Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— Business takes balls! Jack shouts.

— Ooh, I should imagine he would be something of a tyrant to work for, Bladesey says.

— Nah, eh’s a fuckin shitein cunt really, ay, Sal? Feart ay that Bawbag! Fuckin crappin ehs breeks! We hud tae go roond the other night n hud the cunt’s hand, ay?

— He seemed to think it was some kind of Hurricane Katrina/New Orleans-type deal, Sara-Ann laughs.

— Well, says Stumpy Jack, — never mind shitey hurricanes, ah’ll tell ye whae the real cunts are: they bastards in Control! Tryin tae git ays tae take a test! Sayin ah’m no fit tae drive a cab! Been drivin a fuckin cab for years!

— Be private hire for you next, Jackie boy, Doughheid observes.

— Private hire? Nivir kent one ay they cunts that didnae huv a record the length ay yir airm!

Terry nips to the toilet for a pish and a line, and on his return is delighted to see Sara-Ann bringing a round of drinks on a tray. — Class, he nods to the others, — ah like that in a burd.

Sara-Ann looks at the men around the table, in a deep socially anthropological way. She thinks about how, although she grew up in this city, she’s never spent any time in the company of men like these.

— Well, I’m an old-school chap in many respects, Bladesey contends, — but willingness to pay one’s way is an attractive feature in anybody.

Sara-Ann cracks a half-smile at him. — So what attracts you to a woman, Cliff?

Bladesey blushes slightly. — It would have to be her eyes. They say it’s the gateway to the soul.

— They’ve no goat fuckin eyes in your case! White-stick job, mate, Stumpy Jack says.

— What aboot you, Terry? Doughheid asks. — What is it attracts you to a woman?

— Just the fact that thir women’s enough for that randy cunt, Jack roars, then looks sheepishly at Sara-Ann. — Sorry, doll, ah didnae mean it like that –

— Shut it, ya fuckin splinter-thighed muppet, Terry roars, then turns to Clifford Blades, and puts his arm round him. — Ah’m wi you, Bladesey, it’s what you said, mate; nowt sexier in a lassie than the eyes. As in ‘ aye , ah will suck yir boaby’, ‘ aye , ah will sit oan yir face’.

As the drunken laughter erupts, the karaoke operator enters and starts setting up in the corner.

— It looks like it’s going to be one of those nights! Bladesey shouts.

— Ah cannae git too fucked up, Terry says, looking in mild appeal at Sara-Ann, — cause ah’ve goat tae drive this American bam up tae the Highlands the morn.

— I want more drink! Sara-Ann announces.

— Only if ye agree tae dae karaoke with me, Terry states.

— Done!

— Game on, and Terry goes across to the operator, tells him to put on Journey’s ‘Small Town Girl’.

MIND WHIN AH first met ye, Jinty, in the pub oan Lothian Road? Aye sur, Lothian Road. Mind ay that, Jinty? Mind what ye sais tae ays? Ye goes: ‘Yir no that brainy, ur ye, Jonty?’ Ah meant tae say back, ‘Well, mibbe you’re no very brainy either, Jinty; ye might be brainier thin me, but yir still no that brainy.’ But ah said nowt cause ye wir brand new, aye ye wir, n then ye said, ‘Well, it doesnae matter but, cause yir a nice felly n ah like ye.’ N then we went hame n did it. Ye sortay moved in eftir that cause ye telt ays thit the boy ye wir steyin wi had kicked ye oot, n ye didnae want tae huv tae go hame n stey wi Maurice.

Mind when we first did it? The winchin? You goes, ‘Whoa, Jonty, yir a bigger boy thin ah thoat! Yir an awfay big laddie, mibbe no tall or brawny but aw the weight ay ye is in yon cock!’ N ah gied ye it awright, Jinty, mind ah gied ye it? Split ye right up the middle n ye liked it! Sure ye did! Aye sur, aye sur, aye sur. Makes ays feel bad but: aw them in that Pub Wi Nae Name makin a fool ay my boaby. Aye, they probably jist want ays tae paint doon thaire so thit they kin torment ays mair. You nivir made a fool ay ma boaby, Jinty.

