Skagboys

by Irvine Welsh

  Fuckin Weedgies, they cannae dae nowt without bringin thair fucked-up fitba and Ireland shite intae everything …

  We get him settled doon, n fair play, one ay the radges immediately comes up and apologises. It’s the skinny cunt, he’s goat practically nae chin and big, uneven teeth. ‘Sorry aboot that, big man, yir right, wrang song, wrang place …’

  My faither nods in acceptance as the gadge passes him a bottle ay Grouse. The auld boy takes a concilatory slug fae it, then at Beaver pus’s prompting, passes it tae me, but ah wave it away. Fucked if ah’m takin a drink ay anything oafay these cunts, let alaine that shite.

  ‘It’s awright, emotions runnin a wee bit high,’ ma faither goes, noddin tae Andy, whae looks doolally, like he’s in shock.

  Then they start talkin aboot the events ay the day, n soon thair airms ur roond each other’s shoodirs like they’re best mates. Ah’m feelin fuckin nauseated. If there’s one thing that’s even sicker than those sectarian cunts at each other’s throats, it’s when they start cosyin up thegither. Ah cannae sit here wi this fuckin back. Ootside ah sketches the road signs for Manchester, n no really kennin what the fuck ah’m daein, ah suppose half thinking aboot Nicksy, ah stand up. ‘Ah’m gettin oaf here, Dad.’

  Ma auld boy’s shocked. ‘Whit? You’re comin hame wi me …’

  ‘Ye dinnae wahnt tae git oaf the bus here, pal,’ his new Chipmunk-choppered best china unhelpfully intervenes, but ah studiously ignore the cunt.

  ‘Naw,’ ah goes tae ma Dad, ‘but ah said ah’d meet some mates at Wigan Casino,’ ah lie. It’s a fuckin Monday at noon, and the Wigan Casino shut a few years back, but it’s aw ah kin think ay sayin.

  ‘But yir gran’s expectin ye back at Cardonald … wir gaunny git the train back tae Embra later … yir brother’s in hoaspital, Mark, yir ma’ll be worried sick …’ ma auld man’s pleadin wi us.

  ‘Ah’m oaf,’ ah tell um, n ah nip doon tae the front and get the driver tae pull up at the hard shoulder. He looks at us like ah’m a radge, but the airbrakes hiss and ah jump oaf the coach, ma back jarrin in sudden pain. Ah look back tae the hurt, uncomprehendin expression oan ma dad’s face as the bus moves away and ebbs intae the traffic. It hits me that ah huvnae goat a fuckin scooby what ah’m daein here, walkin by the side ay this motorway. But the back feels better wi me movin: ah just had tae get the fuck oot ay there.

  The sun’s pummellin doon and it’s still as warm as fuck, a really beautiful summer’s day. The cars shoot past us headin north, as ah rip the COAL NOT DOLE sticker fae ma denim jaykit. The tear oan the sleeve isnae too bad; it kin be stitched nae bother. Ah lift ma airm, stretchin it oot through the nagging ache in my shoodir. Ah climb up the bankin oantae this overpass, n look ower the railins doon the motorway at the cars n lorries ripping by underneath me. Ah’m thinkin that we’ve lost, and there’s bleak times ahead, and ah’m wonderin: what the fuck am ah gaunny dae wi the rest ay ma life?

  I Did What I Did

  EIGHT BIRTHDAY CARDS arrived this morning: all from girly-wirlies, and that ain’t counting my mother and sisters. Sweet as you fucking well like. One from Marianne, with a sad ‘call me’ plea, after the desperate showboating of foxy love notes and kisses. Probably taking stock ay the fact that she’s becoming a crushing bore; aw this ‘come to my sister’s wedding’ guff. Dae ah look like Consort-at-a-Schemie-fest material? Still, she’s back in the fold, and therefore most serpently getting pumped with prejudice later.

  Of course, the upbeat mood is spoiled by a filthy brown envelope fae the dole, inviting me tae a job interview for the plum garage attendant’s post at Canonmills. Thrilled to bits they’re thinking of Simone, but I must respectfully decline, with a wee word tae my mate Gav Temperley at the dole office about this unwanted intrusion. Working chappies fail to understand the minds of men of leisure. I am not employed through choice, you fucking cretins; please dinnae mistake me for one of those hapless drones who wander around town in a trance, searching for non-existent labour.

  Garage attendant. Not in this fuckin life, Milksnatcher and Bike Boy. Get the Billionaire Playboy cairds up in your shitey offices, then I just might be interested!

  But the best present comes in the form of a phone call. Happy twinty-second birthday, Simon David Williamson; Cunty Baws has finally left the building! I’m taking the news, conveyed by my sister Louisa, in one breathless, gasping utterance, with a triumphant punch in the air. A quick look at the dictionary, it’s an ‘M’ day today, and I decide my new word is:

  MYOPIA, noun, nearsightedness. *lack of imagination, foresight or intellectual insight.

