Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— Sound, n ah pass his digits oantae her, — gie um a phone. Could be worth yir while. Catch ye later, ah goes, hingin up. At least that’s one problem solved.

So ah starts up the motor, lookin for some fares before picking up Ronnie later. The last thing ah want tae dae is play fuckin gowf wi a Septic, but anything tae git ma mind oaf this hert n sex. Ah drives past they two fit burds wi thair airms outstretched, already half pished n office-perty slutty. They kin git tae fuck. Ah sees this boy up the Bridges tryin tae flag ays doon. — Awright, mate? Whaire tae?

— The council chambers, the cunt booms in ehs posh voice.

Ah’ll show this fucker. Ah turns doon the Mile taewards the Palace.

— Why are we going this way?

— Trams. . one-wey system. . re-routed. . council. . ah goes, checkin oot the cunt’s puss in the mirror. — So what’s it you dae, mate?

— I actually work for the City of Edinburgh. Economic development department!

Well, ah fucked that yin up. But attack is the best form ay defence. — Aye? Well, ye want tae git they trams sorted oot. Affectin ma livelihood! Should be suin you cunts for damages. Typical ay a Jambo council but; yis trash Leith but ah notice that yuv left Gorgie awright, ay? Funny that, ay? Mind you, thaire’s no much mair ye kin dae tae fuck that shitehoose up, goat tae be said, mate.

— I’m a transport economist and I don’t see –

— You’ve maist likely been studyin official council documentation but, mate. Wee word ay advice: dinnae study official documentation . Aw fuckin lies. Try talkin tae the boys oan the groond, like muggins here. Ya cunt, ah’m fightin the fuckin power every day, these cunts at Control, ah’m tellin the fucker as wir gaun through the Queen’s Park taewards the South Side, — ma whole life is one big rage against the machine, against the fadin ay the light. A fuckin thity-five-year square-go wi City Hall, mate. See whin yuv goat that oan yir CV, then come back here n geez yir patter. Till then, compadre, it’s Juice T’s wey or Shank’s pony, the choice is yours. .

The boy sais nowt.

The phone goes again n it’s Sick Boy. — Terry, I’ll come to the point. I need you in London next week, to shoot Shagger 3 .

— Ah thoat ye had Curtis lined up for that?

— We’ve changed it. I rewrote the part for you as Shagger’s older brother. A sweaty pounder when aroused, but bespectacled intellectual in real life. Think Hulk-Banner.

— What happened tae Curtis?

In the pause that follays, ah kin hear the air blawin oot ay his lungs. — He’s jumped ship to the San Fernando Valley and signed up to a big porn producer. Treacherous little cunt. Yes, I know he has to take opportunities, but he’s left me in the lurch.

— I cannae dae it.

— You what? Why?

— I just cannae. I’ve goat stuff gaun oan. I’ll tell ye later.

— I see, the cunt snaps. — Don’t call me, and I certainly won’t call you. All the best, mate , eh hisses like a snake n snaps oaf the phone.

Ah pills up intae the cobblestoned courtyard outside the chambers. The mumpy cunt in the back gits oot n squares up. — That was a very roundabout way. Your tip is on the meter, the smart cunt goes. Did um a favour n aw the fucker. Some cunts ye cannae dae a fuckin favour tae, they just dinnae fuckin well git it. But this other boy’s climbin in right away. A coloured felly, likes.

— National Library, the boy goes, but sort ay English, ay. Like the cunt oot ay Rising Damp . — Is it far?

Didnae want tae tell the boy it’s jist roond the corner, so ah decide ah’ll take um back doon the Bridges, then roond tae Chambers Street, tae cut through tae George VI Bridge. — As the crow flies, mate, naw, but no now wi these trams. . dinnae git me started! The National Library. . so, a man ay letters, ur ye, mate?

The boy gies a wee shrug. — Well, I’m doing a presentation for Edinburgh’s Hogmanay. I was here last summer at the book festival in Charlotte Square.