Aye sur, ye wir ma girl, Jinty. Cept whin ye goat pished. Ye cheynged whin ye goat pished but, ay. It wis a different thing, Jinty, aye sur, a different thing. The demon drink, aye sur, the demon drink. N that funny white stuff, naw naw naw, ah’m no wantin tae talk aboot that. . pit ye in the jile. . ye dinnae want the jile. Cause it turned yir dad funny, aye, Jinty, Maurice, yir faither, he went funny in the jile, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur. .

N ah telt ye, Jinty, whin ye came back n wi hud that row, n you said ye wir gaun oot again, ah said, ‘Dinnae stey oot wi thon Bawbag oan!’ That wis what ah said. Aye, ah did. No thon night whin the gales wir blawin doon the Gorgie Road at a hunner n sixty-five mile an ooir. N ye widnae listen, ye wanted tae go back tae that pub, wi thaim, in ye wid’ve jist went again for mair funny white stuff so ah hud tae stoap ye, Jinty, aye, ah did, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye, aye, aye, aye, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, Penicuik sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye, aye aye, that’s right, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur. Aye.

Shid nivir huv left Penicuik.

Naw sur.

Naw.

YA CUNT, THAT wis some session, doon the Taxi Club last night. Some cunts say the Taxi Club isnae what it once wis, n it isnae, but it’s still one ay the cheapest pints in toon, n that hus tae count for something. Suicide Sal got pished as fuck but, n she wis anglin tae git back tae mine. Ah body-swerved that yin n she passed oot, so ah took her back oot tae Joppa. On the wey thaire she fuckin woke up n telt ays tae pull ower somewhere, already pillin her clathes off. Fuck sakes. Ah found a spot n banged her back tae sleep, but it wis some graft. A total goer and a tidy ride, but that shaved minge ay hers needs either another fuckin trim or tae grow oot a bit, cause it nearly tore the fuckin scrotum oaf ays. Baw sack like a fuckin blown-oot tyre oan the motorway! But job done: she wis fuckin wasted eftir that ride n aw the peeve. Hud tae cairry her oot the cab n hud her up when ah pressed the bell. The auld girl came oot n dragged her in; ah could hear another shoutin match gaun oan. But that wis me offski.

Up early this morning tae git doon tae the sauna, eftir stoapin oaf for breakfast at this place oan the Walk that does good porridge. Complex carbs: set ye up fir a day’s shaggin. When a burd sais, ‘What’s your fuckin secret, Terry?’ ah ey tell them: porridge. They think ah’m jokin but ah’m no: best source ay complex carbs but, ay.

That wee Jinty wis a bit ay a scrubber, aye, but wi aw are given the chance. Another tidy enough ride though, and that’s the main thing. Ah’m no that struck oan the vibe doon this Liberty place, n ah dinnae like tae think ay her bein in bother. Burds, even somewhere like that, shouldnae be huvin trouble at aw: you’ve goat tae respect fanny.

So ah check doon the sauna, but thaire’s jist that Andrea, wearin a black eye, n that grinning-pussed wee Kelvin cunt. Thaire’s nae Jinty, n nae Saskia either, which sort ay makes ays feel worried. So ah dinnae hing aboot n git back up tae the motor. Ah call Saskia, but it goes tae her answerphone. It’s goat nippy ootside, everybody’s wearin their winter clathes, yir even seein the odd hard cunt in a jackit or jumper.

Ah’m back tae Gorgie n check in at The Pub Wi Nae Name. The Barksies are in thaire, n Evan (at least ah think that’s Evan) is oan the pool table wi some muppet. — Barks.

— Tez.

Evan kin be awright, in fact eh kin be a bit ay a laugh oan his good days. But basically eh’s one ay they moanin-faced cunts that’s doon oan every other fucker. Been like that since school; ey has that ‘how uv they goat that, n ah’ve no’ sort ay mumpy, snidey wey aboot um. Weird tae think how eh used tae bully The Poof back then. Wi aw did, ah suppose, but Evan took it tae extremes. Ah even telt um tae fuckin cool it a few times. — Nae sign ay that wee Jinty burd?