Glue

by Irvine Welsh

  Gally looks slowly ower at Terry and a pneumatic hiss ay a laugh starts up fae the cunt. Terry’s joinin in too. Soas Birrell. — Placenta Ewart, Gally chortles, then goes aw serious and points at me, — that nickname could catch on!

  — DJ Placenta, that sounds barry, Terry laughs.

  We head oot oan the S-Bahn n decide tae take it the other wey, further oot for a bit, stopping oaf fir a beer in a bar on the lakefront at Starnberg.

  The lake is choppy for a clear, still day. Ah’m thinking, how could landlocked water have that movement? Was it from the boats or maybe underground streams flowing into it? Ah’m about to discuss it but ah’m too lazy to pursue the thought, enjoying the sounds of the small waves slopping against the ridge of the boardwalk a few feet from our table. It’s a pleasant, even arousing sound, bringing tae mind two naked bodies (specifically mine and a shaggable lassie’s, or maybe two, maybe baith Brook twins) slapping together in a four-poster, king-sized bed. It had been too long. Ten fuckin days. There’s a wee dug sniffing around which reminded me of Gally’s auld dug Cropley. Ah feel as horny as Cropley in the summers before they got the perr cunt speyed.

  Terry looks at this dog which was staring at him inquisitively. — Hiya boy, he goes, — it’s like eh kens what ah’m sayin.

  — Mibbe eh jist fancies ye. It’ll no be the first yin yuv fucked, Gally telt um.

  As Terry grimaced, Billy sais, — Gally, ken your mate, eh’s ma brar’s mate n aw, the posh boy thit’s gaunny be the vet?

  — Aye, Gareth, Gally goes.

  — Aye, eh went tae one ay they snobby schools, but eh’s a Hibs boy, a game cunt likes, Terry sais tae me.

  — Anywey, Birrell explains, — Rab wis gaun oan aboot dugs bein able tae ken what ye say n that Gareth goes: Don’t anthropomorphise our four-legged friends, Robert, it merely serves to debase members of both species.

  — That’s Gareth, Gally laughs.

  Ah dinnae ken this boy, only by ehs rep, but ah say nowt. Ah’m tempted tae say that it’s an awfay big word for a Hibby tae use, but ah shut it. The odds are stacked against me but; Placenta Ewart. Ah’m jist waitin fir that yin tae re-surface.

  Terry’s gaun oan aboot this bird now. She’s German, studyin Spanish and Italian at Munich Uni, but apparently her English is shite-the-night-after-a-vindaloo-hoat as well. We’re aw pretty jealous and that’s probably where aw Gally’s stuff aboot Terry’s knob came fae. But the cunt does have a long foreskin: basic statement ay fact. Long foreskin or no long foreskin, we let the fucker go ahead and arrange tae meet him later at the Hacker-Psychor tent at the Festival site. Wir aw huvin a wee snigger as eh walks away, the corkscrew hair blawin aw ower the place against the wind comin oaf the lake.

  Eh’s wide for oor game n turns roond, smilin derisively, giein us the Vs.

  Now That’s What I Call Chorin

  A few peeves later we’re walkin through the underpass of the local S-Bahn station towards the toon. There’s a group of young girls, jist kids really, congregated around the exit from the tunnel. There must be fuck all for them tae dae in a place like this: a toon dominated by auld cunts and rich commuters.

  — Some wee rides aroond the day, eh, Gally goes.

  Things must be gittin desparate wi him n aw. — Bairns, ah say, no very convincingly.

  — So fuck, he goes and eh’s right ower tae them. — Enchildigung bitte, mein deutsch is neit so gooed. Sprekt ze Engels?

  They start giggling, hudin thir hands ower thir mooths. They are jist wee bairns really. Ah’m startin tae feel uncomfortable n ah kin tell that Billy is n aw.

