Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— Hell yeah, Terry, Ronnie grins. — Our next little trip is gonna be up to the Highlands. Do you know the Bowcullen Distillery in Inverness-shire?

— Naw, but ah soon will, mate, Terry smiles, thinking about how any bottle of whisky could be worth a hundred thousand dollars, even if it was American toytown money.

IT’S AW CAULD n draughty when ah rise fae the couch. An awfay lumpy sleep, awfay lumpy, aye, it is that. But ah cannae go intae the bedroom, cause ay Jinty no speakin tae ays. Naw sur, ah cannot. So ah shuts the bedroom door withoot looking in. Thaire’s nae sounds, jist an awfay bad smell.

This cauld is like a shirt oan yir back; a cauld white shirt thit ye cannae take oaf but, no ye cannot. Ah mind yin time, as a wee laddie, whin ah fell intae Newhaven Harbour. Ma faither, real faither Henry, went doon the iron ledders n grabbed ays n pilled ays oot or ah wid’ve drooned. Ah couldnae git that freezin cauld shirt oaffay ma back. Muh ma, whae wisnae that fat then, wis undaein the buttons n ah wis screamin at her tae hurry up, aye sur, screamin. It wis that cauld. Jist like now, sur, jist like now. Aye. Ma feet ur awright, no sur, ah’m no bothered aboot ma feet, but ma back n ma hands. .

Ah turns up the cushions oan the couch n thaire’s a poond coin, a fifty pee a five pence n some coppers! Ah ken whaire ah’m gaun! Aw aye sur, that ah do, that ah do.

So ah goes tae Campbell’s for a heat. Better thin yon Pub Wi Nae Name anyway! Ye git a rerr heat in thaire, sur, aye ye do, a rerr heat. Thaire’s a paper opened, a posh Scotsman , n it’s aw aboot yon Bawbag. Aye.

It’s fair to say that life, post-Bawbag, will never be the same. The lessons of Bawbag were that Scots, once again, realised that they were back at the centre of the world, which would look to us to provide the appropriate behavioural response to this sort of natural calamity, though within the context of a strong, free Britain, and with a powerful military presence to assist our American allies in their selfless quest in maintaining peace throughout the globe.

Thir no wrong n aw sur, they are not wrong. Life is nivir gaunny be the same again. Mair thin the cocaine n the Barksie twin, n them acroass the road in that Pub Wi Nae Name even, it wis Bawbag thit did aw this!

Aw God. Aw God.

Ah sees Maurice, Jinty’s faither, come in, n ah turns away as eh sortay perches at the bar. Eh’s wearin a smert yellay fleece. It makes um look like a giant canary thit’s come intae the pub, n the bar bein ehs perch. But eh’s seen ays. Aw God, eh’s seen ays, eh hus that.

— Jonty!

So thaire’s nowt ah kin dae but leave ma posh paper n head ower wi ma pint. — Mo. Nice fleece ye goat there, Maurice, sort ay canary-yellay, aye sur. Looks awfay comfy, sur, sure it does, Maurice. Canary-yellay fleece. Aye. Canary-yellay.

Maurice rubs ehs sleeve ay ehs fleece between ehs thumb n forefinger. — Ye dinnae see many like these, Jonty.

— Yir no gaunny git knocked doon oan the dark mornins wearin that, the barman goes.

Maurice looks like eh’s gaunny take it the wrong wey, ken, pittin oan that face, then eh smiles n goes, — Naw, that’s no gaunny happen right enough! Eh turns tae me. — Ay, Jonty! Ah’m no gaunny git knocked doon croassin the road wearin this!

Ah jist laughs at that yin. — Nae yir no, ye urnae, naw sur, naw sur, naw sur, yi’ll no git knocked doon wearin that yin! Naw yi’ll no, Maurice, that’s for sure, aye sur, it is.

Then this boy standin at the other corner ay the bar, eh looks a wee bit drunk n goes, — No unless it’s a summary execution for crimes against fashion.

Maurice’s grippin the bar, ehs knuckles aw white. — Always jealous ignorant people, ye notice that, Jonty? Ye notice that?

The boy’s jist smilin, like eh’s no bothered at aw.

— Aye, bit dinnae rise tae the bait but, Maurice, dinnae rise tae the bait, nae sur, naw sur. Nup. The bait.

