Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— Aye, the paintin, aye sur, aye, aye aye. .

— No fancy daein the pub here? It wid huv tae be early-morning shifts though, cause ah cannae afford tae shut it. Yir jist acroass the street but!

Jonty considers this. The extra money would come in handy. — Aye, Jake, ah kin git up early, aye sur, aye. .

Evan Barksdale, who has heard this exchange, lifts his eyes from the Record on the table. As Jonty joins them, he hears Evan postulate, — This fuckin panda business, ah kent thaire wis something no right aboot that. Notice how they’ve awready admitted that thir Fenian bastards!

Tony chips in, — The two pandas they goat fae China at the zoo ur Fenian bastards?

— Aye.

— Beat it!

— Ah’m fuckin tellin ye!

— Git away!

Jonty’s eyes go from Evan to Tony.

— Stoap that wi yr eyes, ya muppet, Evan goes. — It’s like he’s at fuckin Wimbledon! Hi-hi-hi-hi!

Laughter ripples around the table. — Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi!

Jonty wonders what they mean by this. There is no tennis here, in this pub.

— They awready called yin ‘Sunshine’ like ‘Sunshine on Leith’, n thir sayin it’s a Hibs supporter, Evan Barksdale says. — Dirty fuckin Fenian Chinky Hobo tramps. Just when the council fuckin backtracks on its pledge tae help us wi a new stadium!

— Yir no wrong, Barksie, Lethal Stuart cuts in. — Notice how that Hobo tramp Riordan went ower tae China tae play? Then the next thing ye hear is that thaire’s two fuckin pandas headin tae Edinburgh? These fuckin specky Proclaimer cunts’ll be playin a gig ower thaire next!

— Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi! Tony laughs.

— Aye, ye might fuckin laugh, but it’s no right. Evan Barksdale shakes his head and looks at Jonty. — What you fuckin well sayin then, Jonty?

— Ah like pandas, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, but ah dinnae think thir bothered aboot Hibs n Herts. Mair likely tae be Dunfermline or St Mirren wi they colours. Aye sur, black n white, sur. Aye. Aye. Aye. Dunfermline. Aye. St Mirren. Aye.

— Goat ye thaire, Barksie, Tony goes.

— Fuck pandas, Evan Barksdale sneers. — Dinnae even see what the fuss is aboot wi they daft cunts. Thi’ll no ride each other tae save thirsels fae extinction n thi’ll no change thair diet.

— A plitikly kirrect bear, Deek says. — Madness!

— Same again? Craig Barksdale points to the emptying glasses. — Tennent’s?

— Aye. Tennent’s, says Tony.

— Aye. Git ays another pie n aw then, ya cunt. . Lethal Stuart appeals. — Ah’ll gie ye the money!

— Aye, Tennent’s, says Evan Barksdale.

Craig Barksdale turns to Jonty. — What you wantin then?

— Naw sur, naw sur, ah’m fine jist sippin at ma mulk, aye sur.

Craig Barksdale rolls his eyes but is quite relieved that Jonty has refused a beer. — Aye, they dinnae ride, they fuckin pandas, he sings to his brother.

— Ya cunt, Tony announces, — ah could go a decent ride right now!

— Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi!

— So you no gaunny git Jinty in the family wey then, Jonty? Tony asks.

— Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi! They all sit round in their seats to study Jonty’s reaction.

— Naw, a crestfallen Jonty tells them. — Naw sur. Naw.

— It’s aw fuckin money, bairns n that but, Jonty, Tony says sadly. — Yir life’s no yir ain. It’s good tae gie a burd a bairn, it stoaps thum ridin aboot wi other boys; unless it’s a real slag, of course. A real slag will ey ride aboot n thaire’s nowt ye kin dae aboot it. But mark ma wurds Jonty, gie a lassie a bairn — jist yin or two mind, cause any mair wrecks a burd in the fanny department. The ridin’s nivir the same eftir a bairn. Ma Liza, she jist lies back n takes it. Nae enthusiasm. He shakes his head sadly. — Is it still like it wis it the start whin you ride wee Jinty, Jonty?