  — War is the CD shop? Gally smiles. Eh’s quite a strikin-lookin wee felly, wi these big eyes and teeth n when eh’s chilled oot, eh’s goat this lazy smile. These lamps huv an odd quality which seems tae hit the spot wi some birds. They could strip paint fae the waws, and they sometimes work the same wey oan a bird’s clathes. Gally and Terry are nivir short ay fanny cause the cunts’ve goat a bit ah charm n confidence. Birds like that. Back hame they used tae go oot thegither oan the pull a loat, even if they wind each other up n kin git oan each other’s nerves sometimes. So ay dinnae ken why eh’s tryin it on wi these wee yins.

  — There is a shop which sells them. There, one attentive, serious-lookin wee lassie goes, pointin ower the road.

  Ah practically hus tae pill Gally away fae they wee birds. — Cool it, Gally. Your wee lassie’ll be that age soon enough. Ye want her gittin chatted up by twenty-five-year-auld guys whin she’s that age?

  — Ah wis jist muckin aboot . . . eh says.

  Ah feel like sayin that the beast’s wing in Saughton’s fill ay cunts that said that, but that would be oot ay order, even in a joke, cause Gally’s sound, eh is jist muckin aboot n it’s mibbe me that’s bein too sensitive. But stoat’s stoat: Germany or Scotland, it makes nae odds. N ah see Billy’s lookin a bit dubiously at Gally n aw. Ah dunno what’s gaun oan wi that wee cunt these days. Terry says eh’s been hingin aboot wi some wankers, Larry Wylie n that crowd. That might be Terry exaggeratin. Gally wis knockin aboot wi some heavy cunts a while back but eh’s sacked that now.

  Billy’s a bit ay a dark hoarse whin it comes tae lassies. They like um cause eh’s fit and eywis well turned oot. The thing aboot Billy is, ye can never imagine um chattin up a bird, talkin tae one like, but eh seems tae blether away tae them. Whenever eh gits a new bird, eh nivir shows them oaf tae the likes ay us. Ye jist see um in ehs motor, or walkin doon the road, usually wi some tidy bit ay fanny. Eh nivir stoaps tae introduce thum, n eh nivir, ivir talks aboot the birds eh’s been wi unless it’s a lassie fae the scheme, cause then every cunt kens anywey. The lassie eh’s been steyin wi, eh sometimes comes tae the club wi her. They huv a dance thegither, then hang oot wi thir separate mates aw night. Ah’ve no really spoken much tae her, she seems either thick or shy. That’s Billy but, Secret Squirrel right enough.

  — Ah’m no shopliftin CDs, Billy goes, shakin ehs heid in disgust, lookin at Gally, kennin exactly what the wee cunt’s aboot, as wi head intae this Mullers record store.

  Thir’s a fat wifie n a bored young bird workin in the record shoap. Thir’s aw they CDs in big, wooden racks. Gally picks up one n picks an aluminium strip oaf it. — Aw ye need tae dae is tae pick they strips oaf n conceal thum, eh goes, slippin the CD intae ehs poakit.

  Billy’s fumin, n eh walks away fae us n oot the door.

  — Aye, right ye are Birrell, ya mumpy cunt, wir no aw big fuckin clean-cut sportsmen, Gally says tae ays. — Fuckin arsonist cunt.

  — Pugilistic Stenhoose schemie muthafuckah, ah goes, laughin away.

  Gally goes aw stagey in ehs bearin n expression, n starts singin the theme tune fae Secret Squirrel. — Wha-rahn-ay-jint, wha-haw-ra squirrel . . .

  Ah joins in, — . . . he’s gat the cun-tree ih-hin a whirl, whaht’s his name . . .

  Then wi pits oor fingers tae oor mooths n go, — Sssshh . . . Secret Squirrel!