  Then ah’m heading right doon tae the Bannanay flats!

  Ya fuckin beauty!

  As ah hit the foot ay the Walk it starts tae pish doon; cauld, skin-stinging rain, but I crack a smile, stretching my bare, T-shirted arms out, and raising my head to the sky on this beautiful day, letting the bounty of the good Lord cool my skin.

  Tae the business at hand; ah get up tae the Williamson rabbit hutch on the second floor of this systems-built warren that dominates the old port proper, not the shite south ay Junction Street and Duke Street, which ah refuse tae acknowledge as real Leith. — Simon … son … my mother pleads, but ignoring her and Louisa and Carlotta, I immediately go tae the parental boudoir, tae check that the vain, posturing prick has emptied the jackets and shirts fae his wardrobe. A sure sign that he’s genuinely flown the coop rather than this all being a device for future manipulative leverage. My heart races as I pull the creaky door open. Yes! All gone! YA FUCKIN BEAUTY!

  God, after all he’s put her through, you’d think she’d be delighted, but Mama’s sitting on the couch sobbing and cursing the skanker that’s stolen his brass heart. — That hoor that’sa brainwashed him!

  Non capisco!

  She should be thanking the demented muppet for taking that dirty, slimy leech off her hands. But no: Lousia, my older sister, is sobbing with her, and my younger one, Carlotta, sits at her feet like a daft wee lassie. They look like an Amsterdam Jewish family, who’ve come back tae find the man ay the house carted off tae the camps!

  He’s only fucking well kipped up wi some minger!

  Ah sink doon on my knees beside them, holding my mother’s chubby hand, still wi his poxy rings on it, stroking Carlotta’s long, dark locks with my other paw. — He cannae mess us aroond any more, Mama. It’s the best move for everybody. No sense in being myopic here.

  She sobs into a hanky, displaying the grey roots in her inky-dyed and stiffly lacquered hair. — Ah cannae believe it. Ah mean, ah always kenta he was-ah sinner, she says in her halting Scheme-Eyetie accent, — but ah never-ah thoughta he’d dae this …

  Ah came doon here tae provide support, practical if necessary, fuck, ah wis even ready tae help the prick pack, but he’d blissfully gone. If ah kent it was all gaunny be that smooth ah’d have broken the bank and bought some Moët Chandon! I ultra want tae celebrate. Twinty-fuckin-second! All I get here, though, is gloom, despair and greeting puses.

  Fuck that. I stand up, and leaving them bubbling away, head ootside onto the landing for a cigarette. Ye almost have tae admire the bastard for the iron hold he has ower them. My father: David Kenneth Williamson. Ah’ve seen the pictures of the old girl when she was young; a dark, sultry Latin beauty, before the pasta kicked in and she mushroomed to her current HGV proportions. How the fuck did she faw for that shifty-looking spunkbag?

  The rain has stopped and the sun’s back out strongly, removing any evidence ay the shower’s existence save for a few puddles in the uneven paving stones on the concrete of Schemesville below. That’s what ah should dae, go through the hoose and remove all lingering traces of that cunt. Instead, ah take a deep, satisfying inhalation on my Marlboro.

  Looking down over a sunnier-than-ever Leith, I-spy-with-my-little-eye Coke Anderson and his wife and kids getting oot ay a motor. The missus, Janey, is an old banger for sure, defo a looker in her day, and still worth one at a push. She’s arguing wi Coke, who’s lurchi
ng behind, pished again as usual. The daft cunt hasnae had a sober day since the docks pensioned him off on med retirement, back in the day of Our Lord fuck-knows-when. Ah feel sorry for the young boy, Grant, he’s about eight or nine, as I know how mortifying an auld felly who refuses to shape up can be; though with mine it was generally women rather than bevvy that provided the embarrassment. But heh-low … ride alert, ride alert … the daughter has turned oot a right wee fuckin belter! Probably be a baboon-morphed bloated slag by the time she’s eighteen, but I certainly wouldnae mind getting a wee taste ay that sweet, sweet honey before it goes oaf!

  Ah hear their verbal conflict continue as they mount the stairs, Coke’s nasal apologetic whine, — But, Ja-ney … ah jist met a couple ay the boys, Ja-ney … nice tae be nice, but, eh?

  What’s the daughter’s name again … come tae Simon …

  — Change the record, for God sakes, Janey moans, turning the stair bend and looking briefly at me before rubbernecking back tae Coke, – jist stey oot, Colin! Dinnae bother us, eh!