— Naw, Jonty tells him, now feeling very sad. Cause it wasn’t like that.

— This conversation’s takin a fuckin depressin turn, Evan Barksdale shouts. — That’s wi fuckin Christmas comin up but, ay.

— Aye, meant tae be the season ay goodwill, Lethal Stuart says. — Any cunt goat ching? Some cunt phone some fucker!

Jonty can no longer stand it. — Ah’ve goat tae go, aye sur, that ah have, he says, rising from his chair.

— Aye, thaire’s money there, Jonty hears Evan Barksdale contend, his adversary raising his voice as he leaves the pub. — Sneaky wee cunt, n he gits tae paint the pub! When did he last buy a fuckin round? That’s aw ah’m sayin, Tony.

Jonty pushes through the doors and heads down the street reasoning that it is unfair that he should buy a round of drinks when he is only on free milk. It is growing cold again, but the rain has stopped, although the pavements are black with wet, and frosting in patterns that entrance him. On an impulse, he puts the sole of his shoe on one, destroying the intricate ornamentation, almost moved to tears that his actions have resulted in the elimination of something so beautiful.

A free newspaper, lying discarded on the pavement, distracts him from his pain. He picks it up.

He isn’t that long back in the flat when the doorbell rings. Jonty keeps the door on the chain, only opening it to the extent of its meagre limit. A young woman looks back at him, her nose wrinkling, as if she smells something bad and Jonty has to concede that it is a bit dirty indoors, with Jinty being ill. The house needs cleaned. He will have to pull his weight more.

— Is Jeentee in? The girl sounds foreign. Maybe Polish. — I am Saskia, a friend of hers from work.

— Naw, Jonty says, shaking his head. — Naw she is not, naw sur, naw naw naw. . n she’s no gaun back tae that place either, he informs Saskia, thinking about The Pub With No Name. — Ah ken aw aboot what happens at that place! Aye ah do! Durty things! Aye sur, aye sur. .

Saskia puts her hand across her chest, a gesture Jonty reads as indicating shame. — I am sorry, I know it isnae good but I needed to get money. .

— Cause it’s wrong what happens in that place!

And Saskia hangs her head and slopes away, thinking of her family in Gdansk, how it would destroy them if they knew the source of the money she sent home every week by Western Union wire transfer, as Jonty considers Barksie and that evil cocaine and what it has done to them all. A rage bubbles inside him. To calm himself, he picks up the free newspaper and reads slowly.

Scotland’s smokers have been praised for their heroism, standing up to extremely inhospitable elements in the form of the devastating hurricane known dismissively as ‘Bawbag’ by locals. As the storm raged to its height around 1am, clusters of smokers spontaneously left the bars of Edinburgh’s Grassmarket, where they struck up a rousing, defiant rendition of ‘Flower of Scotland’. But instead of standing against ‘proud Edward’s Army’, as in Roy Williamson’s famed lyric, they subsistuted this with ‘Hurricane Bawbag’. Plasterer Hugh Middleton, 58, said, ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. We just roared our song out into the night. Amazingly, the hurricane seemed to die out after that. So we really did send Bawbag “homewards tae think again”. I suppose the message is that if you come to Scotland, behave yourself and you’ll be looked after. But if you step out of line. .’

Politicians have been quick to heap praise on the courageous puffers. Local MSP George McAlpine said, ‘Scotland’s smokers have had a rough time of it lately, but they showed great fortitude and inspirational courage.’

Jonty feels himself bursting with pride, silver tears trickling down his cheeks, and wishes that, despite the health risks, he was a smoker.

It has started to rain heavily again. Sheets of icy water lash down. Saskia turns up her collar, wincing in despair, as cold water runs down the back of her neck. As she approaches Haymarket, a horn toots and a taxi rolls up alongside her.