time and then a rat-arsed Alison and Kelly barging intae the room, follayed by Spud, bringin in a ragged, morning light. — Whoops, somebody says, and they quickly close the door. They half open it again tae shout in, — Happy New Year!
Ah try n mumble something back. Lesley and me are baith stripped doon tae oor underpants, the duvet having slid oaf us as the heating
kicked
up in the night. Ah pull it back across those heavy, solid lily-white breasts.
— Fuck sakes … she goes, waking up as the others, giggling like daft wee bairns, shut the door.
— Mmmm … ah kind ay agree, sick n wi a tinny taste in ma mooth.
— What time is it? Lesley sits up, wi the duvet in front ay her tits. She yawns and turns tae me.
— Fuck knows … ah moan, but it sounds like the party’s rambling on. Ah can hear ‘Cum On Feel the Noize’ by Slade, n ah’m guessin that Begbie’s still monopolising the turntable. As we heave ourselves slowly intae consciousness, Lesley and me are baith pretty embarrassed, wi the works oan the bedside table, but also aboot the general situ. We crashed right through the bells and never even shagged. The door goes again, a soft series ay raps. It doesnae open but ah hear Spud behind it: — Fitba, catboy, fitba. Pub. The derby. The Cabbage.
— Geez a minute. Take Nicksy doon the Clan wi ye and ah’ll see yis in thaire in a bit.
Lesley and me can hear the flat emptyin. You ride somebody when you’re fucked up and horny, then in the morning they often look as rough as fuck. She’s the reverse, she’s gorgeous n ah’m sortay seein it for the first time. Ah’ve goat a belter ah a hard-on n she looks as sexy and sleazy as fuck, but the moment’s passed n she’s up and getting dressed, leavin me nae option but tae follow suit.
— Right, see ye later, she says.
You fuckin bam, Renton, you fuckin bammy simple dingul
.
— No comin doon the pub for one?
— Naw. Gaun tae my ma’s at Clerie for a New Year perty.
We get oot intae the cauld, headin oor separate weys. Ah soon sort ay wish ah’d gaun tae Clerie wi her, even if ah wisnae invited. The pub is chaotic, wi everybody singin Hibs songs. A middle-aged gadge in thick glesses has stripped off and is dancing oan the stage the go-gos use. He has PADDY STANTON wi two eyes tattooed in Indian ink oan his buttocks and ELVIS oan his cock, which an auld wifie tries tae conceal wi her knitting as he gyrates.
— That’s his ma, somebody explains.
Nicksy’s fair enjoyin hissel, looks like the change ay scene hus done him good. Ah’m strugglin wi the drink, but. It makes us seek; Queen Skag’s quite a jealous bitch, she doesnae seem tae like other drugs tryin tae muscle intae her meat, particularly Princess Peeve. Ali n Kelly look like they’re in deep conspiracy, Nicksy’s tellin Tommy n Spud a tale aboot
Sick
Boy, n ah’m forced intae the pain seat beside Begbie, whae slams his trademark elbay intae ma ribs. — Nice one wi Lesley, ya dirty, lucky cunt! You’re no fuckin shy! Ah’d cowp it in a fuckin minute! Fill hoose for the rid-heided cunt, ah take it?
— Naw, just a wee kiss n cuddle, ah goes. — New Year pleasantries, n ah look ower at Tommy, who looks rough as fuck. He shakes his heid in self-loathing.
— Aye, that’ll be right, ya fuckin clarty rid-heided bastard! Ye wir up her aw night, ya spawny cunt, he declares, daein that one-handed switch fae nip tae fag n back that strangely impresses. — Fuckin hud ma eye oan that yin fir ages! No shy, this cunt, he announces tae the table.
The rest join in, no believin ma honourable protestations. The best thing ah could’ve done wis tae tell every cunt that ah wis bangin Lesley aw weys, that she couldnae get enough. Then they’d think, ‘Aye, right.’ By simply telling the truth, they now believe ah’ve done her in every orifice. It must be shite bein a bird. Ah go up tae the jukey and pit oan ‘Lido Shuffle’ by Boz Scaggs, thinking ay ‘Baws Skagged’, ma new nickname for masel that will be kept tae masel.
When ah git back tae the seat Kelly’s sortay listenin tae Nicksy n Ali gaun oan aw seriously aboot relationship problems, him still slaverin aboot that Marsha bird fae upstairs at oor Dalston gaff, n her gaun oan aboot some mairried gadge she’s seein fae her work. Suddenly she looks keenly at Nicksy and asks, — What’s Simon daein fir New Year?
— Dunno, Nicksy shrugs.
— Ah love Simon!
— Yeah, Nicksy says warily, — he’s a top geezer.
