Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— Keezbo’s lookin seriously malnourished, Tam. You contributed tae the Biafra appeal, ah say, then pit oan the voice ay ma auld racist neighbour fae the Fort, Mrs Curran, — Let’s look eftir our ain people first!

— Awright, but Kendal services just, says Tommy, sweeping his hand through that Rod Stewart mess on his heid. — What happened tae your finger? he asks.

— Chisel. Cunt’s got us that de-skilled wi jist knockin panels thegither, ah’ve loast the touch when ah go back tae real work, ah say as Keezbo mumbles something in complaint. — Think you can hold on, buddy? ah ask him.

— Ah’m burnin fat big time, Mr Mark. It’ll be touch n go. If Mr Rab wid pass the voddy back, it might help tae take ma mind oaffay it …

— Mmmgh … Second Prize reluctantly growls, and Keezbo’s pudgy paw goes up tae collect the Smirnoff.

Despite lookin like a coconut pit oan its side and turned inside oot, Keezbo rivals Tommy as our best dancer. Ah tend tae stand there like a twat oan the sidelines, wishing ah kent how tae dance, till the speed kicks in. Then ah wished ah kent how tae stop. Once ah got too carried away at the Casino n fucked ma back tryin tae dae a flip. Trust that copper tae find that exact fuckin spot wi his stick! Cunt’ll be sittin at hame in some Barratt box, watchin telly, frigid wife, ingrate kids, oblivious tae the fact that he’s destroyed the dance for the boy Renton. Thank fuck fir paracetamol. But Keezbo though, for such a bloated cunt he’s something else. Must be the drummer’s rhythm. Too podgy for the flips, aye, but he can hit that deck like a fat, ginger sex machine.

We get tae Blackpool and dump the car. The smell ay fried food, diesel and the sea air pits us in mind ay September weekends long gone. Ah mind ay comin here wi Ma, Dad, Billy, Wee Davie, Granny and Granda Renton. Me, aw self-conscious and gangly oan a scabby donkey, Davie being raced up alongside us in his wheelchair by Granda Renton, them aw shoutin, ‘HE’S BEATIN YE, MARK!’

Me wantin tae heel the stoical beast in its ribcage; tae ride the fucker galloping intae the Irish Sea, just tae be free ay the embarrassment. Ah mind being that mortified, ah sloped oaf tae see Oliver! six times oan ma tod at a local cinema. ‘Ye cannae want tae see that again, son. We were gaunny go tae the Pleasure Beach,’ muh ma would moan. ‘Aw, gie him the money and let him go, he’ll only huv that face oan aw day,’ Dad’s heid wid shake. And ah’d greedily take the cash, craving the beautiful solitude ay the cinema in the dark, and the taste ay ice cream taken at leisure, away fae Billy’s pigeon-hawk eyes, wi the phrase so long, suckers deliciously reverberating in ma heid.

… never before has a boy wanted more …

We hit the Golden Mile and get tae that big, mad boozer under the Tower. It’s rammed, but we get some drinks in, just in time tae see Platini score the winner against Portugal.

— That cunt’s decent, eh, Rab, ah say tae Second Prize, whae has a pint and double voddy and is startin tae enjoy himself, but he doesnae want tae talk fitba. — Northern Soul? he asks, soundin like ma faither. — What is it but, Mark? What the fuck’s it aw aboot?

— You’ll see, mate, Tommy laughs, as a fat boy next tae us opens a bottle ay Beck’s, which shoots ower him as his mates chortle. Ah’d clocked them giein it a shake when he wisnae lookin. — Yawl fooking coonts, he says, in a West Midlands accent.

— Nae luck, buddy, Tommy smiles, patting the boy’s back.

— Look don’t coom into it with these coonts, he moans. Every group has a fat mate; some have several. It’s the Tower Bar in Blackpool, and if you’re in the right frame ay mind and in the right company, it’s one ay the greatest places oan Planet Earth.

Ma best mate is possibly Tommy. Cares aboot things, aboot people; maybe just a wee bit too much for the kind ay world we’re compelled tae live in. Despite being one ay the hardest and best-looking cunts ah ken, wi his solid light-heavyweight boxer’s build, Tommy’s basically a very humble sort ay gadge.