Thank the guid Lord that the boy’s turned away tae ehs mate, n Maurice lits it go. — Ah’m no wantin back in the chokie, Jonty, no at ma age, n ehs face, cheery a minute ago, goes aw miserable. — Ah’m no a young man any mair, Jonty. Ah couldnae dae mair jail time now, n eh looks back ower at the boy, talkin tae his mate, a younger sort ay felly, — no for jealous bastirts like yon!

— Jealousy, Maurice.

— Aye n they aw sit in that toilet n dae thair funny snuff, n eh makes a sniff up ehs nose, n ah sortay cringe, thinkin aboot Jinty, — but Scotland’s smokers urnae extended the same rights! Naw, we huv tae go ootside in the rain, while drug addicts, jealous drug addicts, are free tae brek the law any time they like in the toilets!

— Aye sur, aye sur, jealousy is what it is, ah goes, — cause it’s a fine-lookin toap, Maurice. Warm n aw, ah’m bettin!

— Ye widnae believe it, Jonty! Maurice sais, now aw cheered up again. — Ah wis oot last night whin that hurricane, that fuckin Bawbag or whatever they call the cunt, it wis fair blazin doon Gorgie Road, n ah nivir felt a thing! Nowt!

— Aye? Ah’ll bet ye didnae! That’s a barry fleece, right enough! That wid stand up tae Bawbag n pit um in ehs place! Ah bet ye it wid!

— Yir no wrong, Jonty, Maurice laughs, then eh sais, — The only thing wi it, eh goes, dippin ehs cuff in his pint ay Tennent’s n rubbin at a mark oan the sleeve, — is that it picks up stains awfay easy. This wis some broon sauce thit came ootay ma bacon roll ower in the cafe. Ma ain fault, eh shrugs, — ah pit too much oan.

— Too much.

— Aye, too much, Jonty, easy done, eh goes, eyes aw sad again.

— Easy done though, Maurice, cause ye cannae beat broon sauce oan a bacon roll, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, broon sauce, sur, bacon roll, sur.

— Aye, you’ve goat ma wee Jinty fir aw that. Wee Jinty ey made a good bacon roll, ah’ll say that fir her. The square sausage n aw! The English huvnae goat that! Naw thuv no!

— The English dinnae huv that?

— Dae they fuck! Ah’ve worked aw ower England, Jonty — Cambridge, Doncaster, Luton — n ah’ve hud fill English breakfasts everywhaire. Nane ay thum ken aboot the square sausage. Git fuckin genned up, ah’d say tae they landladies servin the brekkies at they B&Bs, the square fuckin sausage! Made fir rolls!

— Ah sur, they ur that!

— Ma Jinty; one bacon roll, one egg roll, n yin oan the square sausage, eh, Jonty! Her ma taught her that!

— Aye sur, ah’ll bet she did!

Maurice takes a gulp ay lager. — How’s she daein? Jinty? She’s no been roond lately. Come intae some money, ah bet!

Aw naw, it pits a pain in ma hert whin eh asks yon. — Naw sur, jist daein away quietly, aye sur, daein away quietly, ah tells um, but ah didnae want tae hear Maurice tell tales ay his deid wife, Jinty’s ma.

— Jist like hur ma, that yin, Maurice sais, aw glassy-eyed like eh’s aboot tae greet.

— Aye sur, aye, she wid be. .

— Jist like hur ma, n no like hur ma, if ye catch ma drift.

— Aye sur. . aye. . aye. . aye.

— Her ma wis a great wummin. Never a day goes by whin ah dinnae think ay her.

Aye, the memories make ye sad, but ah’ve goat ma ain yins tae make ays sad, so ah drink up n leave, sure ah do, sur. Tell Mo ah huv tae go. Nice canary-yellay fleece though.

IT’S A SCABBY wee fuckin room wi a faint smell ay seek; they must’ve hud a weddin in here the other night. Chairs arranged in a semicircle wi one cunt at the front, whae introduces ehsel as Glen. Thaire’s aboot twenty people here, n roond aboot fifteen are guys. That’s nae fuckin use tae me! N bein the new sheriff in toon, aw eyes ur oan me, especially this Glen cunt. A podgy-faced fucker wi a blond fringe, n they earnest eyes like some Americans uv goat; yins thit sort ay implore . So ah stands up, soas the burds can sketch the outline ay Auld Faithful (eywis oan permanent semi-alert through the tight nylon tracky bottums ah’m wearin), n jist spits it oot, wi a big ah’ve-jist-fell-intae-a-barrel-ay-fannies grin acroass ma coupon. — My name is Terry, n ah’m a sex addict.