Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— Leave ur — it wis a cunt in a canary-yellay fleece, saw um oan camera!

Aw this isnae right, no sur, it isnae. Ah jist keep gaun till ah gits tae Maurice’s stair. Ah gits inside cause ay the entryphone n lock bein aw broke, n ah tiptoe up tae ehs landin and an awfay smell ay cat pish, aye sur, n pills oot the canary-yellay fleece n hings it oan ehs doorknob. Ah hears somebody comin oot but ah’m nashin back doon the stairs, pillin up the skirt soas ah kin hurry. But outside it’s still aw crazy, thaire’s another ambulance n mair polis.

Then ah slips doon a side street n nashes up towards Polwarth. Ah’m walkin, aye sur, ah’m walkin aw the wey doon the street. Ah keeps gaun n it’s funny in the burka but ah’d no say nowt cause it’s nice ay Mrs Iqbal tae help ays like that, n ah’m thinkin it’s gaunny be a long walk oot tay Penicuik, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur. .

THANK FUCK FOR the gowf! Ronnie n me wir oot early oan posh St Andrews before ah droaped the cunt oaf at the airport. Eh boat ays a barry new set ay clubs n they goat used awright: ah beat the cunt by two shots, 75 tae 77! The cunt couldnae believe it, goat aw stroppy at first, said it isnae possible as he’s a five-handicap player. Telt the cunt that ah kent aw thaire wis tae ken aboot handicaps, cause the ultimate fuckin handicap is no gittin a ride. Eh’s away tae New York for a while oan business n ah’m gaunny miss the fucker, so ah need tae find a new gowf partner quick style. The gowf is just aboot the only thing that stoaps me fae obsessin aboot fanny. It’s that fuckin swing! It seems simple enough, but thaire’s a loat gaun oan: stance, follay-through, backswing, like bein oan set tryin tae work it intae a burd’s erse when yir bangin baws wi Curtis, whae’s up her fanny, n Sick Boy’s elbayin ye n shoutin at ye, tryin tae git ehs fuckin camera in.

Ronnie’s goat a cheerful look on ehs coupon, n ah’m sayin nowt but ah ken how. It’s aw tae dae wi gittin laid, n ah ken the particular Porty playwright n failed high-diver whae’s daein the pipe cleanin. Wish they widnae dart around behind ma back like fuckin bairns: it disnae matter tae me whae’s shagging whae. Never been jealous ay any cunt in that department, but mind you, ah suppose ah’m jealous ay every cunt now. So we’re at departures n eh goes, — I want you to practise every day. We are going to have to be at the top of our game to take down those Swede assholes.

— Danes.

— Whatever, it’s all Viking shit. Make sure you call that fat, lazy Iain Renwick asshole, and that he jumps when you shout. He’s being well paid to coach you!

— Sound, ah goes, n ah tell um, — It really is helpin ays take ma mind oaf the hootenanny, this gowf.

— Hootenanny. . that’s another of your names for pussy, right? I’m picking up all your crazy shit.

— Yir daein no bad, mate.

Ronnie chuckles at the thought. — Well, I gave you the golf, so fair exchange. I needed it so bad after Sapphire left me, he says. — It was a fucking nervy time. If I was snapped by the paparazzi, then my divorce settlement. . well, I guess you know the story.

— Tell ays aboot it. Till yuv hud the fuckin CSA oan yir back, ye dinnae ken the half ay it, gadge, ah goes, then ah sais, — So Suicide Sal’s no gied ye a bell, then?

Ronnie shrugs, n goes, — Nope. I guess that ole Occupy n I ain’t meant to be, he smiles. Eh’s no bad at the poker face n clear eyes, but ah kin see the kip gittin slightly ridder, a telltale sign. As if ah fuckin care that they’re gittin it oan — ah fuckin well set the cunts up. It’s funny how the maist unlikely cunts kin git aw school playgroond when it comes tae the Ian McLagan.

— Okay, Terry, be safe, and try to remember, think golf, not puss. . hootenanny! Ronnie punches ma shoodir n turns away tae git the plane.

Easy for that cunt tae say, when eh’s knobbin ma fuckin burd! But ah feel lonely, watchin um go. If any cunt telt ays that some rich American radge oaf the telly wid be the only fucker that understood ays, ah’d huv said that they wir fuckin mental.

