Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Aw, man …

It hus tae be Rents, it cannae be Baxter the landlord, cause Gav Temperley telt us that the perr auld boy was found potted heid in his flat at London Road. Mind you, Sick Boy telt us tae keep a beady oot fir his son, whae’s meant tae be a sharp-taloned mouser, but ah’ve heard neither heid nor hair, ken? But aw, man, that wis such a sin, an auld boy wi aw they hooses n clients that he’s landlord fir, dyin oan his ain, n no bein found fir donks. Just call the perr auld cat Eleanor Baxter … aw the lonely people, right enough.

So ah gits up tae investigate, n ah sees Sick Boy in the hall, n he’s goat his bags n hus an Evening News under his airm. — Spud.

— Sic— Simon, awright, man?

— Danny boy … lost weight, he says, then goes, — Everything hunky-dory?

— Aye, course it is, ah snaps, cause that’s what cats huv sterted sayin when thir really askin ye aboot Aids. Like the cowie, the David Bowie, ken? — What ye daein back? Thoat ye wir in Italia, likesay?

El Sickerino’s goat that slightly sheepish look n he goes, — Ehm … village politics. Ye cannae behave thaire like ye do ower here, Danny, he pats his baws, — ye goat tae watch where ye stick this; the Holy Papa runs a tighter ship than this slovenly heathen dive. Thaire wis a bit ay heat and I thought it might be prudent tae exit stage left. He throws the News doon oan the table. — Check this, Claudia Rosenberg is on at the Venue tonight. I’m on the blag for tickets for us. He pushes past us intae the front room. — Where’s that phone? He sees what’s playin oan the vid. — Phoar, Judy Garland looks well fuckin bangable in that gingham skirt … sorry, mate, did ah disturb ye huvin a crafty wee chug tae yirsel?

— Naw … jist watchin the film, likesay … ah goes, as Sick Boy picks up the phone n starts diallin a number.

— Hello … can I speak tae Conor? … Just tell him it’s Simon David Williamson, he’ll ken … Sick Boy pits his hand ower the receiver. — Fuckin wankstain. ‘Can ah ask whae’s calling …’ He roIls his eyes. — Hello! Con! … Barry! … Not bad, mate, not bad at all. And you? … Excellento! Listen, mucker, time is of the essence, so rudely, unforgivably , I’m cutting tae the chase. What’s the chances ay a couple ay buckshee tickets tae see a certain Dutch chanteuse tonight? … Sound as sterling! You, my man, are a fuckin genius!

N that’s him blagged it. Ah’m no really that chuffed, cause ah amnae diggin crowds these days, it’s a pure claustrophobia situ, likesay, ken? But El Sickerino seems that happy, n it’s pure shitey tae bring a cat doon when they’re that keen, ken? Besides it is Claudia, the Dutch singer, n she is a total legend!

Sick Boy goes ower tae one ay his bags and unzips, pillin oot a boatil ay rid vino, — Git a couple ay glesses washed Danny, it’s Chianti time! A result for the Leith laddies, cause we’re gettin backstage tae the eftir-show perty n aw! C’mon, compadre, jildy!

So ah goes through tae the kitchen but it’s likesay thaire’s jist one gless left. He kin huv that yin. Ah wash oot the Souper Hibernian bowl wi the gungy bicky for masel. We kick back wi a couple ay scoops n watch a bit ay The Wizard ay Oz . Then we hoofs it up tae the gig, stoapin en route at Joe Pearce’s for a beer. Ah’m feelin barry, n ah’m no even bothered aboot the crowd when we gits intae the Venue. The great thing aboot Sick Boy is the wey he takes ower, the dude has that sense ay … no sae much authority as mair right , it’s bein the Italian bambino n growin up wi Mama and these sisters that spoiled the gadge, that’s whit Rents sais, n he’s spot on, cause it sortay sticks oot a mile. Sound gadge though, Sick Boy. Can be a bit warlock-wicked aroond the chicks, but it seems tae work fir him. Ah often wonder if ah treated lassies worse whether they’d like me mair, but ah kin never bring masel tae dae it.