  Ah acknowledge the wee Grant felly’s beetroot coupon with an empathetic smile. Feeling your pain, Sonny Jim. And the daughter is behind him, pouting with sulky teen lips like a model who’s just been told there’s one more outfit change and another catwalk prance before she can indulge in that much needed line ay charlie and a vodka martini.

  — Simon, Janey says curtly as she passes me, but the wee honey, Maria, her name is, gies me the snooty treatment. Very blonde and tan, I believe they’re no long back fae a family holiday in Majorca (where Coke inevitably disgraced himself), the skin tone brought up by that tight black skirt and light yellow top.

  And suddenly that name …

  That’ll be the last ever family holiday that wee yin goes on. It’ll be viva Fucksy Central wi a bunch ay mates or some lucky, lusty local lad fae now on in. And Simon David Williamson here might just be putting himself in the frame for that particular vacancy. Louisa used tae babysit her, n ah should’ve taken mair interest, just on the off chance she’d turn oot a stunner. But who could have forecast that plain wee podger would have evolved intae a catwalk creamer in the space ay six months?

  Coke is lurching up behind them all, and finally, wheezingly turning onto the balcony, befuddled pus glaring in appeal, palms upturned, — Aw but, Ja-ney …

  The wife and kids trudge inside their designated council hutch and Coke lurches past me, looking scarecrow-daft in profile as the door slams in his coupon. He stands there for a second or two, before turning back tae me in bemused shock.

  — Coke.

  — Simon …

  Ah don’t fancy going back inside to hear Mama and mie sorelle snivelling mindlessly over the departed bastard, and Coke seems Scotland Yard from his place. I’ve only been away for a year, but the transformation in wee Maria in that time is nothing short ay breathtaking. More info needed for the detailed files. — Fancy a pint? It’s ma birthday!

  The prospect of mair pish briefly lifts Coke’s jakey spirits. — Ah’m a bit short …

  Ah consider this for a second. What’s in it for me? A possible parental intro tae the family estate, and the opportunity tae woo the delightful Maria. It’s an investment, and Old Baxter’s rent money will just have tae wait a wee bitty. Besides, my gainfully employed ginger-heided buddy is moving in, tired with family strife at Chez Renton. Well, Rents will be rent boy this month. — My shout, buddy. The birthday boy’s in the chair!

  Blackpool

  Saturday Lunchtime

  THE RADIO’S BLARING away as me, Dave Mitch, Les and Young Bobby the YT chant along wi Nik Kershaw at the top ay oor voices: — WOO–DINT IT BE GOOOOD TO BE IN YOUR SHOES, EE-VIN IF IT WAS FOR JUST ONE DAHY … as Ralphy Gillsland, drawing the plane along a stretch ay wid, screws his face up.

  Ah’ve been a bit jittery after a few peeves too many in Leith last night and ma posture’s that awkward wi this fucked-up back, ah vernear took the top ay ma finger oaf trying tae chisel the lock fitting intae this door. Thought the blood widnae stoap, but ah staunched it wi a bandage ay cotton wool n gauze.

  Fuck, ye can taste the weekend, cause it’s Saturday morning and we’re excluded, but no for long! Apart fae this OT, which is good cause we’re in the toon, oot ay the workshop, refitting this gutted boozer in Tollcross, it’s been a decent enough week. Ah missed the shitein competition on Monday through being at the Yorkshire picket, so Sandy Turner, the driver, has deposed me with a fifteen incher, which Les pointed out tae us twice aleady this week, lying on top ay a soggy Daily Record, oan the flat roof ay the garage at the back ay the factory. The minging gulls have drawn some attention though. The van hire boys in the unit ower the road can witness their squawking rooftop feeding frenzy, and in the hot weather the smell rises n wafts back up intae the shithoose. It’s jist a matter ay time before the gaffer tipples.

  Mind you, Ralphy’s far fae chuffed anywey, cause he wants us tae work late oan these bar units. As much as ah’m enjoying daein proper custom joinery again, it’s Saturday lunchtime so it isnae gaunny happen.

  Ralphy hus mibbe the maist grotesquely unfortunate coupon in the universe. He sports these huge jowls that look like vagina flaps, and this aquiline hooter Les describes as ‘an outsized clit’. Tae make things worse his mooth runs north–south instead ay east–west. Les once dubbed him ‘that fanny-faced cunt’. It’s true; that’s how he looks! And he goes rid tae, as if he’s just had a fair auld pummelling, the image completed wi his thinnin hair cut badly oan top like it’s a Brazilian. He’s whingeing like fuck through that clit neb and aw ah can think aboot is the impending Northern Soul all-nighter at Blackpool. — Ye have tae finish cutting they skirtings, Mark, they need tae be done the night soas Terry and Ken can pit them in the morn’s morning. That’s a cert.