  Ah’m no a great tea-leaf, and Gally, well eh’s done a bit, but no like Mr Terence Lawson n ehs auld mate Alec back hame. These cunts are heavy-duty: housebreakin, screwin shoaps, the loat. Jist before we left, Billy n me hud tae huv a word wi that reprobate spunk-bag Terry. We telt um thit it wis meant tae be a hoaliday n thit thir wis tae be nae chorin. The corkscrew-heided cunt took the hump n goes, — Ah’m twenty-five, no fuckin fifteen. Ah ken how tae behave, ya cunts. Ah ken when tae work n ah ken when tae chill.

  So it wis likes, forgive us fir breathin then, cunt.

  Terry eywis called chorin work. Ah suppose it wis fir him; it wis aboot aw eh’s done since eh’d goat peyed oaf fae the juice lorries. Now, eftir ma fancy speech, it’s me thit’s the one thit’s up fir the chorie. Ah think that’s why Birrell’s disgusted wi ays. But Gally’s goat a point; they insult yir intelligence here. It’s difficult tae no chorie. Ye’d huv tae be mad tae pass up oan an oppo like this. Besides, the need’s thaire: a loat ay ma auld albums are fucked up now.

  So ah go ootside tae the shoap next door n ah git
a plastic carrier bag wi a bottle ay water in it tae weigh it doon. Then, returnin tae the record shoap, ah starts systematically rippin the strips oaf the CDs before comin back n loadin them intae the plastic bag. The women behind the counter cannae see for the racks. Thir’s nae cameras or nowt like that. It’s a piece ay pish: ye huv tae chorie. Gally’s different tae me; it’s profit rather than personal wi that cunt. Eh’s goat ehs ‘Juice Terry’ heid oan and eh’s ruthlessly gaun fir the big albums ay the day. He’s lookin at what cunts’ll want tae buy up the Silver Wing, Gauntlet, Dodger or Busy Bee. It fuckin sickens ye what that cunt’s loadin up oan; Now That’s What I Call Music Volume 10, 11, 12 and 13, Phil Collins (But Seriously), Gloria Estefan (Cuts Both Ways), Tina Turner (Foreign Affair), Simply Red (A New Flame), Kathryn Joyner (Sincere Love), Jason Donovan (Ten Good Reasons), Eurythmics (We Too Are One), loads ay Pavarotti eftir the World Cup, aw the shite ye wouldnae be seen deid wi and it fair pits me oaf. The cunt keeps flashin thum tae me, aw chuffed wi ehsel, ehs big eyes shinin like lamps under that baseball cap. Ah cannae see how ye kin git a buzz fae nickin they records, records thit yi’ll nivir play.

  Ah’m mair interested in backlistin. That’s what ye call it when ye replace yir auld albums wi CDs. When ye think aboot it, it’s a con tae git ye tae change fae vinyl tae CD, so they should replace yir entire record collection wi new CDs if ye buy a CD player. Ah backlist maist ay the Beatles, Stones, Zeppelin, Bowie and Pink Floyd. It’s only that auld stuff that ah ever listen tae oan CD, and dance music, obviously, has tae be vinyl.

  Barry result. Wir walkin oot wi bags fill ay CDs. Secret Squirrel’s lookin moosey-faced as wi git doon the road tae the gaff tae droap them oaf. Him and Gally immediately start up one ay they pointless ‘scruff-snob’ arguments that ye seem tae huv wi each other in the scheme as soon as ye can talk. Whin we git back, ah phone Rolf n Gretchen n tell thum tae meet us up the Oktoberfest site if they fancy a bevvy. Then wir straight back oot and doon tae the station tae git the S-Bahn intae Munich.

  We get oot for a wee drink in toon, and we’re ready tae head oot tae meet up wi Terry n ehs bird at the Hacker-Psychor tent oan the Festival site for some serious drinking, when who should we see but the cunt himself, coming towards us, hudin this bird’s hand. Terry’s bird, Hedra, is as tidy as fuck. When eh introduced us though, ah hud tae avoid Gally n Billy’s eyes. Ah could tell the first thing they thought aboot wis blow-joabs n aw. What this bird sees in Terry ah’ll nivir ken. Ah’m explainin this tae Birrell as Terry n Gally git thum in, Gally boastin tae the cunt aboot oor chorin, n Birrell’s gaun, — Naw, it’s jist cause she’s foreign, she’s exotic tae you. No a bad-lookin lassie, bit if she wis fae Wester Hailes, ye’d jist think, ordinary bird.

