Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— Trams. . one-wey system. . re-routed. . council. .

The phone’s gaun, n it’s that Suicide Sal. So ah meets up wi her in Grassmarket, whaire ah’m droapin oaf this miserable fucker. Tight cunt gies ays a fifty-pence fuckin tip. Control’s oan starting thair bullshit:

PLEASE PICK UP FARE IN TOLLCROSS.

But it’s no Big Liz, so they kin suck ma fuckin boaby, if the cunts could git thair erse-tight lips around it. Ah type in:

JUST PICKED UP A FARE IN GRASSMARKET.

Sal gits intae the cab, n she’s lookin a lot better now. Like thaire’s a bit ay life back in her eyes. Nowt like a decent fuckin ride tae restore perspective! Guaranteed!

The greatest thing aboot shaggin a burd in the back ay a real taxi, like the hackney cab: after yuv rode her, she cannae git in the front wi ye. Thaire’s that nice bit ay distance, ken? — Whaire’s it we’re gaun for a ride? ah goes, turnin roond. — You’re gittin it good style, every hole filled. Brought a wee pal along. Ah huds up the vibrator thit ah usually keep under the seat.

She arches a sly brow. No daft that yin: kens that move sets oaf a definite baw-tremor. — So are all Edinburgh taxi drivers drug-abusing sexual perverts?

— Only the yins worth talkin tae!

She hus a wee giggle at that. — We can go to my hotel. I’ve a room at the Caledonian until tomorrow, then I have to go back to my mother’s at Porty.

— Barry, ah goes. — Lit’s live it up while yuv goat the space!

Ah like a cowp in the back ay the cab, but a bit ay deluxe suits ays doon tae a tee. One thing ah’ve learnt ower the years, if fate gied ye a welt like a hoarse, no a hoarse’s cock, mind you, but the actual hoarse , ye fuckin well yaze it. But if he gied ye a tongue like Doaktir Who’s skerf, yuv goat tae fuckin well deploy that bastard n aw. So wir up in this smart room oan the bed. Ah’m right doonstairs, lickin away like a Jambo at plate gless, n gittin a bit fruity wi the vibrator. Sal’s a bit tense n wary at first, but some lassies jist need a wee bit help in being sexually liberated. Everything’s negotiable. As ah eywis say: fuck off means naw, naw means mibbe, mibbe means aye n aye means anal. Guaranteed!

So wir soon sweatin away n she’s gaun mental, climbin oan toap ay us, jist aboot ripped the fuckin rug oaf ma chist at one point! Jesus fuck almighty! Aye, it turns oot a rerr wee session. It passed what ah call ‘the absent camera regret test’. That’s whin yuv done a load ay scud movies’ worth ay ridin, n ye think: ‘ah wish tae fuck ah’d recorded this yin.’

Wir lying thaire in the kip, n wi order a boatil ay rid wino n a sanny oan the room service. Shouldnae be drinkin n drivin, but ah’ve goat a wee livener in ma tail tae sort ays oot. Sal’s talkin aboot leavin London, n gettin a place back up here. — I’ve had it there, she says, fixin me in a kind ay look that ah’m no that sure aboot. Ah mean, ah cannae say nowt, it’s doon tae hur whaire she lives. Ah feel like tellin her: dinnae fuckin think aboot movin on account ay me! Ah’m no that gadge, ay. Mental burds; needy, crazy, strength-sappin n soul-destroyin, aye, but mair often than not barry fuckin rides. Eywis good tae spend a bit a time wi thum: eywis a relief tae git the fuck away fae thum!

So the whole day’s taken up wi the Ian McLagan, n ah’ve a goat a big fuckin grin oan ma coupon like an oil slick oan a coral reef, as ah gits back intae the cab. Ah sees a lassie in a red coat pass, wi black hair, n for a minute ah think it’s that wee Jinty, but it’s no. So ah gies Saskia at the sauna a quick bell, but thaire’s still nae sign. Then thaire’s a call fae Ronnie. — Can we do Haddington tomorrow? I mean, will it be safe to travel?

— Aye, of course it will.

