by Irvine Welsh
We do a workout at the centre, and then have a coffee. Lara’s self-obsession starts to niggle, and I soon find myself wishing I was alone so I could read the final third of Reluctant Survivor. I’ve got to the bit where the handsome Dr Shaw has kissed Josephine tenderly on the mouth. He becomes aroused by the action, and starts to shower her still body with kisses, eventually performing cunnilingus on her. She wakes up, stunned, shocked and ultimately relieved as an embarrassed Shaw has to tell her everything. It’s just getting really good. Instead I have to listen to Lara going on about this Monty, my stomach churning whenever that Klepto creature’s name is mentioned. I want to tell her, to tell somebody, about that bastard.
When we get back, Lara gets Scarlet and heads off home. Jason’s gone and Dad comes out as I’m putting Midnight back in the stable. — Ah want tae see you compete wi that wee yin wi the bools in the mooth. N that hoarse is fit fir the knacker’s yerd. Eh huds ye back.
I look at him in an angry panic, thinking about what he did to poor Ambrose. — If you ever hurt Midnight …
He extends his palms in a gesture of mock innocence. — Ah ah’m sayin is that we need a proper team, nae lame ducks … or hoarses. Ah mean, look at ma business. At ma place we’re a team. If somebody isnae pillin thir weight, then off they go: right doon the road …
— Midnight stays. He’ll get stronger, I know it.
— Mibbe, my dad says doubtfully, — but think ay what ah said aboot thon gelding.
13.
EXILE ON HIGH STREET
A FIGHTIN DUG, ya hoor, that’s the furry Fife fashion accessory ah’m draggin aroond wi ays doon Main Street n up tae the High Street. Ambrose, they call him. N eh’s no that bad once ye git used tae um; thon nippy wee cunts ootside the chippy gied ays a wide berth whin ah strutted doon the street wi him on the chain, suren they fuckin did!
Cahill obviously thinks the jockeyin backgroond and the coort appearance that the Neebour Watson and me hud on thon hare-coursing rap a couple ay years ago (slipped through the hoor’s fingers as under Scots law ye kin only be prosecuted for poachin) makes ays a bona fide black-economy man ay sport. N whae am ah tae disabuse the hoor ay that notion? Specially whin it’s cash in hand fir me oan top ay the giro, jist fir cleanin oot yon stables n gittin a wee deek at ehs daughter’s tight erse as she pits yon big hoarse through ehs paces. Ah’m waitin fir her tae go ower they wee jumps, but she tells ehs thit ehs leg still isnae up tae it. Eh’s fuckin middle leg surely is, but. Ah couldnae believe masel the other day. Ah wis muckin oot in the stable watchin her groomin the cunt whin eh wis tied up under the canopy. Snooty wee Lara wis gaun ower they fences fir aw they wir worth n ah wis in stalker heaven.
Then ah sees Jenni rubbin the hoarse’s back wi the comb. This yon black cock starts tae telescope oot ay its sheath; like yon Darth Vader’s light sword, ya hoor. There wis me standin thair wi a daft wee smile oan ma face tryin tae git some attention, but thir’s nae wey a dwarf laddie like me could compete wi thon!
As guid as the stalkin at the Cahill ranch is, ah quite like taking Ambrose oot. The problem is thit walkin the dug stoaps ye fae indulgin in the key pleasures ay the socially marginalised; namely the lunchtime pint ay black gold doon the Goth. But then ah think, one swallay does not a summer fuck up; a quick yin, then wi kin mibbe head doon the coast.
The lads ur aw in, n thir pretty wary ay the dug. N ah’d like tae see Big Monty Fuck come ahead whin ah’m hudin this boy’s leash. — S’awright, ah says tae the Neebour Watson, — this boy widnae hurt a fly, eh no, Ambrose? Eh’d take your hee-haws right oaf but, wid eh no though, ya hoor sor!
The Neebour stands back n the Duke’s no gittin that loud in the mooth, tell ye that fir nowt.
