by Irvine Welsh
— Sound, ah go, in cool delight, tippin Keezbo the nod as the do-do-do-do-do-dos announce the start ay that Invitations classic ‘What’s Wrong With Me Baby?’. And ah’m thinkin, this Roberta better be some ride, pullin us away fae this, as ah shout ma buddy the rendezvous instructions, — The Swinging Sporran in toon, Sackville Street at the Arndale, the morn at twelve bells.
Keezbo’s wi this Angie bird, n he nods ower tae Tommy, whae’s talkin fitba battles wi some Man City lads. — Two–nil tae the Fort Ginger Rhythm Section, Mr Mark, and he smiles a grin as long and oily as the River Forth.
— Go on, the Section, ah gies him the thumbs up back, — toughest skiers aroond!
As we depart, the sun’s comin up ower west Manchester’s red-brick buildings, but we’re still speed-chilly as Roberta takes my airm. Ah decide tae stick it roond her shoodirs and she curls satisfyingly intae ma side. — It ruins yer lahf, she says, talkin about they heroin junky cunts, as we head back tae hers, — ya get addicted after joost woon go, lahk. Glad ya got more sense.
— Too right, ah tell her, all sniffy and virtuous, but now ah’m thinking, ah really have tae try that shit. In fact ah’m cursin ma cowardice n the shabby pretence it was some sort ay coolness or intelligence or experience.
Ah fuckin bottled it like a pansy, pot-smoking student wanker, and those boys saw that and fuckin well knew it. Is that what ah’m becoming? A smug, fucking insipid student cunt?
But ah can never huv a bad thought too long oan speed, n ah’m ootay my box ranting about the brilliance ay the Minds’ Sons and Fascination album, how it’s much better than New Gold Dream (no tae say NGD is a bad album) and aw ah can think aboot is removing Roberta’s clathes, and ma ain of course, n the world is a pretty fuckin okay place.
Monday Morning
My heid’s nippin eftir that weekend, n see this fuckin Fleetwood … At least yon Roberta lassie was a dark horse; ah’ve never been gammed like that before, n she didnae seem tae bother aboot the ginger pubes. We had a good laugh n aw. She goes: ‘I don’t normally sleep with somebody I’ve only just met, you know.’ ‘Neither do I,’ ah said, ‘naebody usually lets us.’ She looked angry for a second, then laughed and hit us with a pillay. Ah fucking love Manchester! We spent maist ay Sunday eftirnoon in the pub; first the Sporran, then oantae the Cyprus Tavern wi Roberta n her mate Celia, and Keezbo, Angie, Nicksy – Chris Armitage (whae finally showed), till Tommy swung by wi some Man City Kool Kats, and issued the Fort Ginger Rhythm Section an ultimatum: lift hame now or make yir ain wey back. So ah reluctantly left ma new and auld pals, lookin forward tae hooking up wi them again. As we’d staggered oot the boozer, pished n stoned, n went tae find the motor, we saw some sacked miners handin oot leaflets in Piccadilly. Ah couldnae look at them; ah steered every cunt ower the road oan some crap pretext.
Roberta and me exchanged numbers. Whether we never see each other again or end up star-crossed lovers is totally irrelevant. The key was that we had a barry time n neither ay us regretted a single minute.
But regrets are for Monday mornings and now ah’m back under the harsh strip lights ay the workshop, sweatin like a blind dyke in a fishmonger’s. Our insubordination oan Saturday, up at the cushy number in the pub, has been punished and we’ve been taken oaf that job n pit back tae the two-slice: the monotony ay factory work. So it’s knocking house panels thegither then nailing ties onto them, so they can throw up mair cheapo Barratt slums-tae-be oan the last toxic fields in between Edinburgh n Glesgay.
POOKOW go the nail guns, attached tae long tubes oan a circuit that blows continuous compressed air, smashing the six-inch nails intae the wid like bullets.
POOKOW.
POOKOW.
Monday morning; cunting, evil, degrading, spunk-guzzling Monday morning. Aroond thirty staff oan duty and ah cannae talk tae one single fucker. Not one. Gillsland is the one cunt tae dae well oot ay the recession, moving oot ay high-end shopfitting wi six men, tae low-end house-panel construction and thirty employees. The labour costs are aboot the same, mind you, the tight cunt.
Bank accounts don’t grow on trees, you gotta picka pocket or two …
POOKOW.
POOKOW.
But ah didnae care how monotonous n de-skilled the job wis, ah just wanted tae keep my heid doon, hide in some solid graft, build a few panels, sweat oaf the toxins fae the weekend’s drink and speed, and work through this mashed vertebrae and mean depression till brek time.