— You must be a big-noise writer but, ay, mate?

— Well, I wouldn’t say that, but I’ve published three novels.

— Would ah ken any ay thum?

— I’m not sure. Are you a reader?

— Ah wisnae, buddy, ay-no, no till recently, but ah’ve goat much mair intae books now, ah goes, gittin aw fuckin depressed thinkin aboot it, — as long as thaire’s nae smut, like. Proper writin but, ay. So whaire’s it yir fae?

— Well, I live in Cambridge, but my family comes from Sierra Leone.

— Humphrey Bogart, barry film.

— No. . it’s –

— Ah’m only windin ye up, mate, ay ken where it is! Africa, ay. Bet ye wish ye wir thaire now but, ay, mate? This fuckin weather! Too right! Eh?

— Well, I don’t know about that. .

— So ye were at that book festival in Charlotte Square last summer?

— Yes.

— Bet thaire wis plenty shaggin thaire but, mate? Aw they visitin authors, n aw they burds gantin oan it. Ya cunt, ah should be writin ma fuckin life story. Shaggin n chorin n gittin fucked up, wi wee bits ay work stuck in between jist tae break up the monotony. Aw done now but, mate, ay. But that’s me but, ay, ah goes, — No you but, ay, mate! Bet ye wir shagging like fuck thaire! Some ay they artsy burds n aw: game as fuck, ah’ll tell ye.

— Well, writers often get a reputation for being stuffed shirts, the boy smiles, — but some of us know how to have a good time!

Lucky fuckin bastard. — Ah’ll bet! Git fired in, mate!

— I’ll do that!

Bein a darkie, the boy’ll huv a welt oan um n aw. No as big as mine, but that’s nae use tae ays now. Ye dinnae want tae make racist assumptions but: boy’s cock might be like a badger’s toenail for aw ah ken. — Ah’m no racist but, ay-no, mate.

— I don’t recall suggesting that you were.

— Naw, but ah’m jist sayin, ken, cause some cunts ur. Ah eywis defend black punters against thum. Best fuckin ride ah ivir hud in ma puff wis a darkie burd, here at the festival a few years back. Nigerian. Nowt ay the lassie, a dancer likes, but a fanny like a fuckin vice. It fair wrapped around Auld Faithful like a packet ay bacon roond a German jumbo sausage!

The boy starts laughin at that. — You really should write a book.

— Mibbe ah should but, mate, ah goes, — but ah’d jist depress masel mair, or even worse, turn masel oan. Tell ye what, ah kin dictate it n you kin write it doon!

The boy jist laughs but ye kin tell eh’s no fuckin interested but, ay.

— Aye, this lassie, fanny that tight ah wisnae even bothered thit she didnae like it up the erse. . that’s me but mate, ah used tae like it aw weys, ye ken what they say aboot variety. .

— It’s the spice of life.

— You said it, chief, you fuckin well said it. Listen, if yir lookin for anything, tae git sorted or that, ah’m yir man. Here’s ma caird, n ah slips it through the Judas Hole and parks up outside the library. — This is you. . aw wait. . aye, ah wis tellin ye aboot this Nigerian burd. Aye –

— Listen, I wouldn’t mind a gram of coke, the boy cuts in.

— Sound. Ah droaps ma voice tae a whisper, even though it’s jist us in the cab. It’s a guid habit tae stey in whin talkin aboot collies. — Bell ays in an hour n ah’ll bring it tae ye. Ah dinnae keep it in the motor but, ay. No eftir ma mate Doughheid goat huckled; too many bizzies n grasses, ay, n this whole fuckin toon’s cameraed up.

— Cool.

So the boy gits oot, n ah heads to Inverleith tae pick up the wee message fae Rehab Connor tae sort the cunt oot later. The worst thing aboot aw this is huvin tae tell folks. — I thought you’d been quiet, Connor goes, eftir ah spill the beans aboot the hert condition.