— See that boy got done the other night there, that Mason felly, Neebour Watson tells ays.
— Whae? the Duke asks, keepin ehs eyes oan Ambrose.
— The table-fitba supremo, Neebour explains, then turns tae me n says, — Jist as well eh overturned yir ban first, Jase.
— Aye, right enough, ah goes, tryin no tae sound too concerned, bit ah feel ma haun tightenin oan the leash ay Ambrose, whae’s lyin doon, assumin the pub-dug position.
Neebour’s switchin intae sweetie-wife mode as eh cannily regards Ambrose. — Surprised thit Tam Cahill never mentioned it tae ye, neebs, wi you spendin that much time up thair thit yir vernear pert ay the faimlay!
— Specific tasks though, ya hoor, ah swings Ambrose’s leash, bit no enough tae disturb the boy oan ehs choke, — animal husbandry. Thir’s a wee oinker n a pony n a durty big hoarse wi the sort ay tackle ye neevir see made ower at Central Perk, if yis git ma drift. Gelding though, nae use tae um, but it doesnae look like that fae whaire ah’m standin!
Ya dirty big fower-legged long-faced hoarsey bastard that ye are!
— Aye, thir hung awright, they beasts, the Neebour says.
Ah’m tryin tae change the subject here, bit the Iron Duke’s oan yin, n eh goes, — Aye, that dirty Mason cunt wis grassed up by a couple ay wee laddies fae the skill. Eh used tae pey thum tae dress up as lassies n then eh’d go and huv a wank ower thum. Apparently some mair came forward eftir the other yins blew the whistle.
— Mingin hoor. The Neebour shakes ehs heid.
— Aye, says the Duke as ah keep ma cooncil, jist like auld Ambrose whae’s lyin thair quiet, nostrils gently expanding, making soft wee wheezy noises, almost like a cat purrin, — spun thum this story thit eh hud loast ehs daughter in a car crash n thit they wir the right height n weight n size n could they dae him a favour n dress up like her. Well, the gullible wee bams felt aw sorry for um, n went along wi it. Eh peyed some ay thum n aw, so eh wis at it fir ages! Took photaes n made films tae! Aye, Andy the polis, yon big Hun fae the craft: he telt ays they found tons ay material.
Fuckin hell. Uncle Davie’s a grandmaister up thon lodge. He’ll surely keep a lid oan it. Faimlay. Surely.
— They types are ey weird though, ah goes, — ah eywis thought thir wis a touch ay the Tam Hamiltons aboot yon yin, ah elaborates, feelin disloyal tae perr Olly, bit wantin tae lit the trail go cauld.
— Dirty bastard, exploitin naieve wee laddies like thon. Ah ken whit ah’d dae wi the hoor, the Duke goes.
— Eh nivir touched thum bit, jist hud a wank ower thum, Neebour sais, turnin tae me wi a big grin splittin ehs coupon. — Mind you, Jase, what did you huv tae dae fir um tae git that ban overturned fir ye? Your size ah’m bettin ye could’ve fitted easily intae they lassie’s clathes! Did eh huv a wank ower you n aw, ya hoor ye? Eh laughs, but eh’s starin at me and the Duke’s lookin wi serious intent n aw n ah’m thinkin: muh whole credibility and future in the Kingdom is determined by muh next response. It’s like huvin the baw in the shooting area oan the football table, the game’s tied n thir’s jist time fir this yin shot. Stey cool, Jase. — Nowt like that, ah goes. — Ah jist sucked ehs cock, that’s aw.
The Duke lits oot a volley ay laughter n Neebour does n aw, then pats ays oan the back n sais, — Ah widnae fuckin well pit it past ye; anything tae git that ban rescinded, eh!
— Ya hoor, ah wish ah’d hud the option ay suckin ehs cock or gittin dragged up, insteed ay haein tae listen tae the hoor gaun oan aboot proceedures and protocol and standards ay behaviour. Wid’ve been a loat less fuckin demeanin, ah kin tell yis.