It’s startin tae git dark as ah go tae the car park n heads oaf, waving at Stumpy Jack whae’s dropped off a fare and is waitin tae pick up something comin fae arrivals. Eh’s fair glowerin at they private-hire cunts in thair rank! The Maybury Roundabout’s busy, n it really is cause ay fuckin tramworks this time. Ah fuckin need that new gowf partner. So ah gie that sweaty Iain Renwick gadge a bell, but it goes straight tae voicemail. Ah dinnae leave a message, cause ah’m no that taken by that cunt.

Corstorphine’s a write-off as some HGV’s broke doon on St John’s Road, so ah’m cuttin doon tae the auld haunts at Broomhoose n Saughton Mains. It’s sad tae think that ah hardly ken anybody roond they streets where ah grew up, they’ve aw moved on, ay. Nippin through Gorgie, the traffic’s bad here in aw, thaire’s obviously something happenin. We’re stoaped, so ah decide tae phone Jason, see if he’s intae gaun roond the links. — You? Golf! Ha ha ha. . you playing golf? Fuck off!

— Aye, and ah’m gled ay it n aw. It’s the only thing that keeps aye thegither these days.

— I’m sorry, Ter— Dad, but you poisoned me against it. I’ll never hold a club in my hand. Call Donna, she’ll go roond with ye.

— Donna? You’re jokin!

— She was seeing this boy who’s this golf pro at some club in North Berwick. It didnae work out cause he was married. Older boy, strung her along a bit.

Dinnae fuckin tell ays. .

— Awright. .

— That boy that led at the Open one year. Renwick.

Ya fuckin dirty, sweaty auld cunt. .

Ma breathin’s aw tae fuck here. — Ye dinnae think he’s the wee yin’s faith. .

— Naw, the dates don’t tally. .

Thank fuck for that .

— Ah’ll mibbe gie her a shout, ah croaks doon the line. Or thank fuck for nowt — at least that cunt’s got some wedge. The CSA’ll git nowt oaffay some dippit wee cunt fae the scheme. . fuck me, hear ays; poacher turned gamekeeper, right enough. .

— She’d appreciate it. Give her my best.

— Will do. Cheers, Jase.

As ah’m thinkin that Jason, whae’s just her half-brother, has been there for Donna mair than me, I’m aware that the cab’s fuckin crawlin. Thaire’s a roadblock set up n it’s aw single-lane traffic. Ah kin see smoke billowin intae the air.

Fuckin hell. .

Ah’m drivin slowly past The Pub Wi Nae Name n thaire’s a right commotion gaun oan. Thaire’s smoke billowin oot the windaes, n the fuckin polis ur settin up diversions, tryin tae re-route every cunt. It being the Edinburgh Polis, nae cunts goat a Scooby-Doo; there’s a lot ay shoutin n some ay thum are wadin into this group ay boys, some ay whae ah recognise fae the boozer. . they’ve goat this grey-heided felly doon, n thir bootin the cunt ower the street. . the poor gadge’s oot ay it, and the polis wade in tae save um. . another meat wagon swings by, bringing mair polis oot. . a couple ay the pub lads git huckled n the rest melt away.

Ah drives closer n stoaps the motor, n winds doon the windae. Some cunts behind me are tootin, so ah takes the cab up oantae the pavement. A cop comes ower n shouts, — Ye cannae stop here!

Ah points back, — Your colleague, officer, the sergeant, told me to pull up wherever I could, as I might be needed to take injured people to the hospital.

The cunt’s mooth opens like eh’s tryin tae catch flies, then a big blaring fire engine pushes through the crowd, nearly scrapin the edge ay the motor. The cop vanishes. Ah sees this gold thing glistenin in the road, so ah gits oot n picks it up. It’s a cigarette case, quite smart, so ah sticks it in ma tail. A boy sees ays at the poakil, starin at ays wi accusin eyes. Ah ken ehs face fae the boozer, the Barksie brother’s mate; Tony, ah think they call um. Ah decide it’s best eh tipples that ah’m the cunt askin the questions. — What’s up here, mate? It’s Tony, ay?