It’s mobbed in here, n the thing is tae git past they annoyin pillars. Sick Boy’s pushing through the crowd like he owns the place but, n ah’m pure in his slipstream. Thaire’s one or two tuts and blank looks, but he’s wearin that big disarming smile, n we soon hit the front. No long eftir, a four-piece band — guitar, bass, drum n keyboards — come oantae the stage n go intae this instrumental. This cool chick standin beside us is gaun: — CLAUDIA! CLAUDIA! WE LOVE YOU! and, sure enough, The Woman comes oan, dressed in gothic black, tae big cheers.

Ah ken it’s no right tae say it, but ah’m sortay disappointed, cause ah ey think ay Claudia Rosenberg as lookin like that curly-mopped, willowy, supermodel catgirl oan the cover ay Street Sirens , but ah suppose that that wis donks ago, ken? This vintage kinday looks like somebody’s ma. Well, ah suppose she is somebody’s ma, but ken, like a middle-aged Leith wifie up at the bingo. She’s aw bloated and haggard, n she chain-smokes oan the stage. The lassie beside me screams oot again, — WE LOVE YOU, CLAUDIA! n Claudia hears this, n gies the crowd a frosty, sour look n launches intae ‘They Never Stay’. Her voice is as barry and doomy as ever but, n the band’s duck’s-chuff tight, so we’re aw gaun radio rental.

Sick Boy cannae help bein a bad cat though, n he goes tae us, — Look at that ol’ Nazi turkeyneck. Tae think she was such a honey back in the day!

— She’s knockin oan but, man, n she’s no a Nazi, she’s a four-by-two, ah shouts.

— She’s Dutch, and they’re just maritime Germans, he scoffs. — Fuck North Europe, South Europe rules, he bellows, and smiles at the cute catgirl beside me.

— But she’s nae spring chicken, so ye cannae expect her tae look the same as she did in the glory days, ah persist.

— That’s skag-scrag, that, he points tae the stage, — it’s no normal ageing. We got off the merry-go-round at the right time, Danny boy.

— Too right, ah goes. Didnae want tae say mair, cause it’s no like ah huv goat oaf it, as such. Jist tryin no tae git a proper habit again, likesay. Ah heard that skag wis meant tae keep ye lookin younger, but ah cannae be ersed debatin it wi Sick Boy, cause ah’m well intae this gig. Ah really like that song ‘My Soul Has Died Again’. It’s aboot feelin shite, n ah kin sortay relate tae that. She goes through the best ay her back catalogue and thaire’s a barry encore wi ‘A Child to Bury’ and a totally sublime version ay ‘The Nightwatchman’s Cold Touch’.

Eftir, Sick Boy says, — Let’s get backstage. How jealous will Renton be?

Ah’m thinkin: aye, a bad yin for the Rent Boy tae miss, likesay.

Backstage it’s pretty radge, wi maist people gittin turned back by the bouncers, but Sick Boy catches a gadge’s eye, n we’re straight through intae this room wi tons ay booze n food. There’s a couple ay sweet-lookin lassies n Sick Boy’s right ower tae them. Ah pure wish thit ah hud his confidence roond the chicks; disnae happen but, man, just does not happen. Eftir a bit, the band come in, and start chattin n sittin doon, n ah suddenly realise that Claudia’s sittin right next tae me! She’s goat a plastic gless ay spirit in her hand.

Ah want tae say, ‘Barry gig,’ but ah go pure shy n jist smile aw nervous, likesay. Then she speaks tae us, pure sais, — So vot do zay call you? in that harsh, sing-songy voice. Her breath really stinks ay fags. Ah mean, everybody’s does likesay, well, no Rents, cause he doesnae smoke, or Tommy, cause he hardly does, but normal people likes. Her breath is as smoky as a certain Mr Robinson, but.

— Eh … Danny …

— I like yoooo … she says, grinning, and ye kin see that her teeth are in a bad wey, man, aw yellaw, n some ay thum broken. A bit like mine, ah suppose. — Vot do you do for a living, Dah-nee?