Thir cacklin away n ah gits the round in. Bit that wis a narray escape, n ah wis tempted tae make another joke bit it’s best no tae owerplay the auld haund. It’s time tae look forward wi focus, and the main thing is thit ah’ve goat that Perthshire cunt Derek Clark in the next round. A hame tie n aw fir the laddie Clark, the venue bein the Salutation Hotel in the Fair City. St Johnstone v the Blue Brazil; mair thin a clash ay two individuals, toons or coonties. Nothin mair thin a desperate battle fir supremacy between two diametrically opposed philosophies ay life!
Bring it oan, ya cunts!
Neebour sterted gaun ower auld times, talking aboot the Horse ay the Year Show at Wembley Arena, when wi baith worked doon tha
ir oan the caterin. — Caroline Johnson oan Accumulator; now there was a filly worth ridin.
Of course, ah’m moved tae reciprocate the inane grin oan the hoor’s coupon.
— Accumulator of course, wi bark in unison.
It fair gits me in recall mode. — Ya hoor ye, thaire’s me tryin tae dae muh best wi the grub n aw they posh cunts ur giein ays it tight. Ah mean ah ken the Hoarse ay the Year Show’s thir big bash n that but thir’s nae need tae git as wide as thon. The old colonel boy wi the tash started bellowin at me like eh wis muh auld man n it wis last orders at the Goth, ya hoor ye!
— Aye, some gey nippy fuckers thair, Neebour agrees. Ah nivir said nowt, ya hoor ye, but ah kin fuckin well tell yis ah wis straight tae that packet ay rat poison thit they’d pit doon in the stockroom, n ah goat chefin fir the Kingdom, did ah no, but.
Couldnae believe the read in the paper the day eftir:
Commander Lionel Considine-Duff, OBE CBE RN (ret) was discovered dead at his home in Belgravia in the early hours of this morning. His maid, who alerted police and ambulance services, found his body when she went to wake him for his morning breakfast. Considine-Duff had been complaining of chest and stomach pains following an enjoyable evening at the Royal Horse of the Year Show at Wembley Arena. Formerly a keen equestrian himself, he retired from political life after having suffered two mild strokes.
Political correspondent Arthur McMillan writes: ‘Buffy’ Considine-Duff was a knowledgeable, compassionate backbencher whose distinguished military and sporting careers meant that he was disinclined to climb to the top of politics’ greasy pole. Having previously been satiated with the demands of high office and the spotlight, Buffy was happier to stay in the background and serve. A tireless lobbyist for the oil industry, he also strived ceaselessly on behalf of his Wessex constituents. His personal life was colourful. Thrice-divorced Buffy was prone to admitting that the type of filly that gave him most pleasure invariably had four legs. When having quaffed a little too much of his favourite tipple he was prone to loudly exhorting ‘two legs bad, four legs good’ at anybody from the two-legged variety who incurred his displeasure …
N it went oan like that, so it did, ya hoor ye.
Ah sup the last ay the black gold and gie Ambrose a very gentle tug, and low and behold the boy’s oan ehs feet n wir oot the door. Goat the hoor eatin oot ay muh hand here!
14.
VET DOBSON
DOBSON HAS JUST finished another examination of Midnight’s leg. The trot was too much for him, now he’s hobbling again. I phoned Fiona La Rue who came round straight away, then on her advice, I called Dobson. Now it’s not looking good. The vet’s face briefly crinkles in distaste as the horse excretes. Clifford the pony brays as Curran the pig (named by my father after the policeman who busted him for drink-driving) headbutts the back of his legs. — Will he be okay for the Hawick competition? I ask, knowing what the answer will be.
He looks sombrely at me, then at my father. — I’m afraid not. Look, Jenni, I’m sorry to say this, the words spill grimly from those rubbery lips in that hangdog face, — but I think we may have to face up to the fact that Midnight’s leg makes him unsuitable for showjumping. It’s a very high-impact sport, and it’s only going to make this weakness worse.