We start talkin aboot what we like in lassies, and ah mention that ah prefer smaller-breasted girls, which is a sacrilegious comment tae these cunts. Eftir bein called everything fae a poof tae a paedophile, Keezbo shakes his heid n goes, — Naw, Mr Mark, ah like a good pair ay knockers oan a bird.

— Liked them that much ye grew yir ain, ah goes, grabbin his beer tits.

But this wee exchange tells us that as perfect as the Tower is for the moment, the moment tends tae go pretty quickly. Fitba n lads has tae surrender tae dancing n lassies, so we drink up n make oor wey tae the club. Headin doon the prom, ma memory suddenly rushed like warm water ower frozen moments ay the past. Ah could hear Ma reading tae us fae the chair between our beds, Billy’s n mine, her furry tobacco voice rising and falling as her heid turned fae one tae the other. Books aboot dugs and bears and hoarses. Aw ay us enjoying the story but tensely waiting fir Wee Davie’s next bark tae pull the curtain doon oan our precious, borrowed time.

The club’s in the function lounge ay a big hotel, further up the prom. We get in, n it’s buzzin. There’s a record oan ah dinnae recognise but ah’m no wantin tae gie Keezbo the satisfaction ay askin him, so ah sing along, lip-syncin the lyrics as we shuffle through the busy crowd. Second Prize looks tae us, then the bar, then the Pepsis, in raw panic. He realises that the gaff isnae licensed. — Thaire’s … thaire’s nae fuckin peeve …

— Aye … Tam grins.

Second Prize fuckin explodes, his coupon bursts florid like he’s havin a fit. — Whit’s aw this aboot? YE TAKE US AW THE WEY DOON HERE N THAIRE’S NAE FUCKIN PEEVE, YA CUNTS!

Ah thoat he wis gaunny lash oot at one ay us, cause he’s hyperventilatin, but he just turns n storms oot ay the nightclub.

— Fuck sake … what a state … ah’ll go eftir him, Tommy says.

— Leave um, ah goes. — How fuckin ridic is that?

— He likes a drink but, Mr Mark, Keezbo says.

— We aw do, but imagine no bein able tae go fir a few fuckin hours withoot Christopher Reeve, ah laugh, — that’s worse than a fuckin junky! He could’ve hud some Berwick wi us!

So we have a look around, pleasantly surprised by the amount ay decent fanny in the house. Ah love ma Northern, but some club nights could be bit laddie-orientated. Suddenly ah hears that pianny tinkle introducing the Volcanoes classic ‘(It’s Against) The Laws of Love’ n ah’m right oan that flair, back or nae back. Ah shout tae Tommy, — C’mon, Tam, ‘Laws ay Love’, but then ah’m distracted, as ah catch sight ay a wee gadgie wi a bandaged heid oan the dance flair. It’s Nicksy.

I am reviewink, the sit-u-ay-shun …

Ah’m watchin the cunt strut his stuff for a bit, his patter is abysmal, n ah’m finding a wee groove masel as ah close in on him. Tommy n Keezbo are still lurkin oan the sidelines. Ah’m aboot tae get up thaire n say hiya tae Nicksy, but ‘Skiing in the Snow’ comes oan, and ah’m straight oaf the dance flair cause it’s the Wigan’s Ovation’s version rather than the Invitations’ original. Fat cunt that he is, that tasteless Jambo wanker Keezbo gets right up thaire, n starts giein it big licks.

Fae the bar, as we eye up the girls, aw lookin the part, whether it’s sleeveless dresses (magic!), vesty tops n short skirts (ya cunt ye!), or tight troosers n blouses (barry!), Tommy’s asking us aboot this trip tae Europe oan the InterRail. — You’re gaun wi a mate n two birds, right? Tidy.

— Aye.

— Ye ridin one ay thum?

— Naw, ah tell him, suddenly thinking ay Fiona Conyers, one ay the girls, how barry she is, just a totally brilliant lassie. Comes fae Whitley Bay. Committed socialist. Long, straight, inky-black hair, a big toothy smile, and a chest that demands your attention. An odd wee cluster of tiny spots on her foreheid, a greasy patch the Clearasil cannae contain. Ah’m suddenly gripped by an urge tae gie her a wee tinkle. It’s probably jist the speed diggin in, but.