Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

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-day 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.