by Irvine Welsh
– This true? asked the polisman.
– Aye, ah suppose, says the beefy restaurateur, looking aw fuckin sheepish as well he might because he tampered unjustly with one Lloyd Buist from Leith who is a waster and has set himself up in opposition to the fascist British state but who now to his extreme embarrassment finds one of its law enforcement officers taking his side and ticking off the capitalist businessman who tried to apprehend said Leith man.
Another woman says, – The likes ah you have goat enough bloody money as it is!
– That’s fuckin men fir ye. Money, money, money, that’s aw they think aboot, another one, the one that took my part, laughs.
– That n thir hole, the other woman said. Then she looks at the restaurateur and gives him a dismissive sneer.
The guy looks at her, but she’s sort of staring him down and starts to say something then thinks better of it.
The cop rolls his eyes in a manner obviously meant to indicate exasperation but which seems a camp, theatrical gesture. – Look, says our lawman, looking bored, – we can play this by the rules which means I’ll huv yis both doon the station n charged wi breach. He raises his eyebrows in a what’s-it-to-be manner at the restaurateur who looks like he’s shiting himself.
– Aw c’moan … geez a brek, the restaurant guy appeals.
– You were out of order, pal, the cop lectures, pointing at the guy, – attempting to restrain this man when the culprits were in fact two other men. You admit that this man wasn’t even in your restaurant?
– Aye, the guy said. He looks quite ashamed.
– Too right, ah goes. Cheeky bastard. Innocent passer-by me, eh, I said to the cop. He looks like Noddy.
He turns to address me, adopting that formal Officer-Of-The-Law mode, – And you, goes the polis, – you’re out of your face. Ah dunno what the fuck you’re on, and right now ah’ve goat far too much on tae be bothered. Any fuckin mair lip fae you and ah will be bothered. So shut it. He looks back to the restaurateur. – I want details from you, about the other two guys.
The guy makes a statement and gives the polis descriptions of the youths, as they say. Then we’re made to shake hands, like we were bairns in a school playground. Ah think about taking exception to this patronising behaviour, but it feels strangely good to be magnanimous and ah can see the bruises and swelling coming up on the side of the poor cunt’s face and ah was a bit out of order hitting the boy like that, poor cunt was upset at being ripped off and only trying tae get justice but wisnae thinking straight in his emotional state when he apprehended said Leith man. Then the lawman gets into his car and departs, leaving us looking at each other. The women have gone up the road.
– Embarrassment that, eh! The guy laughs.
Ah said fuck all; ah just shrugged at the cunt.
– Sorry, mate … ah mean, ye could’ve goat me intae bother thair. If ye’d pressed charges like. Ah appreciate it.
Get him intae fuckin bother … – Listen, ya daft bastard, ah wis trippin oot ay face n when that polis wanker came ah hud tae swallow some mair trips ah wis haudin. In aboot one minute ah’m gaunnae be totally cunted here!
– Fuck … acid … ah’ve no done acid for years … he said, then: – Listen, mate, come along the road wi me. Tae the restuarant. Sit doon for a bit.
– If ye goat drink thair, aye.
He nodded.
– Ye see the only thing ah can dae is have a good bevvy. It’s the only way ye can control a trip: force doon as much alcohol as possible. It’s a depressant, ken.
– Aye, awright. Ah’ve goat drink in the restaurant. I’d take ye for a beer in a boozer, but ah’ve goat tae get back and prepare for the night. Seturday night, the busiest time n that.
Ahm in nae position tae refuse. The trips hit me like a slap in the face from a wet fish. Loads of wee explosions go off simultaneously in ma heid and ah realise that ah can see nothing at all, just a big golden light and some obscure objects swirling around me out of reach. – Fuckin hell … man, ah’m gaunnae die dinnae let ays walk intae that road …
– S’awright, mate, ah’ve goat ye here …
The guy’s holding me again, this time I’m keeping a grip on him, even though he looks like that fuckin dinosaur in Jurassic Park, one ay they nippy wee cunts which, awright, are wee by dinosaur standards, no as big as the T.Rex; T.Rex, now there was a cunt: – Ah love to boogie on a Saturday night … mind that cunt T.Rex?
