Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— Yuv done a guid joab, pal, eh sais.

Ah jist nods n ah walks tae the door, n ah’m no lookin at anybody. Like muh ma used tae say aboot the yins back in Penicuik, back at the skill. Ignore thum aw. Aye. Aye. Aye.

— Yuv chased um away!

— Hi, Jonty! Bring Jinty doon! Ah’ve goat a wee line fir hur, Evan Barksie’s gaun in ehs takin-the-pish voice!

— Shi’s wi the trams! ah turns n shouts back at thum, n ah wish ah hudnae said that.

— That’s what thir callin thum now!

N ah’m oot oot oot oot oot ay thaire, sur, aye that ah am, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur.

AWRIGHT, TERRY, YA fuckin doss

cunt, ah’m ready fir duty but

what’s the story wi you, eh, ya

fuckin bam?! Ah’m gantin oan

fresh minge (no thit the minge

you provide ays wi is usually that

fuckin fresh, ya manky twat, but

ye nivir hear me complainin) but

ah’m no fuckin well intae this,

ay! What huv ah ivir fuckin well

asked ay ye? Ah’ve ey performed

even whin yuv flung peeve intae

yirsel aw night, n snorted enough

ching tae stoap Ron Jeremy gittin

a fuckin root oan! Nivir even goat

stroppy whin ye nearly halved me

in two oan that porno shoot! Aye,

think that yin wis aw a bundle ay

fun, ya fuckin choob? Well, ye kin git

tae fuck wi aw this bad-hert shite;

what’s yir fuckin hert or yir fuckin

brain ivir done fir ye that ah’ve no?

Fuckin nowt! Well, you’d better jist

fuckin well shape up, ya useless cunt,

cause ah’m fuckin well chokin oan

pussy n if ye think ah’m jist here tae

empty the fuckin stagnant peeve oot

ay your swollen bladder ye’d better

be fuckin well thinkin again, ya radge,

cause that wisnae the fuckin deal! So

ah’m tellin ye now, Lawson, man the

fuck up cause you’re the yin thit eywis

sais thaire’s nae point livin withoot a ride

n the auld ‘Juice’ Terry Lawson, no this

mortality-obsessed auld sweetie-wife,

wid huv jist said: ‘Doaktirs? What the

fuck dae they cunts ken?’ n jist went hell

fir leather n jist plundered every fuckin

pussy fae Pilton tae the Pentlands, naw,

fae the North tae the South Pole, tae make

sure thit Auld Faithful here wis gittin ehs

fuckin rations, ya fuckin useless corkscrew-

heided cunt. Mind, yir no gittin any younger,

Lawson, yi’ll probably be fuckin deid soon

anywey, wi the peeve n the ching, but that’s

no ma department, so ah dinnae gie a fuck.

What ah’m sayin is that we’re gonny huv a

serious fuckin problem, you n me, if you

dinnae start gittin yir act thegither n gittin

me the fanny ah deserve! Ah dinnae care if

it’s tight young things, or slack auld pots, I’ll

fuckin well fill thum aw, but you’ve goat tae

keep your fuckin side ay the bargain. Listen

good, Terry, cause ah’ll tell ye one thing, pal: ye

really dinnae want tae faw oot wi yir auld pal

here. So that’s you fuckin well telt, ya cunt!

TERRY WAKES IN the thin, reedy sunlight, sweating, with his chest heaving. Last night he’d collapsed on top of his bed in his tracksuit bottoms and T-shirt. The heating had been left on full blast making the flat feel like a sauna. On blinking awake, he contemplates the terrible, weird dreams that plagued him.

After rising, showering and dressing, Terry looks down at the outline of his cock, springing to the right in his tight nylon tracksuit leggings, and mutters a curse, resolving that he is going to wear jeans to work. The tracky bottoms are far too sexualising.

In the cab, driving is difficult. Even with the pills, the horny twinges won’t completely subside. He tries to avoid looking at passing women. Yet when he glances away from the road, he is confronted by the swelling at his groin. — You’re tryin tae kill me, ya cunt, he says to the bulge.

— What? a voice comes from the back.

— No you, mate, Terry says, turning round to address Doughheid. Lost in his thoughts, he has forgotten he’s picked up his friend and is driving him up to the court.

Doughheid’s nerves are finely shredded. Terry fancies he can practically feel him vibrating against the cab’s upholstery. — Somebody’s killin me , that’s fir sure! Ah’m gaunny lose ma licence, Terry! Ma fuckin livelihood; aw for a wee bit ay fuckin tarry!

— Could be worse, mate, Terry declares, again moved to glance down at his groin. Perhaps the doctor’s chemical ministrations are finally having some effect. Auld Faithful now seems inert, but all that realisation does is trigger a dull, sinking thud in his chest.

— How? How can it be worse?! Doughheid squeals.

— At least ye kin git yir hole, ya lucky cunt, Terry muses. — Stoap moanin.

Doughheid’s eyes bore manically into the back of Terry’s head. — You deal loads ay ching, n then ah git caught wi a wee bit ay tarry! Whaire’s the fuckin justice in that!

Terry decides not to respond. Doughheid is irate and, after he is banned, there might be some exit interview with Control. He wants to keep his old mate onside, to make sure Doughheid’s disinclined to grass him up. The worst thing is being unable to tryst with Big Liz. You can’t snub Big Liz; that is asking for trouble. He’ll have to explain his predicament to her. He pulls the cab up at Hunter Square. He and Doughheid exit and silently make for the court buildings. Terry opts to stay for the case, taking a seat in the public gallery, beside the usual assembly of students and dole moles who head there for the entertainment.

The judge is a slack-featured man in his sixties, who looks wearily at Doughheid. It’s plain to Terry that this case is just part of another personal Groundhog Day to him. — Why did you have that marijuana on your person?

Dougheid looks back wide-eyed. — Ah’ve goat anxiety issues, Your Honour.

— Have you seen a doctor?

— Aye. He jist telt ays tae stoap daein sae much ching but, ay.

A series of guffaws erupt from the public gallery. The magistrate is less amused: Doughheid is fined a grand and banned from driving for a year.

Terry meets his friend outside, where Doughheid is talking to his brief. He hears the lawyer say that it ‘would be futile’ to consider an appeal. Terry sees it as a decent result. — At least ye kin still ride, mate. This bad-hert thing hus made me reassess my priorities, he sadly discloses.

— What? Yir jokin! What um ah gaunny dae fir a livin?

— Ah once went through a period where ah jist steyed in ma auld bedroom at muh ma’s, Terry muses, lost in his own sad narrative. — Goat a bit depressed eftir this mate ay mine topped ehsel, n this burd ah wis seein jacked ays in. Obviously, ah still hud a couple ay manky lassies come roond tae watch porn wi ays, n sit oan ma coupon.

— So? So what does that mean?

— At least yir a free man, and ye kin git yir hole, Terry ruefully laments, — that’s better thin me. He pats his chest. — Better thin huvin a dodgy ticker. One fuckin bit ay excitement then, boom: goodnight Vienna, endy fuckin story, the baw’s oan the slates. Sometimes ah think, thaire’s nae point, just fuckin well go fir it.

They get back into the cab and head for the Taxi Club in Powderhall. Bladesey, Stumpy Jack and Eric Staples, a former Hibs top boy who became a born-against Christian, are all present, and a round of drinks is shouted up as they commiserate with Doughheid.