Clifford the pony makes a playful whinny, as if in celebration of the news.
My father has been standing over us; one hand stuffed into a pocket, the other pulling on a cigarette. Rolls of fat hang from his chin. It’s as if seeing him from this angle is showing me how much he’s aged and I now feel a strange tenderness towards him. Which evaporates instantly when he opens his mouth. — Telt ye, he says, shaking his head knowingly, a sneer cutting his face, igniting his features, pulling them north. — That hoarse is gaun naewhaire but intae Spiller’s pet foods.
I swallow hard and look in appeal to Dobson, who shakes his head in disgust. — He’s a perfectly healthy horse, Tom, there’s absolutely no question of him having to be put down. It’s only tendonitis, but he needs much more rest and another course of anti-inflammatories will do wonders. I would say, though, that competition jumping is very unlikely.
— So eh’s washed up, that’s what yir sayin? My dad looks aggressively at the vet.
— I wouldn’t put it like that, Tom, Dobson whines. — He might still be suitable for lighter use; pleasure or trail riding, hunter-jumper, dressage and such. It’s just that showjumping is very hard on horses and his leg has a weakness.
My dad flicks the cigarette out of the stable. — Dead wood, that’s what I call him. He shakes his head. Midnight looks so depleted, his eyes so sad, I almost want to scream at my father to shut up. — We bought him as a jumper, a competitor. Now he’s going tae be another parasite whae does nowt but drain resources, he says, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket and looking around in contempt.
Who the hell does he think he is? What does he know about horses?
— Midnight’s a Cleveland Bay, I protest, — they’re really carriage horses, I explain to the old fool as I stroke Midnight’s face and whisper calmingly in his ear. My dad and that pig, the one that’s supposed to be a companion, they spook him. It’s funny, but he’s okay around Ambrose the dog.
— Aye? Well, ah’ll mibbe buy ye a carriage fir um, he says facetiously, — then ye can dae they horse-drawn tours ay the Beath. That’s aboot his dead strength n you might even make some money instead ay spending aw ay mine on lost causes!
I’m outraged at his crassness and selfishness and all I can think to say is, — I didn’t ask to be born!
— It’s aboot the only thing ye huvnae asked fir, he scoffs.
Dobson the vet looks nervously at us and says, — I think I should be off. And I’m thinking to myself what a fucking good idea that is.
15.
PERTH PACK
MINDFUL AY THE lessons ay previous abuse, ah took it easy in preparation fir the next roond ay the Scoattish. Ah goat a nice bit ay haddock fae Boak’s at the Central Perk market: protein, ya hoor. The laddie even dressed it up in breed-crumbs, so ah fried it up at hame, mine in a sanny on Sunblest, Lurpak, pepper n HP, in front ay Scotland Today, the auld man, a traditionalist, at the table wi ehs Pot Noodles oan the side, hummin yon 50 Cent’s ‘What Up Gangsta’ under ehs breath.
A double feast n aw, cause later that night Kravy treated ays tae a big curry at the Shimla Palace. The only time ah’ve been in whin it wisnae thir eat-aw-ye-kin Sunday buffet. Felt like a fuckin sultan whin ah got back hame. Fir synergy purposes, ah hud a guid auld ham shank tae some Asian porn, blawin muh load as the vindaloo still bubbled in ma belly wi the lager. Nae black gold or grinnin Scandinavian sirens wi a curry: a chap needs a sense ay propriety.
The next morning ah’m oan the back ay Kravy’s bike n wir tearin through the Beath high street like a thirsty Kelty hoor oaf the backshift wid a six-pack. Wir gauny hit the trail fir Perth n ah feel like tellin the Kravitz laddie tae cool they proverbial jets, but it wid be an exercise in futility. Thankfully, eh does slow doon though, whin eh sees the twa lassies gaun past oan the hoarses.
— Better no spook they gee-gees, eh shouts, or something like thon as eh slows tae a halt beside the lassies.