– S’awright, mate, wir jist alang the road … wir jist alang here … jist cause ah’ve goat a restaurant though, pal, it disnae mean tae say that ah’m some big rich bastard who’s hud it aw handed tae them oan a silver plate. Ah’m jist like they boys, they pals of yours. Stealin fae thir ain kind! That’s what that wis. That’s the thing that disgusts me the maist. Ah mean tae say, ah’m fae Yoker, ye know Yoker? Ah’m a red sandstone boy, me.
He’s fuckin rabbiting oan a load ay shite and I’m fuckin blind and my breathing is fucked oh no don’t think about fuckin breathing no no no bad trip hopeless when ye fuckin think aboot the breathing most bad trips happen when you think about the breathing
but
but we’re different from say dolphins, because these daft cunts have tae think consciously about each breath they take when they come up for air and that. Fuck that fir a game ay sodgirs the poor cunts.
No me but, no Lloyd Buist. A human with a superior breathing mechanism, safe from the acid. You didnae have to think aboot the breathing, it just happened. Yes!
What if
What if, but, no no no but what if no no no a staggering trip; me now flying off into space seeing the Buist body: a deserted shell being dragged along to the mass murderer pervert restaurateur’s lair, this body being folded over a table with lubricants applied to the arsehole and penetration achieved just as the victim’s carotid artery is severed with a kitchen knife. The blood is expertly drained off to be collected into a bucket to make black pudding and the body is systematically dismembered following being pumped with Yoker semen and that night in the trendy West End eating house the unsuspecting Weedgies sit spraffing unaware that instead of feasting on their usual dead rats they are munching the remains of Lloyd A. Buist, an unattractive divorcee of the parish of Leith, integrated into the City of Edinburgh in nineteen canteen, naw naw hud on, nineteen twenty cause ah ken my history and it’s enough tae make yir hearts go ooh la la ah fancy a shag cause ah just saw something or someone gorgeous really fuckin gorgeous pass my line of trance-vision up here in the clouds but yeah, they took Leith into Edinburgh in spite of a popular plebiscite that rejected the merger by a ratio of something like seven billion to one but aye, they did it anyway because these stupid schemie cunts ken fuck all and they need a good benign central authority to tell them what is in their interest and that’s how Leith has fuckin thrived ever since then ha ha ha like fuck … except for a few incoming yuppies but obviously the story of Leith had broader implications
– Ah’ve known hard times n aw, that’s aw ah’m sayin, says my mate Red Sandstone Boy, as I snap back into my body with a shuddering jolt.
Ah still seem to be just breathing oot. There’s nae sense of breathing in and if the breathing mechanism is part of the subconscious which it has to be, is that no precisely what the acid fucks up?
Precisely Holmes. That means you are up shit creek, you daft cunt. – Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha Flight Lieutenant Biggles reporting for duty, Sir. Biggles, old man, don’t stand so bloody close to me and put away that weapon while I’m talking to you. Did ah tell ye that your breathing is rather laboured, it’s aw fuck fuck fuck fuck
– Take it easy, mate, here we are.
No breathing.
no no no think of a Garden of Eden type scene where there are loads of sultry naked women lounging around and all of a sudden who should be here but Lloyd but the faces ah can’t get the fuckin faces right n what if these cruel bastards in the r
esearch labs were to give dolphins LSD? I’ll fuckin well bet it’s been done before the cruel cunts. Amanda’s showed me that stuff she gets stuff through the post that goes oan aboot what these cunts dae tae cats and dugs and mice and rabbits but that’s nowt; that would be real cruelty: giein a dolphin LSD.
We are not now moving. Moving now not. Now we are not moving. We are somewhere else. Somewhere enclosed.
– What’s the fuckin score?
– Take it easy there, yir hyperventilatin … I’ll get ye a wee bevvy.
– Whair the fuck is this?
– Stay cool, mate, it’s ma restaurant. Gringo’s. Gringo’s Mexican Cantina. Hodge Street. This is the kitchen.
