Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

It’s still gloomy this morning, but at least the rain’s eased off. As usual, Seeker’s the only other person up, and we go through our routine in silence .

The rest of the morning I write, write, write. All the time loving the way the sharp, smooth tip of this pen pulls my hand across the page. I’ve come to believe that everything you write, no matter how shite and trivial, has some sort of meaning. Writing that journal entry yesterday has made me remember that the Christmas we got the Wolves strips was the one just before Hibs beat Hearts 7–0 at Tynecastle .

We’d gone downstairs tae get that team picture: only one, because it was freezing cauld. After New Year it had been Billy who got sent round to Boots in the Kirkgate tae get the spool ay festive snaps developed. But I never eyeballed that Wolves team photae. I mind ay Begbie asking us tae let him see it and giein me a Chinese wristburn at school when I telt him it hudnae turned oot. He thought I was hudin oot on him .

That cunt Billy must have destroyed it oot ay spite for my constant derby massacre teasings .

Mystery solved. Fuckin prick .

But the muppet forgot about the negatives, which my mother passed oantae Moira Yule. So mair than a decade later, I see the picture in Keezbo’s photae album .

Glory to the Hibees. A Steve Cowan winner from a Jukebox Dury pass at Fir Park .

Every place has a top dog and Seeker is the main man here, which you can tell Swanney’s no too happy aboot. It seems obvious that both have had competing access tae heroin fae the same source, and they’re very cool with each other .

While the rest ay us hit the recky room Seturday eftirnoon tae watch the football scores come in, Sick Boy was absent, riding Molly, then returning tae big it up tae Seeker about our ruinous experience on the boats in Essex, though he fell short of mentioning Marriott or even Nicksy by name. You could tell both Seeker and Swanney were interested though. Skreel started on aboot Glasgow and boys he kens in Possil. Ted, although fae Bathgate, spent a bit ay time in Dundee, and he reckons there’s a scene up there. I mentioned Don up in Aberdeen, which seemed to impress Seeker. ‘Some boy, him .’

‘ How’s he daein? ’

‘ Fuck knows.’ A visor ay cauld suddenly shut down over his pus .

For tea, liver that smells of pish and onions seals my single-minded retreat back into vegetarianism. To be fair, there are quite a few core carnivores turning their noses up at it and looking enviously at my scarcely more edible egg flan, dry as an auld nun’s chuff .

Despite the acuteness of my senses sometimes overwhelming me, I’m still happy to be off the methadone: it was like having a giant condom stretched all over your skin. My jitters have subsided, but I’m still feeling up and down. One minute life seems pointless, the next I’m full of optimism and thinking about the future. Keezbo’s being a wet blanket about band plans; it’s usually all he wants to talk about. I wanted to blether about music and my song ‘Cigarettes R Us’, but Keezbo went, ‘Shhh, Mr Mark, Only Fools n Hoarses!’ So I headed back to my room and read more Ulysses .

After a bit Seeker tapped at my door and sat doon in the wee chair, his big frame filling the room up. I put the book doon and he picked it up. ‘Ever read that Hell’s Angels? ’

‘ Hunter S. Thompson? Aye, love it .’

‘ The cunt’s a bullshitter. Made maist ay that up. Ah ken a couple ay boys fae Oakland .’

‘ Aye? ’

‘ Aye,’ Seeker went, then emphatically stated that he’s giein up smack; it’s dealing only for him fae here oan in. ‘Otherwise, it’s true what they say: ye just get high oan yir ain supply. The drug’s shite anyway. First time is best. Yir jist chasin that high eftir .’

Strange how I could absolutely agree with everything he was saying, while all the time thinking that there’s very little I wouldnae dae for some skag right now. Something is crawling under my skin, biochemical information sluicing around my body. The sheer physicality of it; it’s like what boxers call ‘muscle memory’ .

Seeker stared at the cover of Ulysses wi a scary intensity, like he wis trying to will the contents of the book into his headintae his heid. Then he looked up, pushed his hair back and went, ‘Ah think that Fools and Hoarses shite’s finished now .’

I recollect that I did a huge, championship-winning shite after breakfast this morning. Things are really starting tae work as they should. I still feel edgy, but kind ay barry as well. Euphoric is pushing it, but definitely anticipatory. I feel that good I feel like gaun oot and getting totally fucked up!

Therein lies the problem!

Day 26

Our isolation and the constant rain outside make me speculate that the world has drowned and we’re the sole survivors. The future of the human race is safe in our hands! The grim, hesitant sounds of Bowie’s masterpiece ‘Low’ mingle with the din of the crashing downpour outside .

We said goodbye to Spud. At breakfast we presented him with this pony letter in which we told him why we’d miss him. It was another exercise devised by the Rehab Kingpin Tom, where you had tae finish the sentence oan the caird :

I’ll miss Danny because …

I had put doon :

… he’s my best mate .

Spud read it and looked at us all, choking up, but particularly focused on Audrey and Molly. Molly was tearing a coupon out of some magazine, while Audrey bit into the knuckle of her right thumb. He kept glancing fae one tae the other. As we exchanged hugs, he held an alarmed Audrey, then Molly, for a painfully long time, and even gave Skinny-Specky the same treatment. He looked tearful and confused as he was taken oot, turning back tae gaze at the lassies with a poignant expression. In the corner Sick Boy stood, jaw clenched tight, but I knew that look, could tell that the fucker had pulled some sort ay stunt!

A taxi had arrived and Spud’s ma, Colleen, came and took him away. I couldnae help wilting inside under her judging stare as I waved him goodbye fae the doorstep. As the taxi ground doon the gravel path, wi Spud still looking back in sad confusion, Sick Boy pulled me intae his room. He was bent over, face contorted, barely able tae speak through his laughter. ‘Did you … did ye see his face? Did you actually see him … oh my God … did ye see him … checkin oot the lassies? These big, sad, puppy-dog eyes? Huding them in that desperate embrace?’ He exploded in a loud guffaw. I slowly started tae understand .

‘ I wrote in his card: “I’ll miss Danny because … he’s the sweetest boy I’ve ever met, and I think I’ve fallen in love with him.” I kent he’d think that it was one of the lassies! Result! Did you actually see the dippit fucker’s pus? ’

I couldnae help but join in the laughter. Poor Spud. ‘You bad bastard … the poor cunt’ll be gaun mental …’

‘ Positive affirmation though, that’s what the group’s aboot,’ he roared .

‘ Yes, but based on honesty .’

‘ Just lubricating they social wheels a wee bitty .’

So we went intae the recky room sniggering like daft wee bairns, Tom commenting about how he was glad tae see us in such high spirits .

At the process review meeting, we discussed the journals, Tom urging us tae share their contents in the group. Of course, not one cunt except me has written a fucking thing, or if they had, they were keeping stumpf. So was I. I started tae entertain the perverse but plausible notion that every bastard secretly has a junky War and Peace sitting in their rooms .