Franco’s shuffled closer tae me and lowers his voice in confidant mode. — Listen the now, mate, cause you’re the only cunt ah kin fuckin well trust roond here …
— Right …
— Fat Tyrone, ye ken him?
— By rep jist, ah goes. Ye heard aw sorts ay stories aboot Fat Tyrone, aka Davie Power. He either ran the toon wi an iron fist, or was a blobby shitebag and a cowardly grass, dependin on whae wis telling the tale. It never interested me, aw that gangster stuff.
— Ah’m daein a wee bit work fir the cunt.
— Right.
— But ah’m no sure aboot it.
— What’s it yir daein?
— Helpin um git his fruit machines installed. It doesnae go through the
books,
so it’s fuckin barry. Money fir nowt n aw. Me, Nelly n this big cunt, Skuzzy, jist go roond tae the pubs n gie thum a copy ay the fruit machine catalogue. Maistly the cunts git the message n they ken tae take the one thit Power’s gaunny pit in, he says, looking at Nelly who’s fuckin well equipped for that joab, as he’s constantly up at the fruit machine, ignorin his burd, as he bangs in the change, his pus a picture ay concentration.
— Right, well, if yir no sure, leave it alaine.
— Aye, he goes, — but Nelly’s daein stuff for um n aw, n ah dinnae want that fucker swannin aroond like he’s the cunt wi the tadger the size ay the fuckin Scott Monument. Nae point cuttin oaf your cock tae spite yir baws, ken what ah mean?
It made sense now; if Nelly was daein work for a top gangster, no way could Begbie leave that oaf his CV. These cunts professed tae be great mates, but they’d been in competition wi each other ivir since school.
— There is that, ah suppose, ah goes, tryin tae sound as if it ah gied a fuck, and just aboot pullin it off.
— At first ah just fuckin well thoat, Nelly goat a wee taster n he wis fuckin well puntin a bit action his buddy’s wey. Now ah see it fuckin different but. It’s like he’s sayin he disnae fuckin well rate us, ah’ll fuck it aw up, that’s how he’s fuckin well giein us it, soas ah’ll faw flat oan ma fuckin face, Franco glares at me. The bam’s buildin up a head ay steam here.
Aw ah kin dae is nod. Suddenly, Tommy springs up, face crinkled like a Chinese lantern, n we aw look roond startled, as he puts his hand tae his mooth. Puke’s sprayin oot between his fingers as he runs frantically tae the toilet, tae big cheers fae the table.
Except Franco.
Ah couldnae gie a fuck aboot these cunts n thair business, nor their covert war wi each other, but ah dinnae want it kickin off here. — Naw, ah think Nelly’s bein sound, Franco. The wey ah see it is that he rates ye, n it reflects better on him wi Power if Nelly intros him tae a gadge that kin obviously handle things.
Franco thinks aboot this for a bit. Looks ower tae Nelly, then back tae me. Seems tae agree. — Aye, mibbe ah’m bein a wee bit hard oan the cunt. Sound cunt Nelly, eywis wis, he says as Nelly looks ower tae us. — Awright, Nelly, ya cunt! Git thum in then! Lager n whisky fir me, lager n voddy for this dirty ginger-heided fucker! N the boys here n the lassies n aw! C’moan, Tam, ya fuckin lightweight, he roars at Tommy, whae returns fae the bog lookin like a ghost. He creases his face up in pain as somebody hands him a drink.
Nelly gies a strangely fetching wee salute and leaves the fruit machine tae shout up a round. We join in a chorus ay ‘We Are Hibernian FC’ which blasts oot fae another table, then doss back the drinks and head off tae the game.
Notes on an Epidemic 5
THEY CALLED HIM
Andy. Most people said he was American due to his accent, even though he held a British passport. He was a largely circumspect individual, but nobody bothered much about that. Strangers appeared, came and went, were free to be silent or tell tall stories as they saw fit, to try out new identities before vanishing like ghosts. If you had gear or money, few searching questions were asked.
One persistent version of his tale was that Andy’s parents emigrated to Canada from Scotland when he was four years old. As he grew into his youth, he became estranged from his family and drifted over to America, then joined the Marine Corps, in order to obtain US citizenship. Saw active service in Vietnam. Perhaps came back with undiagnosed post-traumatic stress, or maybe just couldn’t settle into life outside the disciplined structures of the military. Drifted through several American towns till he ended up in the Tenderloin District of San Francisco. Became a political activist in the Vietnam Veterans movement. Fell foul of the authorities. They saw his UK passport, and discounting his American service record, sent him back to a home he scarcely remembered.