Then at the silent brek, three cups ay black coffee go doon. Ah see Les looking at us. Ye ken what’s coming next. — Right, lads …
Ah could’ve done withoot performing in the bogs and ah hudnae really expected victory. It was Les’s ritual though, n tae be fair tae the cunt, it certainly kick-started the week.
The six ay us assemble: Me, Davie Mitch, Sean Harrigan, Barry McKechnie, Russ Wood and Seb (that’s Johnny Jackson’s nickname – he once went oot wi this ride called Sonia, so we call him Sonia’s Ex Boyfriend, that being the cunt’s only claim tae fame). We go tae the lavvy, hittin an aluminium cubicle each. Les issues each ay us the last week’s Daily Records, Monday tae Friday, and one Sunday Mail fae yesterday, which he eywis brings in tae make up the numbers. This is where Les is in his element. A frustrated comedian, he compères at the Tartan Club and the Dockers’ Club. It’s an obvious tears-ay-a-clown job; his wife left him years ago n his daughter, whae he nivir sees, lives in England. Life has its disappointments, but Les grabs his crapulent fun where he can. He’s also a man tortured by piles tae the extent that he creams his erse before he goes oot drinking.
We each spread oor papers oantay the flair in front ay the toilet pans; ye can hear the rustling fae the other traps. Then ah lower ma keks n boxers, squattin ower the papers.
Stey relaxed …
The key is tae make sure that the shite comes out in a oner, wi nae breaks. That means you have tae get close tae the flair and be deft enough tae move forward so that it disnae coil in a pile but straightens oot in a line oan the newspaper.
Smooth action …
Ah’m daein nicely here, ye can feel it comin oot at an even pace, in a solid flow, and ah feel it touch the flair so ah start tae slide forward in a slow, steady movement while maintaining the excretion … the fuckin back … giein us gyp … keep gaun …
Ya beauty …
Splat … ah hears it fawin oantae the paper like a darted ape oot ay a tree. Then ah arch myself back oantae the pan, grateful tae take the pressure off the lower back, and shite oot the dregs before wiping ma erse. This is the trickiest part ay the shitein operation, disposin ay the afterbirth, as Les calls it. As ye generally eat before ye peeve, the afterbirth is usually mair sloppy and drink n drugs toxic n burny than the broon bairn, but it’s mission accomplished, n ah clean masel off, n admire ma work. The log sits steamin oan the flair in front ay us, a thing ay beauty; solid, broon, unbroken, wi that lovely smooth coat where it slid oot wi nae cling-on at aw. This baby hus tae be a contender. Real Scots shite ower the Record.
Ah exit and wash my hands, swallayin another two paracetamol. Sean Harrigan, a Weedgie exile dumped in Livvy, is already oot, a sure sign that he’s done the business. Barry McKechnie is next, followed by Mitch. Then Seb; ah cannae see his yin being unbroken. Finally Russ Wood shows, with an unhappy shake ay the heid.
So we slide the fruits ay oor labour out oantae the flair in a neat row while Les goes tae work wi his measuring tape. He commentates as he judges aw the shites: — Barry McKechnie: a poor effort, son. What sort ay a weekend did you huv? At hame in front ay the telly?
— Win some, lose some, Barry says wi a shrug. He’s a new boy, didnae work here back when ah wis full-time, but he seems sound enough.
— Seb: no bad, mate. That’s coiled a bit but, Les observes. Poor Seb’s destined tae be perennial bridesmaid; a bit too fat tae balance right n git the proper technique gaun. It requires a certain athleticism. — Davie Mitchell: excellent.
— Aye, ah hud a curry oan Saturday and an all-da
y session eftir the Hibs game at Falkirk.
Livvy Sean slides his paper out. There’s a big, ugly, steaming, black-and-tan tortoise on that Record. — Sean Harrigan: a beauty! Les declares, — as tarbrushed as the Princess Royal’s first bastard. The yin ye never hear aboot.
— Ah wis oan the Guinness at Baird’s in the Gallowgate.
— Be mastered by nae Orange bastard, ma soapy chum, Les smiles. — Worked a treat for ye, Sean. Russ Wood … He looks at Russ’s skittery wee effort.
— … C’mon, Russ … that’s a poor show.
— It’s the wife wi this diet and veggie nonsense. Shite like a trooper. Ah hud tae go earlier, it was a cracker n aw.
— Aye, right, Sean says.
— Honest, Sean, Russ protests, — it’s this high-fibre diet. First thing every morning a drop a log the size ay big Morag in the canteen’s thighs.