– Ah ken this place. Ah came here once. Barry cocktails. With ma then girlfriend. We drank cocktails. Ah love cocktails. Want one want one want one want one … oh excuse me, mate, ah’m fuckin trippin oot ay ma box here. PHOAH! Yuh cunt ye! Aye … my ex-girlfriend. Her name was Stella and she was nice. We didnae love each other but, eh no, mate. It’s nae good unless there’s real love thair ken? Ye cannae settle for second best. What aboot the cocktails though, mate? Eh?
– S’okay pal. I’ll make ye one. What is it ye want?
– A Long Island Iced Tea would be nice.
Nice. Ah keep saying that word, thinking that word. Nice.
So the boy starts mixin the cocktails and I’m in this kitchen and it’s all flying away fae me but he’s still going on about being a red sandstone boy who doesnae care aboot money …
– … a red sandstone boy. It’s no that ah’m a money grabber and ah know that plenty people are starvin and homeless in Glasgow, bit that’s the fuckin Government’s fault, no mine. Ah’m tryin tae make a fuckin livin. Ah cannae feed aw the poor, this isnae a soup kitchen. Ye know how much they fuckin criminals at the council charge in rates for this place?
– Naw …
The boy should start a militant community group in Yoker and call it Red Sandstone. It sounds okay. Red Sandstone.
– It’s no that ah’m a Tory, far fuckin from it, says Red. – Mind you, that council’s jist a fuckin Tory council under another name; that’s what that is. Is it the same in Edinburgh?
This is too fuckin radge. – Eh, aye, Edinburgh. Leith. Lloyd. Ah nivir, ah mean, no the one that shagged ehs sister, that wis a different Lloyd … nice cocktail, mate …
A Long Island Iced Tea.
The cocktail is fuckin reverberating like anything. It’s gaunnae explode …
– Cheers. Aye, see if ah wis votin fir any cunt, which ah’m no, ah’d vote SNP … naw, ah widnae, ah tell ye whae ah wid vote for if ah wis votin fir anybody now; mind that boy that got sent tae the jail for no peyin his poll tax?
This cocktail is the wrong one. Ah need a strawberry something, Strawberry, a Strawberry Daiquiri.
– What wis the boy’s name?
– Strawberry Daiquiri.
– Naw … the boy that got sent tae the jail for no peyin his poll tax. The Militant boy.
Ah need strawberries … – A Strawberry Daiquiri, mate … that would dae me fine.
– Strawberry Daiquiri … aye, sure. Finish that Iced Tea first though, eh! Ah’ll just have a wee beer this time, a San Miguel, naw, too heavy, maybe jist a Sol.
– Nae Becks, mate?
– Naw, jist Sol.
Red Sandstone gets up from the seat opposite me to fix the drinks and it’s like a volcano exploding and fuck this, the roof is falling doon … not, ha ha ha fooled myself there, but the window has gone, that’s fuckin defo.
– Sorry, ma man, nae strawberries. It’ll huv tae be a Lime Daiquiri.
Nae fuckin strawberries … what a fuckin load ay shite, man … nae fuckin strawberries right enough the cunt goes so ah goes – Sound man, sound. And eh, thanks fir lookin eftir ays.
– Naw, ah sortay feel bad about it, you takin aw they trips n that. How ye feelin?
– Sound.
– Cause as ah say, ah’m jist tryin tae make a livin. But these guys, they’re jist rubbish. They’ve goat the money tae go oot tae fuckin clubs aw night, but they steal food fae the likes of me. That’s fuckin out of order.
– Naw, man, naw; ah admire they boys … they know that the game isnae fuckin straight. They know that there’s a Government fill ay dull, boring bastards who gie the likes ay us fuck all and they expect ye tae be as miserable as they are. What they hate is when yir no, in spite ay aw thair fuckin efforts. What these cunts fail tae understand is that drug and club money is not a fuckin luxury. It’s a fuckin essential.
– How can ye say that?
