Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— No bein sexist or nowt like that, ken, Kelvin goes, — but tae me that shows wir further up the evolutionary ledder than burds. We’ve goat other things tae think aboot besides dressin each other up, eh goes, — like dressin youse doon!

— Guaranteed, Terry goes, but just tae shut Kelvin up. — Mind that Desmond Morris gadge? The Naked Ape ? Boy hud a comb-ower n telt us aw aboot groomin rituals. He’d say thit youse two daein that means yis fancy each other!

— Git lost! Andrea goes.

— Hi! Dinnae shoot the messenger! The boy wis oan the telly. Comb-ower!

Ah’m lookin at his big mop ay corkscrew curls. — Is that a wig?

— Is it fuck! Gie it a tug, goan!

Eh leans intae ays, so ah dae it. — It feels really soft, n ah kin tell he’s gaunny say something so ah gits it in first, — Soft one end, hard the other, n ah gie um a wink. — It’s the wey tae go bit, ay?

— Guaranteed, eh goes, wi a big smile, as Kelvin’s nippy wee puss goes aw tight.

Anywey, Terry soon diverts ehs attention when Polish Saskia comes in! They aw like her! Ah’ve goat tae go anyway, ah’ve done ma shift n ah’m meetin some ay ma mates before ah git hame tae ma wee Jonty boy.

So wir in the Haymarket Bar. Fiona C’s goat that fringe cut straight n kind ay silly flyaway hair. Ah widnae say she wis a fat hoor, but she’s no exactly skinny! Naturally chunky, wid be the kind description. Angie’s goat dark curly hair, dark eyes n aw, like the fuckin gyppo she is. So wir oan the voddy n Rid Bulls n ah gits tae talkin aboot Sandra’s bairn. It wis born wi that Down’s syndrome and ah sais tae Angie and Fiona C, — Thaire’s nae wey ah’d be bringin up a mongol bairn. No thank you!

— Suppose you’ve goat wee Jonty tae think aboot, Fiona C goes. Straight away she pits her hand tae her mooth. — Ah didnae mean it like that, like ah wis sayin thit wee Jonty’s a mongol! Jist thit eh kin be a bit slow. .

N ah’m sittin thaire, seethin at this fuckin bitch.

—. . but ah’m jist gaun by what you sais, Jinty, Fiona C’s nearly beggin now, the fuckin hoor, kens she’s that close tae gittin her fuckin cunt kicked right in, — like you huv tae dae everything, n Jonty’s useless! Like ma Phillip! N aw ah’m sayin, Jinty, aw ah’m sayin is, ye widnae want a handicapped bairn tae deal wi n aw.

The fuckin bitch hus begged enough: ah’ll lit it go. Cowbag! — One ay thaim came oot ay ma snatch ah’d be sayin tae the midwife, dinnae bother batterin its back soas it kin breathe, it’s no fuckin well comin hame wi me!

Thaire’s two laddies up at the bar. One’s goat a barry erse.

— It’s different if yuv carried it tae term but, Jinty, felt it grow inside ay ye, Angie sais.

— Suppose.

— Trust ays oan this yin, Jinty. Whin you’ve hud a bairn ay yir ain. . Her voice goes aw that low wey. — . . Nae plans fir you n Jonty tae git busy then?

— Busy aw the time, but ah’m no wantin a bairn yit, ay.

— Yir thirty-four but, Jinty, Fiona C goes. — Yuv goat tae think aboot Sandra. She’s forty-three, ah ken, but if ye lit it drift yi’ll be movin intae that zone whin bad things kin happen. Think ay Miscarriage Moira.

She wis right. Moira had miscarriaged eight times — n that wis jist the yins we kent aboot.

Angie sits back, takes a drink, screws her eyes up n looks ootside through the windae. — They tell ays thaire’s gaunny be a proper hurricane.

Fiona C goes, — Like one thit picks up motors n aw that?

— That’s a fuckin tornado, ya dozy hoor, Angie goes.

Hud tae laugh oot loud at that yin, cause Angie’s no far wrong. — What does a fuckin hurricane dae? ah asks thum. — It’s jist strong winds blawin in yir face. Means nowt unless yir by the coast. What’s it thit Evan Barksdale sais the other day? — aw it does is cause flood damage. It’ll be aw they pikey Hobos doon in Leith n Granton thit’ll git it. Proves thit God’s a Jambo!

Fiona C laughs but Angie sais nowt, cause she’s a fuckin Hibee hoor.

Oan that note it’s time tae say farewell but, ay, so ah leaves tae git doon the road tae ma wee felly. It’s blustery ootside. A posh sort ay Jenners cow gits her hat blown off and goes eftir it, but in that slow, auld wey, where ye jist make a total cunt ay yirsel. Hope ah die before ah git that auld.

SEVERAL YEARS BACK, whilst idly twiddling the radio dial, Jonty MacKay had accidentally stumbled across the shipping reports. He found that listening to them, with their lashing rain and wind FX, made him sleepy. Thus Jonty loved to doze off with the headphones on, curled around Jinty, imagining that he was on a boat that was being tossed on the high seas and lashed at by stinging winds.

Jonty’s instinctive awestruck expression had been curtailed by repeated skelpings across the head by his father, Henry. This punishment was administered every time he caught the boy standing with a fly-catching mouth hanging open. This tuition was so complete that when Henry moved out and was replaced by a stepfather, Billy MacKay, there was no need for the new man to mete out the same punishment, had he been inclined to do so. Those systematic beatings had conditioned Jonty into tightly pursing his lips together. His hair had started to thin and recede at the temples and crown when he was still in his early twenties. In combo with the tight mouth and bug eyes, it gave him a bewildered, but intense, almost slightly professorial bearing. People often initially engaged with Jonty as an eccentric, seerlike man of wisdom.

Jonty had heard news of a storm that was approaching the east coast of Scotland. Then it was suddenly upgraded to hurricane status. This was bad. You didn’t get hurricanes in Scotland. Maybe they would help us down in England, he fretfully considered. Surely the English wouldn’t let anything bad happen to us. Then he’d gone online to research further, but his findings only caused him more alarm.

Jonty learnt that people had already given the hurricane a bad name. Hurricane Bawbag. That is the problem with Scotland, he thought. People are always taking the pish. In the same way they did with him down in The Pub With No Name, they were now laughing at this poor hurricane. It was like taking the pish out of nature, out of God. You were asking for trouble. It’s just as well we have England to keep us right, he considered. They would never mock a hurricane in that way.

The programme changes to a news item.

With Hurricane Bawbag on its way, advice given by the Scottish government spokesperson, Alan McGill, that Scots should simply repair to their local hostelry for the duration of the storm, was condemned as irresponsible. Matthew Wyatt of pressure group EROSS, End Repression of Scotland’s Smokers, said that such advice put Scotland’s smokers in jeopardy. ‘Scotland’s smokers are again being discriminated against by this patently bad steer from the government. They would be better served going home and having a drink, and smoking in comfort, rather than having to brave the elements and step outside in that potential carnage in order to secure a quick puff.’ But today Alan McGill was dismissing his own advice as an off-the-cuff remark and not to be taken seriously . .

Jonty is scared. He worries about Jinty, going out in that hurricane. He goes to the Internet, to Face the Future, the website he likes, the one run by American survivalists. He doesn’t know what a survivalist is but it sounds good. Everybody wants to survive.

JUICE TERRY HAD risen early in order to check on the girls at the Liberty Leisure. Big Liz is back on Control, so he knows that he won’t be bugged with unwanted jobs. The keyboard tells him that she has started her shift.