— Ye need tae change the diet if you’re serious about playing wi the big boys, Russ, Les dismisses. — Right, Marky. He looks at me, then at ma offering which lies steamin oan top ay Aberdeen’s Gordon Strachan. — Excellent result, coming in at fourteen and a quarter inches n the undisputed winner. No a weak link in it, nice and compacted but sliding oot intae a nice straight line.
— That boyfriend ay yours packin the fudge nice n tight again, Rents? Sean laughs, jealousy in his mean, tight eyes.
Ah wink at him. — Ah’m ewyis the postman rather than the letter box, Sean, you should ken that mair than maist.
Sean’s aboot tae say something back, but Les beats him tae the punch. — Ye’d want a condom before ye’d go near a mingin Weedgie’s hole!
— Ya cunt, ah’d want a fuckin diver’s suit!
— Shoatie, Young Bobby hisses, his gangly frame bent roond the door, — Gillsland n Bannerman!
We pick up the papers, open the windaes and fling oor bombs oot oantae the flat roof as Barry heads back oot wi Bobby tae stall the gaffer. They didnae hud them back for too long, cause we’re just shuttin the windaes n makin fir the wash handbasins, when ye hear that nasal mewl. — What’s aw this then? Gillsland moans. — Thaire’s a joab needs daein! What yis hingin roond here like a bunch ay queers fir?
— We wir waitin oan you comin in n showin us how tae gie a proper gam, Ralphy. Les pushes out his cheek with his tongue, making a cock-sucking motion. — Blew the whole Jubilee Gang ootside the Granton chippy one night, eh, Ralph? Swallayed ivray time, they tell us. Went hame n licked the missus oot tae prove thit eh swung baith weys, then retched up aw ower her muff. Nine months later she hud a bairn that looked like every cunt in Granton, eh, Ralphy?
— What are ye talking aboot? Gillsland says indignantly, then retorts, — Takes yin tae ken yin!
— Ah, those summer nights ay love doon old Granton toon, ah well-a, well-a, well-a, well, tell me more … Les muses, sliding into song, as we ignore Ralphy and Bannerman, who, registering the creeping stench, waves his hand in front ay his face, and we head back oot oantae the tedious job.
POOKOW.
POOKOW.
POOKOW.
Sean and Mitch are asking us aboot ma weekend. — Blackpool. Northern night. No bad, but it’ll never be another Wigan.
POOKOW.
WHEEEESSSSHHH …
THOK.
Never saw it coming, but it whistled past Sean’s heid at bullet velocity, embedding a good two inches intae a plank in the woodpile behind him. Ma blood ran cauld for a church-length second, presumably Sean’s did tae, before he dived behind a pile ay frames stacked up oan pallets. Ah wasnae far behind, and a good thing n aw; another whistle and a THOK and another six-inch nail wedged into the wood in front ay us.
— YA FUCKIN WEE BAM! NEARLY FUCKIN WELL KILT US! Sean roars, ower at Bobby, who’s blasting off aw ower the place with the high-powered compressed airgun.
— Gonna blow your brains out, muthafuckah, Bobby grimaces, sending another couple ay bullet nails ower into the widden pallets in front ay us.
— FUCKIN COOL IT, YA DAFT WEE CUNT! Les shouts at him. This wee fucker is oaf his fuckin heid and he’s gaunny kill somebody. He loves that gun, standin thaire wi the idiot grin across his coupon. But he’s stalled now cause Les never usually halts a prank.
— Hi, Bobby, ah goes, standin up, — c’mon, buddy, git that fuckin safety catch back oan! If Gillsland comes in wir aw fucked. C’mon, mate, screw the fuckin nut, eh?
Bobby looks ower at us n ah think ah see him discreetly click the catch oan, but fear gobbles up ma spinal column as he turns the compressed airgun at us and fires …
Fuck sakes …
Of course, nowt happens, except ah almost defecate again, in spite ay the empty bowels. — You’re fuckin nuts, Bobby. C’mon, pal, lit’s git they ties sorted.
So Bobby starts firing into the ties, using the airgun for its true purpose, but Sean isnae chuffed at aw. — That wee cunt’s fuckin well away wi it, he says, screwing his finger into his heid. — Tellin ye, Mark, he’s no fuckin real. See if the cunt does it again, Gillsland’s gittin tae hear ay it!
— Ah’ll huv a blether wi um. Dinnae say nowt.
— Ah’m no a grass, Mark, n ah’m no wantin nae cunt tae lose thair joab, but he’s no right in the heid. He shouldnae be daein a fuckin joab like this!