Whether its genesis was in Vietnam, or the Tenderloin, came through sharing needles, blood transfusions or unprotected sex, a sickness settled on Andy. Back in Edinburgh he fell in with a loosely federated group of desperados who adopted him. They had access to the medicine he needed. There was Swanney from Tollcross, Mikey from Muirhouse, the old hippy Dennis Ross. Shifty Alan Venters from Sighthill, a little thief from Leith called Matty, and a sinister biker named Seeker. They were just some of the prominent members of a diffuse, often fractious community, which grew exponentially with every closing factory, warehouse, office and shop. It was in this scene, where, unknown to himself or anyone else, through sharing those big hospital syringes in Edinburgh’s shooting galleries, Andy became the Johnny Appleseed of Aids.
The Art of Conversation
AH SAIS TAE
fuckin June earlier, ah goes: thank fuck that’s January nearly ower. A shite fuckin month. Baw cauld n every cunt steyin in aw the time, Renton sneakin away back doon tae fuckin London wi that wee cunt he hud up here. Wisnae a bad wee fucker, but every cunt should stey whaire they fuckin well come fae, that’s what ah eywis fuckin well say. At least Rents came back; Sick Boy nivir even fuckin showed up at aw.
That Cha Morrison cunt fae Lochend’s inside eftir daein Larry ower. Still runnin oaf at the fuckin mooth, n aw, or so they fuckin well tell us.
How come Begbie nivir does time? Makes ye wonder if the cunt’s a fuckin grass
. Fuckin innuendo. Ah’ll gie that cunt a fuckin grass awright. That cunt dies: spreadin fuckin innuendo. Cunt’s nipped cause it’s me the likes ay Davie Power wants to git fuckin involved in the world ay business. No a schemie tramp like that fuckin fandan. But that Hong Kong Fuey, the Pilton cunt that goat his jaw tanned when he goat wide eftir ah bairned his slag ay a sister, he’s the cunt ah really feel fuckin lit doon by. No a peep oot ay that cunt, but ah suppose he must’ve goat seek using fuckin straws tae eat his dinner. Still, it’ll be company fir her fuckin bairn whin it comes; that’s what ah fuckin well sais tae fuckin Nelly the other day: her fuckin bairn’ll be oan fuckin solids before that cunt!
Thaire’s nae conversation oot ay fuckin June, good fir pokin jist, yon. Now thit she’s huvin a bairn, she’s chuffed tae jist sit in the hoose watchin the box wi her fags n Babychams. So ah’m gled tae git oot n sign oan the fuckin dole then head up toon n dae some graft. Gav Temperley’s sound, he kens no tae bother us by sendin us tae fuckin interviews, cause ah telt the cunt oan the quiet that ah’ve been daein a bit ay work fir Fat Tyrone Power.
So ah gies them ma autograph, then gits in the motor wi Nelly n shoots up tae George Street, tae the office. Goes up tae see Fat Power n he’s in thaire wi big Skuzzy. Ah’m lookin at this big fuckin map ay Edinburgh oan the waw, n it’s goat aw they coloured plastic tag things pinned intae it, showin whaire Power’s fruit machines are sited. Aw the pins are green, except a couple ay white yins. Power points tae yin wi a chubby
finger
like a fuckin sausage in a butcher’s windae. — This poxy little boozer. A very lippy auld chap just took it ower. Doesnae want a fruit machine in the shop. Your mission, gentlemen, should you choose tae accept it, the cunt laughs at his ain
Mission: Impossible
joke, but ah keep ma face straight cause ah’m no here tae laugh at any cunt’s jokes and if that cunt’s goat a fuckin problem wi that, it’s too fuckin bad fir him, – is to convince him of the considerable benefits that would accrue should he choose to reconsider his position.
Nelly’s huvin a wee lassie’s giggle n even Skuzzy’s goat a grin oan his fuckin coupon. Fucked if ah’m playin sidekick tae a two-bob villain but; if the cunt wants his fuckin equity caird he kin git up oanstage at the King’s fir the Christmas fuckin panto. So me n Nelly leave Skuzzy n the fat fucker n head off tae the boozer, tae see this auld cunt.
We’re comin up tae the bar n ah’m realisin that this place is ringin a few fuckin warnin bells. Somethin isnae fuckin right here.
— Lit us handle this, ah tells Nelly, — You stall here.
The cunt looks like he’s aboot tae say something, then shrugs as ah nashes ootay the motor n intae the bar.
Ya cunt, ah’m no wrong aboot this boozer. Sixth fuckin sense. Ah believe thit some cunts’ve goat it; ah’ve fuckin well goat it n it’s stood me in good fuckin stead. Ah ken this shop awright, but ah’m even mair surprised when ah see the auld cunt thit’s workin here. It’s Uncle Dickie, Dickie Ellis, well, he’s really a mate ay ma Uncle Gus, whae wis my ma’s brar, but he wis like an uncle tae me n aw, n the cunt’s delighted tae fuckin well see us. — Frankie boy! Long time no see, son. How goes it? How’s yir mother?