Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Keezbo’s no fuckin aboot, he’s groovin oan that flair tae big cheers. Everybody likes tae see a fat extrovert gaun fir it, shakin that flabby erse. They reason that if he can pull they can, and he must piss so many cunts off when he walks away wi a dolly at the end ay the night and they go hame tae bed wi a gutful ay peeve and a fistful ay that best friend whom they’ve let doon yet again. N ah ken cause ah’ve been one ay them often enough. But ah cannae knock a fellow ginger, especially as me and Keezbo play thegither, me bass and him drums. Can never keep up wi the fucker, but.

Tommy’s in his yellay Fred Perry, trying tae look smooth, biding his time till mair lassies hit the space. We’re aw pretty desperate for a ride, eftir aw it’s the fuckin weekend, but ah think Tam mair than maist; dinnae think he’s hud a sniff since he split up wi Ailise at Christmas.

Ah close up behind Nicksy, whae’s loosely dancing away wi some Manc lassies but generally sniffin aroond the dance flair like a polis dug in an Amsterdam warehoose. Grabbing his shoodir heavily, ah go, — I’m arresting you, Brian Nixon, for assaulting the truncheon of an officer of the law …

— MARK RENTON! He plants a kiss on my foreheid. He’s well gone, but the lassies and some other cunts look at me like ah’m some kind ay superstar, cause Nicksy’s a bit ay a face on the Northern scene.

— How’s the noggin?

— Some filth cunt walloped me. Couldn’t go to the hozzie, they was just lifting every fucker. It was farking crazy, eh?

— Aye, no half. Cunts smashed up the Fleetwood Mac. Strugglin oan the dance flair.

— Any excuse, he laughs, then points tae his nut. — Yeah, six stiches, but your farking Graeme Souness tackle hurt me loads more, you cahnt, he smiles, bending to rub his ankle, then looks to the exit. — Who you dahn with, sahn?

— Three mates. Well, two now. One cunt left a bit sharpish when he saw thaire wis nae peeve. Believe it or no, it’s Rab, the boy ah wis telling ye aboot that was once on Man United’s books. Now he cannae go ten minutes withoot a swallay.

— Is Matty here? he excitedly enquires.

Ah want tae tell Nicksy that Matty’s no quite the same boy that he kent back in that Shepherd’s Bush doss in ’79, but ye dinnae want tae slag off one mate tae another. — Naw, failed a late fitness test. Shirley, the bairn n that.

— Shame, I ain’t seen that cunt in years.

— Some other chaps for ye tae meet, but. And here’s a wee felly … Ah pull a couple ay blue pills fae ma jeans watch poakit and slip yin tae Nicksy. We down them, and cheerfully rant at each other. Brian Nixon, ma first buddy in that squat that Matty n me pertied oor wey intae. Monday, Tuesday, happy days. Ah mind ay Nicksy sayin he hated his real name cause ay the association wi Richard Nixon. Ah like ma real name: wish cunts would use it mair, instead ay that Rent Boy shite. So we rap oot some stuff at each other, gaun ower auld times, aboot the strike and the class war. Good fuckin speed …

Wir tanning the Orbit sugar-free as ah introduce Nicksy tae Tommy and Keezbo. They’re right ower when they see that he’s in largely female company, two Manc lassies called Angie and Bobbi. Nicksy’s known here cause it’s rare tae find somebody comin up fae London tae the provinces and, fair play, the fucker has some moves on that flair. He tells me that he’s no interested in any ay the lassies though. — Loved up, n I?

— Nice one. She here?

— Nah, she won’t leave London. Tell ya wot, ain’t half missing her. She don’t mind me taking off though, cause it ain’t like we never see each other, she lives in the same flats, just up the stairs.

— Never shit where ye eat, gadge.

— Cheeky cunt, he says. — Nah, mate, this one’s special. The muver of my kids.

— They aw are wi you but, geezer, ah retort, getting intae an auld game. — Mind that lassie in the squat at Shepherd’s Bush? Lorraine. Fae Leicester. She broke your hert. You faw too hard, buddy, that’s your problem.

— Entirely different scenario, he grins, — and a bird in the flat is worth two in the bush, didn’t they teach ya that at school, sahn?