  Ah look at the lassie again, imaginin her in Wester Hailes shoppin centre chewin oan a Crawford’s bridie, and ah suppose Birrell’s goat a point. But ma point is that this isnae Wester Hailes.

  We’re heading doon the road when Terry clocks this sign ootside this big, stane public building. — Check this boys, ’moan, stall the now.

  Thir’s something in German, but underneath it says in English:

  MUNICH–EDINBURGH TWIN CITIES COMMITTEE

  MUNICH COUNCIL WELCOMES THE YOUTH OF EDINBURGH

  — That is you, the youth of Edinburgh, Hedra giggles.

  — Too fuckin right it is. We should be well in fir a bevvy here. Buckshee, likes. That’s us, Edinburgh youth, Terry sais wi pride.

  — Wi cannae go in thaire, Billy’s shakin ehs heid.

  Gally looks at him dismissively. Terry mimics a poofy voice, — Wi cannae dae this, wi cannae dae that, eh nodded. — Whaire’s yir bottle, Birrell? Leave it in the ring? C’moan, eh punches Billy’s airm, defusin ehs risin anger. — Think Souness! We’ll brass oor case.

  Graeme Souness came fae roond oor wey, n eh’s still Terry’s hero, even though eh manages the Huns now. When Souness hud the perm and mowser, Terry even grew a daft bit ay bumfluff tae try n emulate him. Whenever eh wants tae motivate some cunt, tae try n gee thum up intae ehs scam, eh eywis goes ‘think Souness’. We used tae see Souness come back fae trainin when we were wee laddies. Eh once gave Terry fifty pence for sweeties. You always mind ay things like that. Terry even forgave Souness for that shockin tackle on George McCluskey at Easter Road a few years ago. — McCluskey wis a fuckin soapdodger, shouldnae huv Weedgies playin fir Hibs in the first place, eh said, aw serious. Every cunt kens that Souness wis a Jambo, but naw, Terry just wouldnae huv it. — Souness is a fuckin Hibby, eh’d declare. — If eh wis aroond now eh’d be up the toon wi the CCS boys in the designer gear, no hidin oot in the scheme like you greasy Jambo cunts.

  What the fuck is he talkin aboot designer gear for? Terry is to fashion what Sydney Devine is to acid house. Anyway, thinkin Souness, we go purposefully up a set ay stone steps intae the building. Two big doormen block our path. Ah’m no feelin quite so Souness anymair. Thankfully, one guy in a suit comes out behind the big cunts and ushers them aside. Ah could see Birrell, pumped up by Terry, ready tae huv a go. The boy, a bearded, Rolf Harris type ay cunt, wearin a dress jaykit and cairryin some papers, smiles at us. — I am Horst. You are the Edinburgh contingent?

  — That’s us cap gadge, Gally goes, — the Young Mental Amsterdam Shotgun Squad tae oor pals.

  The Horst guy strokes ehs beard. — Amsterdam is no good, we are wanting the people from Edinburgh.

  — Eh’s chaffin ye mate, we’re capital chaps through and through, Terry explained. — Three Hibees n a Jambo. Nae sad-case Weedgie impersonators here.

  Horst looks at us one by one, then at his piece ay paper, then at us. — Good. We had a message that the flight was delayed. You did well to get from the airport so quickly. Which one of you is the squash champion, Murdo Campbell-Lewis of Barnton?

  — Eh, that’s him, Terry points at Billy, cause eh looks the fittest. Horst produces a delegate badge and gies it tae Birrell whae self-consciously clips it oan.

  Horst then looks at Hedra, whae scrutinises him coolly. She’s awright, this lassie. — Where are the rest of the girls?

