Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— Ah’m sortay on the dole, likesay unemployed.

Her elbay goes right intae ma side; man, she’s as radge as Begbie! — I know vot ze dole is. You are vun of Maggie’s millions, yes?

— That’s pure it, man. Cast oan the scrapheap by Thatcherism, likesay.

She looks aroond n bends in close tae ma ear. — I think I should take you back vis me to my hotel room, where we can drink proper brandy. She huds the plastic beaker up intae the light n screws up her face. — Real brandy. Vood you like that, Dah-nee?

— Eh, aye … barry! ah goes. — Ah’ll, eh, jist tell ma mate thit we’re headin oaf.

She pills this soor pus n looks ower tae Sick Boy, whae’s in his element wi they two birds, him n the guitarist boy fae the band. Ah see her sortay snort, n it’s barry that she’s no as impressed by him n she is by me, but! So ah goes ower tae him n pills um aside. — Eh, ah bit ay a result, catboy. Claudia wants us tae go back wi her. Ah’m no really sure what tae dae, but.

He looks ower tae her, she’s talking tae this lassie, then back tae me. — She’s a fuckin auld boiler but you’ve goat tae get in there! Jist think ay the brownie points! How jealous will Renton be! Fuck sake, Iggy’s been there! Lennon n aw. And Jagger. And Jim Morrison. You could have your cock in the same place as Iggy’s has been!

Ah nivir thought aboot it like that, but it wid be a bit ay a feather n the auld cap, likesay. — Too right, catboy. Ye pit it that wey, it’s no an opportunity tae be sneezed at, eh.

— Fuckin sure, Sick Boy says, then his expression goes aw tight n he droaps his voice. — Speaking of brownie points, a wee word ay advice: ram it right up her fuckin choc box!

— Eh?

— Fuck her up the erse. Squidgy or hard centres, get them crammed right back up that fuckin shit tube.

That’s no very respectful, so ah sais, — Eh … ah’m no really intae that sort ay talk, likesay …

Sick Boy’s big lamps are burnin. He’s taken something, probably coke, likes. That guitarist boy was defo dishin stuff oot. — Listen tae me. He pills ma sleeve. — Her sweaty auld pie’ll be like the fuckin Grand Canyon. Iggy Pop wrote that song ‘Rich Bitch’ offay Metallic KO aboot her. Mind when he sings about the lassie’s cunt being so big you could drive through it in a truck? Well, that was reputedly aboot her. And that was Iggy, who’s hung like a donkey, and this wis back in the seventies, before she’d hud a score ay orphaned bairns, a prolapsed womb and a hysterectomy. Unless yir packin the Eiffel Tower in they troosers, you willnae even touch the fuckin sides. So grease up that pole and gie her it tight up the chestnut stash, he sortay commands, stickin a packet in ma jaykit pocket.

— What … ah’ve goat spunk bags, ah tell um. Wi Aids n that, man, it likesay makes sense tae cairry thum. Nivir ken whae ye might meet, eh.

— Lube. Slather that pole, bend her legs back in the missionary, aim low, n it’ll go up there like a treat. Just persevere. She’ll love it. European lassies dig that sort ay action. In Italy we use it tae avoid the bambinos and keep sweet wi the Holy Papa in Rome. You’re Irish, you should ken aw they moves! Pin the starfish wi that auld shillelagh ay yours n yi’ll no ken whether she’s talkin double Dutch, or speakin in tongues, ya cunt!

— Right …

So ah heads back ower tae Claudia, whae’s rising fae the chair, her heid tossed back in the air, n she leaves the room. Ah follow her, n as a go, ah look back tae see Sick Boy giein me the thumbs up, and the guitarist gadge makin a throat-cuttin gesture. Ah turns away. This wee gadgie’s wi Claudia, and ah’m a bit worried thit he might be in the threesome, ye ken how liberal the Dutch kin be, aw permissive n that, but ah realise thit he’s jist the driver. We go ootside n he climbs intae the front ay the car, n her n me are in the back. The cute lassie that was next tae me is waitin ootside, n shouts at Claudia, — WE LOVE YOU!

