Filth

by Irvine Welsh

  There’s a fat cunt stuffing his face with chips and mayo ahead of me and I’m thinking that I could go for some of that, carbohydrates for the shag NRG. My aftershave stings my face in the chill night air. I had a good raw shave in the hotel in Cok City, which is ideal with all amenities including Dutch cable TV complete with the erotic channel. In every other country you have tae pey for it. Fuck that! Those Dutch cunts have got it sussed: sex, drugs, get it out into the open and let people buy it. It would never work in Britain though, cause there are too many sad cunts who would spoil it for everyone. Like the holidaymakers here. I get into my favourite alley and there’s a crowd of smutty lads in front of me, giving it big verbal. One loudmouthed prick is negotiating with this little angel who’d be ideal for me and I want to stove the cunt’s heid in and just dive into the room with her.

  I walk on, and one girl smiles and winks at me, spacedyke-style, but I go past her as I need to check out the wares. Possibly a bit too old and fat to be a real space lesbian. It’s getting too busy here. I might visit the Pijp tomorrow. A Dutch guy I met here last year put me on to it: a twenty-minute tram ride from the centre of the city, where the locals do their shopping, and the locals always know where to find the bargains.

  I spy another wee shag but too dark-haired, nonetheless mentally stored in the fuck-file for tomorrow. A big slut is giving me the finger as she sits in horrible lingerie on her seat, but then suddenly, a few doors down, this fat, greasy shit is excreted into the street, and behind him is a vision. She’ll do nicely. She goes back in and says to me, – One minute please.

  She’s obviously going to wash her cunt out and the like which is fine by me because I want all that fat greabo’s traces obliterated. I think of Bladesey, sitting in the room or in an Italian restaurant on his tod, looking like the social inadequate that he is. Or perhaps the bastard will be bouncing on top of one of those fat black hoors right now, or getting his sweaty little arse whacked with some implement as he kisses the heel of a new mistres’s black leather boot.

  I wish I was a spaceman. She beckons me into her chamber: red light, red bedspread, and red chaise longue. There’s a print of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers on the wall, which adds a nice homely touch.

  – I cannot kiss you, she smiles, – rules. She gives a fetching little shrug.

  I’m getting my kit off and laying out my clothes; jacket, jumper, shirt, flannels, on the chaise longue, while she sits on the bed. She’s smiling and reclining in quite a graceful way and her caresses are superfluous as I’m already hard. She slips on the condom and lies back as I get on to her and up her, and start to give her one.

  Okay baby, let’s take this rocket to Uranus.

  This hoor is perfect, and she can act as well. No way is she into it, but you almost believe her. A drama school training should be compulsory for all hoors. As I empty the bag, she does a fantastic stage groan with an appreciative – ohhh it’s so beautiful baby . . .

  – You must come again, she tells me, as I get dressed. – How long are you here for?

  – A few days, I tell her. She’s a good hoor alright, a true professional. There’s no need for her to keep up the façade of interest now that the contracts have been exchanged; even at this time of the year it’s a seller’s market, but this lassie has her professional pride.

  – So come again! Come again here! she laughs.

  – I’ll do that, I smile, and exit into the busy, narrow passage, nippy at being surrounded by loud, sweaty men after having been with a cool, serene woman. It’s like moving from heaven to hell just by opening a door. It’s freezing cauld out here and the rain has pished down on the cobblestones. You’d never think that it was further south than where I’ve just come from. Fuckit: I’m no here for the weather, besides it’s warm enough up a hoor’s chuff.

  I’m suddenly bunched together in the alley with the same group of insolent mongoloid lads I saw earlier, who are joking and shouting. I slyly connect with one in the ribs and he’s winded and bent over double as I push through the crowd, sliding away. I hear his mate asking, – Wat’s oop Mick? Wat’s oop? But this fuckwitted spastic is too immobilised and confused to work that out and by then I’m well away, bristling with excitement and satisfaction. It’s that front-line feeling; that rush when you’re at a picket-line or at a big game and you’ve got your truncheon and shield and the whole force of the state is behind you and you’re hyped up to beat insolent spastic scum who question things with their big mouths and nasty manners into the suffering pulp they so richly deserve to become. It’s a great society we live in.