  Aye, right.

  Ah’m only a fucking temp here, but Ralphy’s pittin everything on me. As if ah fuckin well care aboot what he deems ‘a cert’. The ‘cert’ is that he’s a moaning-faced straightpeg, the kind ay small businessman Thatcher loves; a grasping, spiritually dead, scab-minded cunt whae continually trumpets on aboot ‘how hard he works for his family’. The inference is that we’re all meant tae stand aside and be contendedly shat upon for this greater good. What the cunt forgets is that you’ve met his family: the fat, money-grubbing, chasm-souled, muck-bucket ay a wife, and their charmless, mutant offspring. So we’re thinking: fuck your family, ya fud-faced bag ay Barry White; your family are fuckin vermin who should be exterminated before they can cairry oan your work n make this world an even mair intolerably boring n evil place than it already fuckin well is. So git the fuck oot ay here wi that garbage, ya greedy bastard.

  Ah intend tae fully exploit the charmed position ah’m in wi this summer job at my former employer, before swanning back tae academia. — Ah’m knocking off now, Ralphy.

  — Me n aw, Davie Mitchell says, following up. — Goat stuff tae dae, eh.

  Well, that sets oaf a fair auld wobble in these facial folds. Ralphy’s eyes light up in pain. It’s like he’s just seen us swipe the McCain’s oven chips offay the plate ay his sausage-fingered kinder.

  — Entitled tae a peeve on a Seturday, says Les helpfully. Les is a fat cunt ay aroond ma faither’s age, wi thinnin fair hair n a ruddy, boozy complexion. He’s constantly ripping the pish oot ay everything. — Even young Boab here’s goat a date movie lined up, eh, Boab?

  Bobby has a smile on his custard-spotted coupon, and his dark, girlish eyes burn wi mischief, when ye can see them under that big fringe. — Too right. Ah’m giein this burd the stinky pinky, he laughs, a powerful, shoodir-shakin, hee-haw, which never fails tae get the rest ay us going and leave Ralphy utterly dismayed. Ye can see him checkin oot Bobby’s filthy nails, imaginin them rippin through his teenage daughter’s hymen in the back row ay some fleapit.

  — Aw, c’mon, lads, he wails, aw high and conciliatory over that taut, beautifully final sound ay tools being downed. — Youse can at least stey another hour!

  We�
�re aw lookin at the flair as we pack away oor gear. Les is singing, Sinatra-style, — … to walk away from some-one who, means ev-ray-thing in life to you …

  Ralphy stands wi his hands oan his hips. — Mark, he appeals, — you usually never lit me doon, pal …

  Ah always let the cunt doon, though my absence at Aberdeen for a year has made the hert grow fonder. But his pathetic, transparently manipulative appeal fails miserably. He forgets thit when ah telt him ah wis taking Monday off tae join the picket, he said: ‘That’s typical ay you. Go away tae support layabouts whae dinnae want tae work when there’s plenty work here needin done.’

  Well, fuck you, fanny-flaps, ah’ve made up ma ooirs n ah’m off. — No go, ah tell him sadly, then protrude my choppers, go bug-eyed and pit oan a George Formby singing voice, — Ah ave ter be in luv-er-lee lit-tle Lan-ca-sheeeerrrr …

  Les n Bobby join in oan the air ukuleles, and we enjoy a brief jam, but dae we fuck stay another hour. Gleefuly abandoning the whingeing cunt, we hit the boozer at Port Hamilton. Just a quick couple for me then it was hame tae git changed n meet the boys.

  So Tommy, Keezbo, Second Prize and me are heading doon tae the all-nighter at Blackpool in Tam’s motor. Ah’ve made up a tape, n Otis Blackwell is giein it loads wi ‘It’s All Over Me’. Ye cannae beat a bit ay Northern, and the Wigan Casino ay our teen years is sorely missed. This should be a good night though, it’s being pit oan by some ay the original Blackpool Mecca boys. Tam’s at the wheel aw the wey, wi that outrageous seventies fitba guy’s haircut; ah’m at the back wi Keezbo, sittin funny, cause ay this fuckin back, tryin tae keep the weight oan ma left erse-cheek. It’s no exactly the maist sought-eftir locale as that fat cunt takes up aw the room, his hands spread across his gut, like a ginger-heided Buddha. Second Prize, heid shorn in a number-one cut which makes him look harder than he is, by bringing oot his tight features and the sharp angles ay his skull, is riding shotgun. Him n Keezbo ur drinking, him heavily, n ah’m pretending tae but keeping my tongue in the bottle ay voddy as it comes roond. Ah umnae mad keen oan voddy neat, n ah want tae stay straight tae enjoy the dancing n the buzz ay the Lou Reed.