It’s great tae see the cunt again, and properly catch up aboot auld times. He tells me that Chris Armitage fae Salford, another ex-London punk buddy, will probably be along here at some point. It’s shaping up tae be a good yin. So as Nicksy blethers tae Tommy, ah start chatting tae Bobbi girl.

Can a fellow be a villain all his life?

She’s a serene wee dark-broon-heided honey, her name short for Roberta, but Tommy’s being a pest, n asking loudly, — Does Hazel ken that yir gaun tae Europe wi two birds?

— Hazel and me are auld news, Tommy.

— Aye, for ten minutes, then it’s business as per usual.

— No this time, ah say, hoping that Roberta gets the point. Ah decide ah prefer Roberta tae Bobbi, cause ah didnae want tae think aboot a bird huvin the same name as Young Bobby fae the work.

Ah get oan the flair wi her for a bit as Frankie and the Classicals’ ‘What Shall I Do’ starts up. Roberta’s chunkier than ah thought or that ah normally go for, well, no exactly chunky, but has a bit mair meat roond the thighs and erse than her face, shoodirs and smallish breasts pushing against that tight rid-and-white squiggled top wid lead ye tae think. Her longish brunette hair’s barry, and she has a pretty face. So basically, ah’ve opted for a policy ay steyin tight oan her, rather than zonal marking. Ah’m serenading her by reciting the refrain, — Huh, baby, what’s happening wit choo? Nothin? Ah, that’s too bad. Hey, jist came around to see what was happenin wi choo, to see if there was any new party. Ah, c’mon, you can do bettah than that now, uh …

— You’re mad, you are, she goes, aw encouraging girly-giggles, the sort that fizz n bubble in yir guts like champagne. Then she clocks ma hand and asks, — What happened t’ yer finger?

— Industrial accident. Ah gie her a wink.

The gig ends in total euphoria as the DJ lays doon that old Wigan Casino signature climax track, Dean Parrish’s ‘I’m On My Way’. Then, sadly, we are. We stand ootside the club and it’s nippy, as we’re faffin aboot for too long as Tommy’s still worried about Second Prize, n tae be honest, ah kind ay am n aw. Nicksy and Roberta suggest a party back in Manchester, at somewhere called Eccles, and ah’m as keen as Colman’s finest, though trying tae play it cool. — What aboot Rab?

— He’ll have headed back tae the motor, Mr Mark, Keezbo says, — he’ll no get a drink at this time.

Ah realise it’s actually a still, mild summer night and it’s the Lou Reed that’s spreadin the chills. Ah catch Roberta’s teeth chattering n she gies me a cheeky smile, pushing her hair back. There’s nae sign ay Second Prize at the car. — He’ll have gone tae Manchester, ah say unconvincingly, — he’s still goat mates thaire fae the fitba.

— Too right, Mr Mark, says Keezbo, who’s been firing intae Angie, this big tall bird wi long, dark hair, and he doesnae want the night cut short. Aye, for a Fat Ginger Specky Cunt, Keezbo’s pretty outstanding at getting his hole. He makes lassies laugh, comin ower as a cheerful, cuddly teddy bear, whae’s nae real sexual threat. There’s probably been a few who’ve asked, durin a moment ay clarity, ‘What am I daein wi an obese sweaty cunt oan top ay us, his fat ginger knob pistoning away intae ma fanny?’

So we pile intae the motors; ah’m in Nicksy’s car, a messy rust-bucket full ay auld newspapers, takeaway cartons and empty beer cans, in the back wi Roberta and this other lassie, no Angie, n ah’m in nae big hurry tae get tae our destination as Nicksy’s goat a good Northern tape oan and the Tomangoes are giein it loads wi ‘I Really Love You’ and me n Roberta and this other lassie, whae ah think’s called Hannah, are singing along and gently shoodir-chargin each other in the back. A lassie wi collar-length, straight blonde hair sits in front wi Nicksy. When we get tae the Eccles gaff it’s stowed wi people fae the Blackpool gig. Ah’m suddenly overwhelmed by the realisation that it feels great tae be me; a young, smart, working-class boy fae these beautiful islands. How blessed could a human being possibly be?