  I hate them all, that section of the working class who won’t do as they are told: criminals, spastics, niggers, strikers, thugs, I don’t fucking well care, it all adds up to one thing: something to smash. Yes, I might be a wee bit past that squeaky bollocks frontline bullshit, but what I still love, and always fuckin well will, is that good old-fashioned two-on-one with a scumbag in the interview room. The psychological warfare, far more satisfying. The harder they are to break, the more rewarding it is. You’re right back in the territory of the games.

  Like the next hoor I find after I’ve had a recuperative beer and whisky in a brown bar. I’m pumping away at her and she’s just taking the fuckin lot. Nice girl. The spacedyke imagery is still vivid in my head and I blow my muck quickly. As I’m getting my kit on I’m asking her if she wants to make serious money.

  – I do already, she says arrogantly, but the hoor’s light of calculating greed ignites her eyes and when I’m back in my room at my hotel, she’s right along once she’s finished her morning shift.

  Yes, she’s expensive, especially a day session, but that’s what overtime’s for, to cover such costs. Thank fuck for the form OTA 1–7!

  This lassie’s a student at Amsterdam University. Six years’ higher education the state provides for these pampered cunts. She’s on the game cause she’s been changing from English to Sociology to Philosophy to Film Studies and wasted six years of a grant. That’s what all these wee students at our unis should be made to do: hoor for their grant money. Come to think of it, that’s what some of them are being made to do. Nice one the free market.

  This wee yin here, she’s agreed to a fuck up the erse, with great reluctance as she’s going on aboot Aids and she’s no got any extra-strength condoms. Just as well, I wouldnae have been able to feel a fuckin thing. She’s very athletic though, the way she bends over the back of the chair. My lips dry as I watch the sinew tighten in the back of her legs in those high heels and I’m getting as hard as rock. I’ve given the pole a good greasing but she’s pretty tight. Once I get in though, it starts to slide up. I can tell that she’s in a bit of distress cause she’s making hissing noises and her back muscles are tensing, but it’s probably just cause the fuckin hoor’s loving every minute of it.

  – Stop, please stop for a minute, she says nippy-like, and starts shifting her weight, readjusting, trying to find more space inside her and I’m back down here on Planet Earth, sending up this probe, which I use to detect signs of alien life inside her, this spacedyke, yes this fucking super spacedyke, like the alien life inside of me no no no that this fuckin space lesbian who’s fucked all over the universe but who has never been fucked like this before and she loves she . . .– Uugghhh . . .

  I blurt out my fucking load into the condom up her arse. This cow’s erse grips my cock and as I pull free she still won’t surrender the condom. She pulls it out her own rectum. There’s little flecks of shit on the end of it. My knob’s as clean as a fuckin whistle though. Thank fuck, the dirty wee cloggie hing-oot.

  I pay the hoor and tell her to fuck off and leave me alone. I fall into the bed and into a good sleep for about half an hour. When I wake up, I feel lonely and depressed and hit the minibar. After a couple of whiskies I go to knock up Bladesey but he’s out. Docile wee cunt. I get a notion to give Bunty a call, which I do from the cardphone outside in the street.

  – Awright Coontay!

  – Go away!<
br />
  – Ya’ll miss me? I’ve been tellin Little Frank about yaw. E wants taw give your fanny a lickin, e does! I drop my voice and make it go breathless. – Ah do not . . . Then nasal again, – Yes yaw do!

  – LEAVE ME ALONE! the hoor screams, then slams the phone down.

  I head back into the hotel and upstairs to my room where I watch the Cartoon Channel and have a wee giggle to myself. I’m a wee bit disappointed that Bunty felt unable to take my advice and give me some sport. She’s probably feeling vulnerable with heman Bladesey off the scene. Ha! Anyway, it’s soon time to hit the pish, as I hear the man himself returning to his room next door.

  – Awright Clifford, me old son? I smile, – Get any hooring done?

  He smiles bashfully, – Eh, actually no . . . I went to the Rijksmuseum and saw Rembrandt’s The Nichtwacht . . . amazing picture.

  – Any shagging in it?

  – Eh no . . . it’s not a film it’s . . .

  – Ah ken what it fuckin well is! Ah ken who fuckin Rembrandt is! I point to myself. Cheeky wee cunt thinks he’s fuckin smart. He knows fuckin nothing. The big zero.

  We get out on the pish and I make the mistake of letting Bladesey bell Bunty. I was intrigued as to how my heat from across the street had affected her. Bad move. Even from the barstool looking at the back of Bladesey’s heid and his reddening neck I can tell that it’s a sair yin.