– Because we are social, collective fucking animals and we need to be together and have a good time. It’s a basic state of being alive. A basic fuckin right. These Government cunts, because they’re power junkies, they are just incapable of having a good fuckin time so they want everybody else tae feel guilty, tae stey in wee boxes and devote their worthless lives tae rearing the next generation of factory fodder or sodgers or dole moles for the state. It’s these boys’ duty as human fuckin beings tae go oot clubbin and partying wi their friends. Now, they need tae eat from time to time, it’s obviously important, but it’s less important than having a good fuckin time.
– Ye cannae admire people like that. That’s jist rubbish, thon.
– Ah do admire the guys. Massive respect from Lloyd here; Leith’s Lloyd, the one that never shagged his sister: massive respect tae they boys Richard and Robert fae Glesgie … dear auld Glesca toon …
– Thought you said ye didnae know them? Red Sandstone’s hurt face pouts out at me surrounded by a cacophony of clattering sounds and throbbing, pulsating lights …
– Ah know them as Richard and Robert; that’s it, mate. I’ve blethered wi the boys, in chill-oot zones n that. That’s as far as it goes … listen, ah’m fucked. Ah could be dying. Ah need tae get ma heid doon or something or another Sol …
The Sol and the Daiquiri and the Long Island Iced Tea are empty and ah cannae remember who drank them surely ah never ah mean
The boy goes to make up some of the tables in the front dining area. Ah climb across the sink, through some dirty dishes and just slide like an eel out of the open window, falling onto some binliners stacked with rubbish and rolling into a dry drain in this concreted back court. Ah try tae stand up, but ah cannae, so ah just crawl towards this green gate. Ah just know ah have to go, to keep moving, but I’ve ripped my flannels and torn my knee and ah can see the flesh wound pulsating like an opened-up strawberry and now I’m on my feet which is strange because ah can’t recall ever standing up and I’m on a busy main road which is maybe the Great Western or maybe Byre’s or maybe Dumbarton and I can’t see where I’m going and it should be home but that cannae surely tae fuck that cannae mean Stevo’s flat.
The sun rises up above the tenements. I’m just gaunnae fly intae it.
Ah shout tae some people in the street, two lassies. Ah tell them, – The sun, I’m just up for flyin right intae it.
They say nothing, and they don’t even notice as ah fly right up out of this world and its trivial, banal oppressions, right into that big fuckin golden bastard in the sky.
11 Heather
I suppose what attracted me to Hugh was his sense of commitment. As a student he had a tremendous sense of commitment. This changed, evolved, as he might say, through the years. How did Hugh’s commitment change?
* * *
Name: Student Hugh.
Committed to: the liberation of working people from the horrors of capitalism.
* * *
* * *
Name: Jobless Graduate Hugh.
Committed to: fighting to maintain jobs for working people but to changing the system.
* * *
* * *
Name: First-rung-on-the-ladder Professional Employee Hugh.
Committed to: defending and improving the services working people are entitled to.
* * *
* * *
Name: Supervisor Hugh.<
br />
Committed to: optimising the quality of services for the users of the services.
* * *
* * *
Name: Public Sector Manager Hugh.
Committed to: excellence in service delivery through increased cost efficiency and cost effectiveness. (This meant redundancy for many of the working people who provided these services, but if it was to the benefit of the great many who used them, then it was a price worth paying.)
* * *
* * *
Name: Private Sector Manager Hugh.
Committed to: maximising profit through cost efficiency, resource effectiveness and expanding into new markets.
* * *
– But we’ve moved a little since nineteen-eighty-four, Heather, he’d smile from behind his Independent.
Only the innocent have been changed to protect the names. For Hugh, the ‘final analysis’ became the ‘bottom line’. There is significance in the semantics. The banal slogans of revolution and resistance became the even more banal ones of business efficiency, accountancy and sport; bottom lines, moving goalposts, covering bases, level playing fields …
Along the way our dreams crumbled. The slogans of revolution may have been naive, but at least we were going for something big, something important. Now our sights are set so low. It’s not good enough for me. It’s all right for some; they’re welcome to it. It’s just not enough for me.
It’s not enough because I’m twenty-seven nearly, and I haven’t had a fucking orgasm in four years. For those four years he’s fired his wallpaper paste into me, consuming me as I lie thinking about consuming.
As he fucks me I make out my lists:
sugar