— Will the emergency travel restrictions be lifted?

— There’s nae travel restrictions. The hurricane’s away, ay.

— You guys are fucking weird, eh goes. We make arrangements for the morn n eh signs off.

Eftir a couple ay jobs, one where ah got the number offay a dirty-lookin posh auld doll fae the New Town, Sal phones again, n ah cannae resist gaun back tae the hotel fir a second session, which is even mair mental thin the first. It’s aw shaggin, cleanin oot the minibar, daein some rails, then repeatin, tae the point ay exhaustion. Her exhaustion, obviously, no mine, that’s guaranteed!

The next morning ah wakes up n the place is fuckin trashed. Fuckin rock star, ya cunt! So wi goes doon fir breakfast, baith a wee bit bleary. This posh-doorman-type ay cunt, fuckin conci-fuckin-French radge, wearin a dipstick uniform, he comes ower. He gies us a look n sais, — A gentleman usually shaves before breakfast.

Wide cunt. So ah goes, — Ah prefer tae wait until ah’m wide awake. Ye kin easily nick the scrotum otherwise.

That shuts the fucker up, standin thaire like some cunt’s rammed a rid-hot poker up ehs pile-ridden erse. Suicide Sal’s huvin a laugh aboot it, so it’s aw good. It’s barry seein her laugh like that. A smart, fit, youngish burd wi aw that talent tryin tae top hursel? Writes fuckin plays n aw! Ah could barely write my fuckin name tae sign on, back in the day. She can dae aw that, and she wants tae jump oaf a fuckin bridge? She must be fuckin mental! Ya cunt, of course she is, that’s the fuckin problem but, ay!

Any roads, that fill breakfast looks good, but ah gits a feel ay ma love handles and thinks: mibbe some porridge n berries ur oan the agenda. Thon scud hotline oan the cheeky phone could go any time: Sick Boy gies ye very little notice when eh’s ready tae shoot. It’s no like Hollywood, if ye make a few grand fae one movie, a couple ay months later yir shootin the next yin. Ye need tae be ready. So that’s ma choice.

As it comes ower, she goes, — I never thought of you as a healthy-eating sort.

— Ah like ma oats, ah tell her wi a wink. — Maybe a wee cowp eftir?

— You’re a monster, she goes, shakin her heid. — A total addict. You can’t go a few hours without having sex!

— Aye.

— You really should go to a sex-addiction group.

— Aye, might jist dae that, ah goes, laughin, but thinkin, that’s food for thought. Nowt ruled in, nowt ruled oot. This porridge, but, different fuckin class! The auld girl nivir made it like that!

THE PUB IS no longer smoky, but the ghosts of cigarette fumes past seem to linger. In a corner by the jukebox, the Barksdale twins sit nursing a symbiotic hangover with their more sprightly comrades, Tony, Lethal Stuart and Deek, the newspaper spread across the table in front of them. The Daily Record contains a piece about how the newcomer pandas braved Hurricane Bawbag from their enclosure in Edinburgh Zoo.

‘They seemed remarkably unfazed by the phenomenon,’ said a senior zookeeper. ‘It looks like they’ve already picked up some of that famous Scottish stoicism.’

Evan Barksdale’s mouth sets tightly as Jonty MacKay comes into the bar and asks for a glass of milk. It’s poured by Sandra, the barmaid, very nicely, Jonty thinks. — There ye go, Jonty.

Of course Jonty is aware that the boys in the corner are looking at him with the milk. Then Craig Barksdale shouts him over. — You picked up a Bonyrigg Rose, Jonty? STD clinic? Like the clap?

— Nowt like that, naw sur, jist tryin no tae drink, naw sur, Jonty shakes his head. — Bad fir ye tae drink too much, aye sur.

— Is it fuck!

— Mulk in Thepubweynaename! Plitikill kirrectniss gone mad! Deek offers.

Jake, who has been behind the bar polishing glasses, looks at Jonty and says, — That milk’s on the house, pal.

— Thanks, Jake, aye, thanks. .

— Ah hear that you’re good at the paintin, Jonty.