  He’s shattered when he comes off the phone. The cunt’s shaking. – Bruce, he gasps, – I think actually I’m going to have to head back . . . Bunty’s upset, the caller was at it again. I should never have left her . . .

  – No way! It’s yir fuckin hoaliday!

  – She wants the number of the hotel. She thinks I’m in Scarborough. I had to sort of agree to go back . . .

  – No fuckin way!

  – I don’t know what to do . . . he puts his head in his hands.

  I stiffly let my arm fall round his shoulder. – She’s makin your life a misery, eh mate.

  – I seem to be able to do nothing right, he whines, – I’m either in her way if I’m there, or I’m neglecting her if I’m away . . . all Craig does is scowl and play that fucking techno music . . . what does she want from me Bruce? What does she want me to be like?

  – Bladesey, listen. Ah’m yir mate, and mates back each other up. Ah’ll tell ye exactly what’s gaunny happen . . .

  – I’ve got to go back . . . he starts.

  I look into his large, shocked eyes. – You and I, I smile, – are going oot hooring. You are gaunny git that fuckin pole workin again, I point at his groin. – We are gaunny git you feeling hunkydory about one Brother Clifford Blades here. And when you swagger back intae that hoose in Corstorphine, the first thing you dae is git a hud ay her and gie her, I grin, protruding my middle finger, – the stinky pinky here. And ah’ll tell ye mate, she’ll be that fuckin well juiced up that the lips ay her fanny’ll part for you like the Red Sea did for Moses. You’ll be fightin her oaf wi a fuckin stick soon, I say, then I point at his groin again, – That fuckin stick.

  – You really think that’s going to do me any good?

  – Same fuckin rules mate, I nod knowingly, – same fuckin rules. I turn to the bartender, – Same again my friend.

  I’ll tolerate no more talk from that sad loser about going home.

  Still Carole

  When I make up my eyes, I always feel a stirring through my body. I think it’s because it’s true what they say about the eyes being the gateway to the soul. And my soul is a very sexual one. You cannot deny your nature. Bruce taught me that. At times like this I am moved to touch myself . . . I love the feel of this silk blouse against my skin.

  I love

  My head swoons. It’s as if Bruce were here with me.

  Soon.

  It’s time to go out. I’m just going out Mum.

  Tell Stacey I won’t be late.

  Bye.

  The bar is large, ideal for people-watching. There are lots of little nooks and crannies to hide in.

  Sitting here, alone here, I’m remembering when I first met Bruce’s parents. They were good people, from a mining village in Midlothian. This was before they were corrupted by that Scargill, who split up families and turned everyone against each other. Bruce doesn’t bear any grudges though, even though they were cruel to him and rejected him, their own son. That’s what these people want though: to split up the family. It’s not important to them but the way I see it, if you haven’t got family then you haven’t got anything. Bruce does too. It’s so unfortunate that Stacey’s said those horrible things, but we don’t blame our little girl, all children go through a phase when they tell silly wee lies. In Stacey’s case I think it’s been the wrong crowd she’s been hanging around with at that school.

  Anyway, I must say that I look a treat and I know by the way that the guy behind the bar’s staring at me that he feels the same way too. Well, you can look but don’t touch my friend! I’ve got on my heels, that silk blouse and my pleated skirt. I catch myself in the mirror. Not bad Carole. Not bad.

  I know what they’re thinking; a woman drinking on her own. They think I’m a prostitute or that I’m easy. All I’m doing is confronting them with their own desire. That’s what they cannot take.

  They want me.

  All those men, they all want Carole Robertson.

  But there is only one man who can have me, although if he wants me to give myself to another man, I will, but only for him. He won’t want me to give myself to any man in this bar.

  I have made my point lads, and now I depart, to see my daughter. I am a good mother and a good wife.

  All eyes are on me as I leave the bar. I have made my point.

  Outside my vision is blurred. All the shop signs and advertising seem as if they’re written in a foreign language. I don’t feel safe here. I must go to where I feel safe.

  The Nightwatch

  Morning has broken; not so much with a bang as with a whimper as Bladesey knocks timidly on my door and asks me if I want to come down for breakfast, Actually.