It was true. Bobby was the open-moothed, slack-jawed, drooling, fearless superstar ay the outfit; a deranged youth whae’d come intae oor humble midst via a rehabilitation scheme ay some sorts, the speculation ay the nature ay which got mair and mair outlandish in concert with his nutty deeds. We aw loved this laddie dearly, he brightened up the drab monotony ay the factory, but we kent that he could completely fuck us up at any minute, dragging us oan a crazy whim intae the abyss ay unemployment or serious industrial injury. It was times like this that ah was glad ay the escape hatch ay university; this was gaunny end in tears.
The clock says yon time, so ah slap Young Bobby on the back, and we down oor tools and head fir the canteen. — Ah kent what ah wis daein, Mark, he protests, — ah wisnae gaunny shoot any cunt, like.
— Fair enough, Bobby, ye got tae watch though, mate.
Bobby nods apologetically. He likes me; all psychos seem tae. Ah’d long accepted the universe as a rough, tangled and flawed place, so ah never judged, at least publicly, and generally indulged the capricious foibles ay the bam. They made life interesting. We walk across the forecourt tae the canteen adjoining the warehouse that services several businesses oan the industrial estate. Sean was still a bit shaken, maintaining a discreet distance fae Bobby, as if the cunt was still tooled up in some wey.
The canteen is pretty basic. They’d started tae dae pies and sausage rolls wi beans and chips or filled rolls, but maist ay the boys still brought their ain pieces. Big Mel, an oil tanker ay a lassie, was oan her ain the day withoot her sidekick Morag.
— Awright, Mel doll?
— Hiya, handsome.
— Nae Mozzer, Mel? ah enquire, as me Sean, Les, Bobby n Mitch join the queue.
— Naw, Mark, she’s took a day oaf … oan the sick. She lowers her voice as Ralphy Gillsland comes in with Bannerman and wee Baxy. We hated those cunts, Fanny-Flaps, Bannerman, the gravel-voiced foreman, and Baxy, his sooky wee sidekick.
— Steel’s order done yet? Bannerman, the big box-like cunt wi the square body and heid, shouts doon the line at me.
Ah resent talking tae Bannerman at the best ay times, especially when ah’m oan ma fuckin brek. — It went oot oan the van this mornin, ah took great delight in telling him. That was maistly doon tae Young Bobby. Deranged he might be, but that troubled son ay Niddrie Mains certainly kent how tae work that gun.
— Good, Bannerman mutters sourly.
Ah dinnae even look back at the miserable cunt. While Ralphy, in spite ay ma antipathy tae him, seems tae perversely like me, Bannerman was my enemy fae the start. The cunt loathes me even mair since ah went oaf tae uni. Ah turn tae Mel. — Still seein that felly, Mel? She’s been humping this big fermer’s boy fae West Calder.
— H
im! No way, she replies, blowing air out the side ay her mouth wi the force of Bobby’s gun.
— Big laddie but, Mel, Les says suggestively.
— Tiny wee fuckin welt oan it but, she scoffs. — That’s nae use tae me!
Ah ponder this fir a bit. — Right enough, Mel, ye want tae git yirsel one ay they dwarf boys. Huge knobs oan these cunts … or so they tell me.
— Ah, ya dirty fuckin dwarf-shaggin cunt, Les dives in. Bobby flashes a smile full of teeth and snickers his wheezy, shoulder-shaking laugh.
— Ah’ve been sucked oaf by a few ay they in ma time, ah swivel my hips, — ideal height, nae need for knees, but ah’ve nivir gie’d yin the message. Ah’m relyin oan you fir the details thaire, Lesbo.
— Aye, you can fuck off, ya cunt, Les says. It isnae much ay a retort, but that’s Les. Barry gadgie, but despite his stand-up pretentions, nae Oscar Wilde: even less so in wit than in sexuality.
Young Bobby is dribbling again as he stares at Melanie’s breasts. She clocks him and throws a sulky yin. — Bobby, cut that oot. Ah slap him playfully roond the heid as he shoots me that gurgling toddler smile. Even though he’s only aboot five years younger than me, Young Bobby definitely brings oot some latent paternal instinct in us, which makes me feel a bit uneasy. — Listen, Mel, Boab here’s yir man.
— That skinny wee laddie? Ah’ve seen mair meat in one ay they pies!
For a split second ah think that Young Bobby is gaunny blush. But then he just winks and twists his lower lip downward. — Any time, any place, baby.
Melanie lets oot a horsey laugh n whacks some mashed tatties oan a plate fir Mitch. — They say that aboot skinny guys. Aw prick n ribs, Les ventures. — Frank Sinatra weighed only a hunner n thirty pounds, but Ava Gardner goes, ‘A hunner ay that wis cock.’ Mel hilariously tries tae look a bit demure, but ah clock her shootin Bobby the glance a closing-time drunk gies a fish supper. Ah wag my finger at her as ah’d been the only cunt tae catch this, n she grimaces back at us.
