Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

They dinnae notice, they’re busy chattin aboot how it’s a lovely day, n we can aw start lookin forward again. But my mind and body, pristine pillars ay the temple ay abstinence for six weeks, thrash in unison like a drum machine towards that first bag ay skag. Just thinkin aboot it causes a frozen sweat ay excitement tae gush fae ma pores. Ah cannae fuckin wait. But ah resolve that ah’ll try, for their sakes. The auld boy’s really pushing the motor for some reason, and the auld dear n me cowp intae each other as the tyres screech on every bend.

June 1969 , in Blackpool. The moon still made ay green cheese but soon tae be wrapped up and labelled by Yank astronauts, before being dumped in cold storage. A stroll doon the Golden Mile. The distance between Granda Renton’s stiff, overwrought breaths and the last time we walked the prom so much more than just one year. Remembering when we once looked at his medals in that tin. Him wryly observing, ‘They only want tae pin this metal oantae yir chest tae cover the scars fae the metal thuv pit inside it.’ I minded thinking at the time: no, no, Granda, it was the Germans who did that. The British gave you the medals!

Now ah realise that the poor old cunt had it sussed .

We head through the city, bound for the port of Leith. It’s no that late; shopkeepers on the Walk are lowerin their iron grilles with a vengeance. When we get tae the hoose, ah sense that somethin is up. Suddenly, the front room lights click on and a sea of puses: Hazel, Tommy, Lizzie, Second Prize (lookin fit and with a cute blonde lassie in tow), Billy, Sharon, Gav Temperley, Mrs McGoldrick fae next door, Billy’s mates Lenny and Granty, aw wearin grins n toastin us wi glesses ay champagne; aw bar Second Prize, whae’s goat an orange juice. In the kitchen above the table, full ay cakes, sandwiches and the mini sausage rolls ye get at weddings and funerals, a home-made banner ay green lettering against a white background proclaims:

WELL DONE MARK, AND WELCOME HOME!

No quite the graduation ceremony they had in mind for us, but still. My old man hands us a gless ay champagne. — Get that doon ye. But go easy, mind.

Go easy .

Lookin doon at the swirlin, sickly orange glare comin fae the plastic logs in the fireplace, ah sip ma drink, feelin it windin doon ma throat, intae ma stomach, liver, kidneys, goin through ma bloodstream, then lightin ma brain up. The bubbles fizz in my heid, as Hazel rubs ma airm in appreciation, her mooth liftin at the corners. — Are those muscles?

— Kind ay, ah concede, gettin another drink, in sure-fire knowledge it’ll only render mair acute rather than satiate a need ah can feel creepin up on us. Ah’m headin right back tae her when Tommy intercepts, locking me in a matey embrace. — Leave that shite alaine, Mark, he breathlessly urges.

— Too right, Tam: ah’ve learned ma lesson. That isnae exactly a lie, cause ah have learned a lesson. Just no the yin they hud in mind. — How’s Spud?

— Dinnae ask. As bad as ever. Imagine pittin yersel through aw that rehab shite for nowt.

— Aw, right, ah say aw hangdog, but inside ah’m elated. Go on, the laddie Murphy! — And Matty?

— As bad as Spud, but in Wester Hailes .

Ah take Tommy’s point. So it’s about as bad as it can get for oor Mr Connell. Ah note Hazel’s talking tae Second Prize and his bird, so ah grab ma holdall and head tae ma auld bedroom, puttin my diary at the bottom ay a cupboard full ay books and other auld shite.

When ah go back ben the front room, muh ma is arguin wi Billy, wavin some caird she wants him tae sign. — No way, he shakes his heid, — ah wouldnae sign anything fir they Currans. You no remember how they carried oan at Wee Davie’s funeral?

— But they’ve been neighbours, son … She looks imploringly tae me. — You’ll sign perr Olly’s git-well caird, won’t ye, pal?

— Didnae ken he wis … what’s up wi um?

— Aw, ye willnae huv heard … he hud a massive heart attack, Ma says sadly. — Claims he goat this nasty letter fae the council. Aye, he wis that enraged he jist flung it straight in the fire. Then he went up thaire and started shoutin the odds, aboot coloured people n that, ye ken how they could git …

— Bams, says Billy.