  – Aye, but I’ll tell ye one thing Bladesey, ah’m no gaun doon there fir that continental breakfast shite. Ham and cheese and rolls? Fuck yon. There’s a British café in the Haarlemerweg. Let’s go.

  We stride up along the Singel, feeling the bracing air blow away the morning cobwebs, and get into Barney’s Breakfast Bar. It’s full of fuckin student and crusty trash on tight budgets so I delight in ostentatiously flashing my wad around while I order the works: bacon, egg, sausage, tomato, mushroom, black pudding, toast and tea.

  – You were AWOL yesterday Bruce, Bladesey chides. – Meet any interesting ladies?

  – Yes, as a matter of fact. I met this Scots lassie in a bar. She was really nice.

  – Was she, eh . . . a you know . . . lady of the night?

  I look, in great irritation, at this wretched mess that has somehow insinuated itself into my life. – No. She was not. Do you think I can’t meet anybody other than a prossy? Is that what you think?

  – No . . . not at all . . . he stammers apologetically.

  I sit up in the chair. I’d better put this cunt right once and for all. – Well I’ll tell you something mate: I’ve had mair fanny than you’ve had hot dinners. And I’m talking quality fanny as well. Premium minge. And I’m no going that far back. Dinnae think that because I fuck hoors for convenience sakes that I have tae pey for it. Dinnae think that, I tell him, the cheeky cunt.

  – I’m most terribly sorry Bruce . . . I didn’t mean to give offence. You got the wrong end of the stick. I just assumed, you know, it being Amsterdam . . .

  – Well you assumed wrong, I curtly inform him, skinning up a large reefer of skunk and lighting it up as our breakfasts arrive.

  We eat our meal in silence and I leave the little cunt to his museums and galleries. I’m off for porn and drugs.

  I head over to the red-light district and a languid-looking bag of shit hisses at me, – Video show. It’ll be an ed-dew-
kay-shon.

  I feel resentment rise in my chest. A semi-jakey standing ootside in the cauld working for sweeties, thinking that he could be part of a process of educating me, in any way shape or form. I stop and I give him a slow, evaluating look up and down which I can tell unnerves him.

  – Video show . . . he repeats more warily.

  – Any good? I snap in polis mode.

  – It’s the best.

  I look at the f25 sign behind him. – At twenty-five guilders it had better be. Or else I’ll be back mob-handed. Right?

  He raises his hands in the air. – Hey, chill out man. This is Amsterdam. It’s the best video show you’re ever gonna see.

  – Let’s hope so.

  I enter and pay twenty-five guilders to a distracted gumchewing slut who obviously does tricks and is thinking about the bigger bucks to be made on her back later on. I go into what is an old-style film theatre rather than a series of coin-operated booths. It’s half-full and the show starts promptly. There’s no privacy for wanking, but it doesn’t stop an old cunt next to me, who’s got his cock out in a hanky and is chugging away by the time the first power-dressed actress who looks like Victoria Principal from Dallas gets felt up and fucked in a lift by two guys who stop it between the floors. I try to focus on the video but the picture quality is poor and auld cunt’s groans distract me.

  However, it then goes into a mad sequence at an office party, where everybody is fucking themselves crazy. I think about the fanny I’ll fire into at our office parties this Christmas: that new young clerical bird for a start, then there’s Fulton, and of course, that big hoor the Size Queen, and even Drummond, for fucks’ sakes, if I’m desperate enough. I feel my hand go towards the lump in my flannels but, after a few tweaks of the cherry, I show my willpower, gritting my teeth and leaving it. No sense in running down the generator at this stage.

  After browsing in a few porn stores I try in vain to find a hoor who looks like her, like my girl. I have her pants with me, in my pockets from last night. I can’t find anyone. I’m getting frustrated and it’s only going to get worse. I decide to go for a drink and resolve to try and find one who looks absolutely nothing like her. This tactic works because instantly all the rooms off the grey cobblestoned streets seem to offer endless possibilities. I find a likely girl. She’s got ginger hair and a badly pock-marked face. I get the old spiel, this time done without any charm, as she tells me that she doesnae kiss. I felt like saying to her that I had no desire whatsoever to kiss her pock-marked coupon, my lips are chapped ragged enough with the cold as it is. She undresses and wanks me for a bit, trying to tease some life into my cock, and I only get hard when I look at her pock-marked skin. Like the other hoors here, she seems not to mind my rash and eczema, though with her skin you’d expect some sympathy.