Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— Nah, that wee Jonty cunt disnae lit her oot. Eh caught her bein a wee bit naughty wi me in the bogs. Hi hi hi! That night you wir in: you droaped her oaf, mind? eh goes, n ehs mate, a skinny cunt in a V-neck jumper, sniggers. It’s that Lethal Stuart boy. Evan lines up his shot, looks up fae the table. — The night the hurricane wis oan. Mind?

— Right. Nice one. So whaire’s this Jonty boy?

The Evan Barksie twin points oot this dippit-looking wee cunt in the corner, which is sectioned oaf, n eh’s paintin away at the waws in the alcove. Ah’m watchin um sortay starin oaf intae space, as eh paints in smooth, steady strokes.

FUCK ME!

AW NAW.

Ah ken that wee cunt’s puss! Eh’s fuckin Hank’s brar, which makes him one ay that auld cunt’s up the hoaspital! Which makes um, technically speakin, ma fuckin half-brar, even though ah’ve no spoken a word tae the wee radge in ma puff! N ah’ve jist banged the dippit wee cunt’s burd!

JESUS FUCK ALMIGHTY!

At least it’s no as bad as what happened tae ays before. Shagged a burd oan hoaliday in Tenerife, found oot she wis one ay that auld minger Henry’s! Ya cunt, ah couldnae git up for an ooir eftir finding that oot! So now ah’ve goat a golden rule wi toon fanny, even when ye meet them oot ay toon, like oan hoaliday: ask them whae thair fuckin faither is.

The boy looks ower n half smiles ay ays, n ah thinks aboot gaun ower tae um, bit naw, fuck that, ah jist gies um a drinker’s salute back. He grins back at ays, aw shy, then looks away tae the waw. So ah sit at the bar wi a boatil ay Beck’s n watch um.

— Eh’s no aw right in the heid, the other Barksie, Craig, goes. — Came intae the bogs n washed ehs welt in the fuckin sink, then dried it under the dryer. Fuckin retard.

— Some welt oan the boy but, this gadge Tony laughs. — Wee cunt’s like a fuckin tripod!

Makes sense; if the boy’s knobbin that feisty wee ride Jinty, eh’d need something gaun fir um, n him packin a welt is likely tae be it. Straight fae the Lawson gene pool, probably aboot the only decent thing that cunt Henry gied us both. Cannae talk tae the boy but: dinnae want tae draw attention tae the fact that ah’ve banged ehs missus. Perr boy looks that dippit eh probably doesnae even ken she’s been graftin as a Roger Moore.

I get in the cab and head tae the golf coorse tae pick up Ronnie whae’s telt ays tae meet um thaire. Eh’s wi that stiff-ersed cunt, Mortimer the boy’s name is, and they’ve been huvin another wee barney. — Make that your priority! Ronnie snaps, sendin the muppet oaf wi a flea in ehs ear. The radge turns n gies me a funny look as he heads oaf tae ehs motor. Ronnie shakes ehs heid in disgust, then smiles at me. He’s wearing a hat wi Atlanta Braves oan it; the Mohawk must be flattened doon. We heads tae the Balmoral, n he goes upstairs tae git his stuff thegither. Ah’m waitin for him in the lobby, so ah phones Saskia again. This time she picks up, which is a wee relief. — Terry. .

— Awright, pal? You okay?

— Yes, I was just for having some flu. There is still no word from Jinty?

— Naw, ah say, n hear her sneeze. — You’d better get back tae bed wi some Lemsip. Ah’ll see ye later n shout ye if thaire’s any news.

— Okay. . I will too, if I am hearing something. Thanks. .

— Sound, cheers. Ah hings up as ma mate Johnny Cattarh phones, telling ays some ketamine story that ah kin dae without hearin, n ah’m gled tae git shot ay the cunt. Drug tales are like dream tales and shaggin tales: only interestin if thir yir ain. Ah only watch porn tae make a list ay the lassies that ah’d love tae work wi. Which is basically thum aw, mind you. It wid be nice tae git doon tae Tufnell Park n see Camilla n Lisette again. Top burds. So that pits ays in mind tae call Sick Boy, whae picks up right away, which is unusual. — Terry.