  Gally rubs ehs earring. — Good question, mate. We’ve no hud that much luck in gittin oor hole since wi came here.

  Billy cuts in, tae silence oor laughter. — Thir comin on behind.

  We’re bein ushered intae this hall, which has huge chandeliers hingin fae the ceilin and tables aw set up wi loads ay delegates ready seated, eatin and drinkin, being served by waitresses and waiters. Horst’s giein us passes, Gally grabs one and says, — That’s me, Christian Knox, schoolboy inventor fae Stewart’s-Melville College.

  — Who is Robert Jones, the violin player . . . from CFS . . . Craigmillar Festival Society . . . Horst asks.

  — The token schemie, Terry whispers tae me.

  Ah’ll take that. — That’s me mate, — n it’s CSF, no CFS.

  The Horst boy looks at ays nonplussed n hands the badge ower. Ah clip it oan the corner ay ma suede jaykit.

  Wir sittin doon tae a good fuckin bit ay nosh. Thir’s loads ay wino, n wee Gally gits a bit stiff when one ay the waitresses asks um if eh’s auld enough fir it. — Ah’ve goat a daughter your age, eh scoffs. We gie a wee — Ohhhhhh! which gits oan ehs tits. The nosh is just the game; we huv a seafood salad tae start, then some roast chicken, tatties n veg.

  Eftir a while ah’m aware ay a bit ay a commotion wi voices bein raised, n ah look ower n see a couple ay auld brassers whae look vaguely familiar. One ay them’s a right auld crone awright, aw strident wi seething eyes permanently scanning the world in search ay something tae disapprove ay. The other one’s a smug, suited-up cunt wi a well-fed face and an expression which beams: ‘I’m in fuckin clover here, and I want every bastard to know it.’ Thir’s a load ay young fuckers wi them; laddies and lassies, scrubbed and clean-looking wi keen, bright eyes, eyes unused tae the casual observation of life’s harshness. They look like the kind ay sooky punters ye kent back in the scheme, the weird yins thit used tae go shoapin fir the auld fuckers. Like Bir
rell, the boxin social worker, ah suppose!

  — Uh-uh . . . Terry goes, swigging back his wine, then pillin a fill boatil oot fae the ice bucket n stickin it under ehs jaykit. — Looks like the perty’s over . . .

  — That’s that councillor fae Edinburgh, the radge auld cunt thit’s ey in the News complainin aboot the filth at the Festival, Birrell sais, joggin ma memory. Kent ay recognised her fae somewhaire. — She knocked back oor boxin club’s grant fae the Recreation Committee.

  Thir looking ower at us, and are about as pleased to see thir fellow capital citizens as you are to encounter a blocked lavvy on a bad hangover day. Horst comes runnin ower wi the two cunts fae the door. — You should not be here! You must leave! eh shouts at us.

  — Hi, wuv no hud dessert yit! Gally laughs. — Awright cappy gadges! eh shouts over at the council party, ehs thumbs raised. The smug boy’s face has changed awright. Sure it has, that PR gloss’s been well licked oaf now.

  — Go, or the police will be called immediately! Horst commands.

  Well, ye dinnae like tae be spoken tae like that and thir’s nae excuse tae be rude tae strangers, especially as thir seems tae be enough room and grub for us all, but, well, these cunts are hudin aw the aces. — Aye, right ye are then ya cunt, ah goes. — C’moan boys.

  We get tae our feet, Gally stuffin a moothfill ay breed intae him as we depart. Terry’s lookin at one the bouncers, starin at the cunt in a low, breathless laugh, makin ehs eyes go aw big. — Gies it then, cunt, eh sniggers, shakin ehs hips and pursin ehs lips. — Me n you Fritzy boy. Ootside, come ahead!

  Ah grabs ehs airm n pushes um taewards the door, laughin like fuck at ehs pantomime. — C’moan, Terry, leave it ya daft cunt!