Ah pure widnae huv minded takin her along wi us, but Claudia just says, — Fuck off, you moron, as we pull away. We’re bound for the Caley Hotel. Man, ah’m as nervous as fuck now, so ah starts totally gabbin tons, tellin her aboot the gig n sayin that ah loved the new version ay ‘The Nightwatchman,’ wi Darren Foster’s guitar work, n she jist pits a hand ower ma mooth n goes, — Shhh. I do not like it when you are for talking so much.

So ah says nowt, but we’re soon at the Caley, n the doorman opens the car n we git oot and intae the hotel. We baith look like jakeys but the staff cats ur bein ultra sooky cause ay it bein her. Ah could pure tell ah would never huv goat sae far acroas this luxurious lobby on ma ain. Big gless chandeliers n pillars n velvet n a thick rug under yir feet … wi walk under a big alcove tae the lift … aw, man …

So we gits intae the lift n up tae the room. It’s a cracker n aw; ye could likesay fit two Kirkgate flats intae one ay they gaffs. Thaire’s a bathroom that’s ginormous, n she flops oantae the big four-poster kip, n pats the space beside her. Ah’m shitein it, cause ah eywis ah’m wi lassies, n ah widnae say this tae the boys, cause ah’ve jist done it wi three lassies before. Steyin cool’s the art, man, but once that adrenalin sets in, that tight, jittery tension, it’ll be pure no go, man, cause ah feel the nerves knittin inside us. Pure shy wi chicks ah fancy, that’s ma downfall, ken? N ah dinnae fancy Claudia much tae be honest, cause she’s gittin oot ay her tight jeans, n she’s goat big flabby thighs, n ah’m lookin at her rows ay chin n ah’m thinkin ay that cover ay Street Sirens again, n askin: is this really Claudia Rosenberg?

Now she’s got some stuff oot, and man, she’s totally chasin some skag wi a foil pipe. Her lungs fill up wi smoke n she goes aw that dozy wey. She offers us the pipe n ah ken ah’m tryin tae be cleanish now, but ah’m that nervous ah take a wee bit, n start coughin, makin her laugh aw loud, but ah dinnae care cause ah’m gaun aw swoony n heavy, n it’s pure taken the edge offay the fear, man.

Barry.

Nae nerves at aw now.

So ah start slippin oot ay ma clathes, n ah moves next tae her oan the big bed. She turns her fat wifie face tae mine. — You are a nice boy, she says, runnin her hands ower ma nipples like it wis me thit sort ay hud the tits, likes.

— Ah’ve … eywis … kinday … admired your …

— Shh … Again it’s the finger ower ma mooth, n her other hand goes doon inside the front ay ma pants, which ah kept oan. Man, it’s been that long that even wi that bit ay skag, ah’m still as hard as fuck. — You have a very nice long penis. Very long. Not so wide, but very, very long!

Not so wide …

Ah’m pure thinkin aboot what Sick Boy said n ah goes tae pit oan the flunky n opens the lube n rubs it doon the shaft ay ma cock. She’s taken oaf her pants n thaire’s a leafy smell, it’s strong, but ah dinnae say nowt. It’s like ye kin tell she’s pure chronic oan the skag n sortay gied up a wee bit oan the personal hygiene, ken? Ah wis totally the same before rehab. But it sortay gets us wonderin aboot Janis Joplin or Billie Holiday, what they would’ve been like in the minge department, ken?

So this Claudia starts tae boom, — Give it to me! Give it to me!

— Awright … So ah mounts her, gits in position n pushes they fat legs back, n goes in low against her ersehole, n pushes …

Her eyes bulge oot n her body stiffens. — VOT ARE YOU DOING?!

— Ah’m … sortay tryin tae … gie ye it up the bum, likesay, ah tells her.

Well, man, she pure pushes us oaf her n grabs us by the hair. — GET AWAY FROM ME! GET OUT!

Ah pulls away but ma scalp’s pure burnin n she’s gone radge, chasin us in slow motion roond the bed, cause we’re baith wasted, me in the buff, her naked fae the waist doon but wi a black T-shirt still oan, n ah try n grab ma troosers n miss, n ah’m gaun, — Ah’m sorry … ah’m sorry … calm doon!