— … n he goat himself awfay worked up, cause the council denied aw knowledge ay any letter. But he wis ragin, n he tried tae git at the clerk behind the screens, so they called the polis. Well, he left eftir that, but he collapsed ootside in Waterloo Place, so they took him right intae the Royal.

Ah feel this chill spreadin over me, n the colour drainin fae my face. Ma thrusts the caird and pen intae my hands. Billy looks at me. — You’re no gaunny sign that, ur ye? You hated that bastard!

— Ye huv tae live n let live. It’s only a caird, n ah widnae wish that oan anybody, ah tell um. Then ah deek the caird, which has a cartoon ay a downcast-looking boy in a hoaspital bed, thermometer in his gob, wi the caption: SORRY TO HEAR YOU’RE ILL. Ah open it up n the same gadgie’s now full ay zest, gless ay champers in his hand, winking at a sexy nurse, whae pats her hair. The message reads: HERE’S TO GETTING BACK TO YOUR OLD SELF SOON!

So ah lay the caird doon oan the sideboard and scribble: All the best, Olly. Mark .

— That’s ma boy, Ma smiles indulgently, then whispers intae my ear, — that’s the real you, son. That’s the goodness ay ye comin oot, before aw they daft drugs made ye aw funny n nasty, n she kisses the real me oan the cheek.

Ah winks at her n turns tae Billy. — Mind that Wolves team that beat Herts in the Texaco Cup final? Youse won one — nil doon thaire but goat gubbed three — one at Tyney? How many players kin ye name fae that team?

— Fuck … he says, his brow furrowing, — ah kin hardly name any Herts players! Let me see, there wis Derek Dougan, obviously, Frank Munro … was it Billy Hibbitt? … Kenny Hibbitt … talkin aboot Currans … that was the boy who scored twice, Scottish guy n aw … Hugh Curran! N whae else? Billy turns tae ma faither, whae’s chatting tae Tommy and Lizzie. — Dad, he shouts him ower, — that Wolves team that beat Herts, the Texaco Cup …

— Some team, muh dad says, wipin his beak wi a paper towel. — Mind, youse aw got Wolves strips that Christmas? Ah hud tae send away for your yin?

— Aye. Fort Wanderers. You took that team photae at Christmas. It never came oot, ah state, lookin pointedly at Billy. — Shame that, eh? Nivir mind, but; ah kin still see it ma mind’s eye. Left tae right, back row; me, Keezbo, ah glance over tae the boys wi their birds: Tommy, Rab, then back tae Billy, — Franco and Deek Low n aw. In the front, crouchin in front ay us, again, left tae right; Gav, English George, Johnny Crooks, Gary McVie, mind ay poor Gazbo? Chocolateface Dukey and Matty wearin a goalie’s jersey.

Billy looks a bit disconcerted, as muh Dad cheerfully says, — Well, at least aw that bloody rubbish ye were takin husnae destroyed yir memory!

No, it has not. Because one thing ah mind ay clearly is a certain address in Albert Street, and the seven digits ay a phone number gied tae us by Seeker. Ah move across tae Hazel n pit my airm around her slender waist. She smiles at me, immaculate in that yellay dress wi they pop socks, and smellin wonderful, lookin like a fifties suburban American girl of the cinema. Ah git a stirrin in my breeks. Ah think aboot whether ah should take her up tae the flat in Monty Street n have crap sex wi her, or track doon Johnny, Spud, Matty, Keezbo and co, or go and see ma good buddy and personal trainer, Seeker.

WHEN I TELL you that the best part of the place is the railway station, you begin to get some idea of what I’m talking about. Of course, I’d never let them know back in Leith that my mother’s home town is a shithole, far removed from those Tuscan landscapes swathed in breathtaking light, where ah led the gaping simpletons tae believe the Mazzolas originated from. In possibly the most visually stunning country on God’s earth, this toon is a thorn among roses. Even in Italy’s shabbiest region other shitheaps in the locale look down on it. Ah can even see why my mother’s family left for Scotland .