— Hi, Lara (whae’s clad tae chug tae, by the way) shouts at us, — where are you off to?
— Perth, ah goes. — Goat a result. Common sense prevailed at administrative level n ah’m back in the cup. Gaunny progress fir the Kingdom, show thum whaes philosophy ay table fitba will win through in the end. When’s yir Borders tourney?
— Thursday, Lara goes.
— Might even take a wee jaunt doon thair oorselves, eh, Kravy, support the lassies, likes, ah ventures. Kravy jist shrugs non-committally. Eywis been a cool yin. Bit ye kin tell thit they dark, broodin looks huv goat the birds’ gashes fair waterin. N ah’m thinkin it widnae be a bad result if ah jist left the field clear fir him wi Lara, n concentrated ma efforts oan that wee Jenni Cahill lassie; peach ay an erse oan it! So ah says, — Ye headi
n doon then, Jenni?
— I’d entered but I’ve had to scratch. Midnight just isn’t ready, she says sadly. — The vet has even said he might not be able to jump in competition again.
— I’m sure he will, Lara smiles.
— Right, Kravy goes, — hud on tight, Jase, you’ve got a tourney to win, n eh kicks oot n wir tearin up the road n by the time ah’m relaxed enough tae look back the lassies n even the hoarses ur jist dots.
Ya hoor, ah dinnae like aw this swervin in n oot ay traffic oan the motorway! Thir’s nowt ye kin say but, ah jist try n think ay the next life, wonderin if thir might be some sortay arrangement whereby Fife becomes the new Sussex, a county ay affluence within the realm and Scots withoot sectarian leanings can sing ‘God Save the Queen’ wi an absence ay irony! N ma dreamin works tae an extent, bit whin wi stoap oaf at the Little Chef for a coffee b/w one ay Mr Kipling’s fir the sugar hit, ah’m shakin like a Hill ay Beath hoor thit’s been gittin pleasured wi a pneumatic drill insteed ay a vibrator.
— Ye okay, Jase? Kravy asks.
— Nerves, ah tell um, — no through bein oan the bike, ah lie, — ah’m an ex jockey eftir aw, well, trainee, bit it’s this forthcomin game wi Clarky. The boy’s good, n ah’m feelin the weight ay the coonty’s expectations oan they shelpit, roond shoodirs ay mine. Bit the better the stage fright, the better the performance, ya hoor.
Kravy looks deeply intae ma eyes. — You’ve goat the spirit, the soul n the passion. Eh’ll no live wi you, Jase.
— Steady on, ya hoor, ah sais, a bit embarrassed by the emotion oan display in the Little Chef. That’s the problem wi we bonnie laddies: cannae trust oorselves around sports. Ah think it wis the great bard Rabbie Burns that once said: ‘Cocaine n fitba mak homosexuals ay us aw.’ Or mibbe it wis this coonty’s ain Ackey Shaw.
Whin we rolls intae the ancient toon ay Perth, the sickenin wealth oan display makes ehs want tae git a squad roond fae Cowden wi a few vans, tae start instigatin oor ain form ay socialist redistribution ay loot. Fuck thon pie-in-the-sky promises the frocked n collared defenders ay the status quo advance (auld Jakey Anstruther excepted): lit’s hae it here and noo. But ah huv tae admit thit ah wis partial tae yon Salutation Hotel; mahogany wid everywhaire, as auld skill as a Kelty hoor that utters thon reassuring words ‘whin ye talk size in oor game, it’s eywis wad rather thin willy’. N ye’d hae tae huv a harder hert thin mine no tae appreciate thon portraits oan the waw ay several recent VIP visitors; Sir Bob Geldof, MPs Boris Johnson and Tommy Sheridan, Clarissa Dickson or whatever ye call thon fat yin that cooks, the yin that didnae die, n Frank Bruno. Nae Jason King yit, bit that yin’s impendin, ya hoor; aye, impendin.