— Simon! How goes?

— Busy. Your point is, caller?

— Ah’m rarin tae git intae some scud! Nae scripts oan the go?

— Nothing on the slate, apart from Shagger 3 , which as you know, is Curtis’s movie.

That wee cunt wi the stutter. Fuckin taught the bastard aw eh kens n aw. — Right. .

— I’m taking a wee break and working on the distribution. The website’s being revamped, which requires a substantial investment in both time and money. But it’ll make the downloading and processing of credit-card details easier, so we’ll hopefully get the pay-off in sales. I’m rebranding Perversevere Films as quality erotica, Terry, and script development takes more time in the premium market. Can’t even see us shooting Shagger 3 till closer to spring. Have you been keeping up with those acting classes?

— Aye, ah lie. Ah stoaped last year. There wis only three burds in the fuckin group, and once ah’d rode them aw, thaire wis nae real point.

— Good, well, stay patient and stay trim.

— Sound. In the meantime, ah’ll keep talent-scouting!

— I’m sure you will. Till later, he goes, hingin up. He’s an abrupt cunt, but ah’m no bothered as Ronnie’s appeared oot ay the lift. The hat’s away but the Mohawk’s still combed back.

— Jist tryin tae sort oot some shaggin work, ah grins, waving the cheeky phone.

— You got a one-track mind, Terry. Ronnie shakes ehs heid, then ehs eyes crinkle up. — So, hey, how’s ole Occupy the Streets doing?

— Ah’m no sure she’s an Occupy the Streets sort ay burd, ah goes, checking the emails list on the cheeky phone. — She writes plays, like fir theatre n that.

— Theatre, huh? Never my thing, he says, but ye kin tell he’s thinkin aboot it.

So we’re in the fuckin sherbet, makin good time, clearin the city n gaun ower the Forth Road Bridge, n ah’m tellin um aboot Johnny. — Cunt wis tellin ays aboot that fuckin ketamine. Telt ays that he didnae ken what he wis daein, it wis like travellin back in time n losin ooirs. Ah sais, ya cunt, ah’m fuckin well like that aw the time wi this knob. Aw the blood goes fae the heid n ye wake up in a strange place a few ooirs later wi the polis bangin oan the door, fittin ye up fir the register n a cell in Peterheid! Time travel? Ya cunt, ah’ve started cawin Auld Faithful here the fuckin Tardis!

— Interesting. .

— Wrecked fae last night, bud. Too much peeve n shaggin, ah goes n fingers a wrap in ma poakit. — Here, ye fancy a wee bitty posh up the hooter, mate?

Ronnie looks at ays, tryin tae work oot what ah’m talkin aboot.

— Ching. Racket. Bugle. Gak. Charlie.

— Oh. . I’ve told you I don’t do drugs, Terry.

— Ye cannae really class a bit ay ching as a fuckin drug these days, mate. Besides, it wisnae that the other night whin Bawbag wis rattlin oan yir windae!

— That was an emergency. . No, I hate drugs, though I believe that they are instruments of God, designed to snare and eradicate the feckless ghetto dweller, thus lowering the tax burden. I choose to follow a diet prepared by an expert nutritionist, designed for those who aspire to longevity.

— Each tae their ain. Dinnae listen tae they so-called experts but, mate, thir aw part ay an industry that’s there tae con ye oot ay yir dosh. Ah pits the radge in the picture. — He’s peyed tae gie ye advice, right?

— Yes. Considerably.

— Well, ah’m giein ye it for free. You can say it’s worthless, that ah’ve nae expertise. Or ye can be enlighted and think, ‘This cunt has nae vested interest, so he might just be on the ball here.’ Whae dae ye pey for advice? The likes ay that cunt Mortimer, whae only tells ye what eh thinks ye want tae hear. That’s nae good tae you!

— Okay, okay. . God, Terry, you sure can talk. What the hell’s the point you’re making here?

— You’ve goat aw they organs in yir body: liver, kidneys n aw that. The function ay they organs is tae process aw the shite ye pit intae yirsel. Right?