Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

Thaire’s nowt tae say aboot that. Cannae very well fuckin argue, kin ye? — Which guy isnae but, if the truth be telt, ay, ah goes.

The gadge seems tae ponder this, n raises ehs eyebrows. — It’s a huge part of our humanity, our sexuality. And you do seem to have led a very active sex life. But it’s by no means everything. People do readjust to a life without sex.

— Ah’m no people !

The guy sort ay shrugs. Ah bet that cunt’s shaggin somethin. Probably plenty n aw. High-class credit-caird hookers at aw they medical conferences. Cunt disnae ken that ah played a psychiatrist once in Paging Doctor Scud . Aye, ah wis Professor Edmund Scud. Catchphrase tae burd oan the couch: ‘It is my considered professional opinion that ze root of your problem is sexual.’ Aye, it’s easy tae talk whin you’re gittin yir hole. The boy stares at ays like eh’s been readin ma thoats. — But surely the medication you’re on, it must be having some effect?

— Nup! Nane at aw. Ah’m still gantin on ma hole! Ah’m gittin twinges doonstairs aw the time, n ah feels ma eyes gaun south tae Auld Faithful.

The boy shakes ehs heid aw sternly. — Mr Lawson, that’s just not possible. This is such a high dosage that it’s tantamount to chemical castration. Regarding those sexual twinges that you speak off, well, you should be feeling nothing whatsoever.

— Aye, but ah’m no! Especially at night!

— I can only hypothesise that you’re also suffering from some general anxiety disorder that you are sublimating into your unfortunate sexual issues.

Wir gaun roond in circles here: cunt disnae fuckin get it at aw. — Aye, but that anxiety is caused by no fuckin well bein able tae git ma hole !

The boy shakes his heid. — There must be something that helps you.

— Aye, thaire is, n ah’m oaf thaire right now, ah tell the cunt. N ah am fuckin well offski, getting oot ay thaire n intae the cab n drivin doon taewards Silverknowes. Ah gits thaire n the boy in the starter’s box goes, — Nae gowf the day, mate, coorse is floodit. Same wi aw the council courses.

FUCK MA BAWS!

Back in the cab, ah cannae help thinkin aboot ma lot in life. Ah’m gaun mental, it’s like ah’m leadin some twilight existence. Thaire’s aw they nutty burds huntin ays doon oan the phone n by text, no fuckin well believin ays whin ah say tae thum ah cannae see ye. It jist makes thum keep tryin even mair; they think ah’m playin fuckin hard tae git! Me! That’ll be the day: nivir played that fuckin game in ma puff! Try tae fuckin tell thum thit ah’m fuckin well ill, ay, but they jist think ah’m solidly booked. Especially Big Liz fae Control, she’s gaun fae wantin tae tan ma erse tae threatenin tae kick ma cunt in!

The only thing ah’m solidly booked up wi is aw the fuckin bams in ma life.

Ah nips doon the Southern Bar tae git oan the Wi-Fi, but Doughheid comes in wi that dozy look on his face. They gied um a job in Control eftir eh lost ehs licence. That’s the cunt’s mentality, game turned predator. — Awright? ah goes. Ah’m wonderin what eh’s wantin.

— Tez, ah’m giein ye a heads-up here, mate. It’s bad news. Eh turns ehs mooth doon. — Ah’m only sayin this cause we’re buddies n ah ken you n Big Liz. . well, yis urnae exactly cookin right now.

— Right. Ah fires up the laptop. — What’s the story?

— The bizzies’ cameras caught ye in the cab, giein some boy a couple ay wraps. Goat it fae Rab Ness’s lassie, wee Eleanor, she works for them oan the clerical side, ay. Jist giein ye the heads-up, mate.

JESUS FUCK ALMIGHTY . .

That’s aw ah fuckin need. — Fuck. . the baws oan the fuckin slates then, ay. .

— No necessarily, Terry. Doughheid pills a cheeky wee grin. — Ellie says that they didnae git the licence plate. They jist goat you, n thuv issued the description. He hands ays the picture.

Result! Ye kin jist see the mop ay hair, n ma beak, n they Ian Hunter oot ay Mott the Hoople shades. — Ye cannae make it oot tae be me though, ay, it’s jist the hair.

— Aye, but which other taxi driver in Embra’s goat a fuckin barnet like that?

— Right enough. .

— Git tae the barber’s wid be ma advice, Terry, Doughheid shrugs. — Nae cunt’s gaunny grass ye up, but git rid ay that mop or yi’ll dae time. Seriously.

Ah clicks oaf the laptop n ah leaves Doughheid in the boozer, no kennin what the fuck tae dae. Back in the cab, ah starts thinkin it through. The cunt’s right. Ah phones Rab Birrell. — Rab, mind you used tae huv they cutters ye ey used fir number ones? Ye still goat thum?

— Aye.

So ah’m doon at Rab’s at Colinton n ah’ve telt um the tale ower cans ay cauld Guinness. — Ah dinnae ken whit tae dae. Ma hair is Juice Terry. Even mair thin ma cock. Ah’d gie a couple ay inches ay this tadger, jist tae keep the mane intact. Especially now. It’s aw uv fuckin goat wi these pills n this hert thing!

Rab runs ehs hand ower his ain salt-n-pepper crop. — Seems like a choice between that n jail time, Terry.

— You dinnae fuckin git it, but. It’s part ay whae ah am. Burds git attracted tae the locks before they git a deek ay Auld Faithful doon here. Ah grabs some long tresses. — It’s they Medusa-like tentacles thit pills thum in, like the screams ay the Sirens at sea, ah tell the cunt, then ah gie ma baws a slap. — These are jist the rocks they end up gittin dashed oan. . or used tae.

— Dae ye want ays tae dae it or no, Terry?

— Aye, awright. . but it’s odds-on it’s gaunny come oot grey. Ah’ll look like an auld cunt. . nae offence tae you, ah goes, cause ay Rab bein a silverheid.

— Ah’m younger than you, ya cheeky cunt! Five year!

— Ah ken that, mate, but you’ve never been a shagger, ah goes, n Rab bristles at that yin. — Ah mean, you’ve goat yir burd, n faimlay n that; what ah’m tryin tae say is thit yir a steady sort ay gadge. But ah’m bangin everything in sight. . ah feel a blow like ah punch in the guts as it hits ays, like it ey does, — . . or rather, ah wis. The point is, ah cannae handle lookin grey. Ootside ay scud, it limits ma shaggin tae a certain age group, say thirty-five plus. Ah want twenty-five plus.

— If yir heart’s as bad as they say, it might no be a bad thing tae limit yir options, Terry.

AW YA FUCKIN BASTARD. .

Ah’m sittin wi ma heid in ma hands, no kennin what tae dae. ‘Thaire’s nowt that cannae be made worse by gittin sent doon,’ Post Alec, God rest ays jakey soul, ey used tae say that. Ah looks up at Rab. — Aye, c’moan then.

So Rab starts shearin ays wi they barber clippers ay his. Ah swear ah kin feel my tadger shrink half an inch every time a big chunk ay hair faws oantae the flair. Like fuckin Samson in that Bible shite. Rab’s right, thaire’s nae need for it now.

Eftir borrowin another book fae him, One Hundred Years ay Solitude — ma fuckin new biography — ah’m oot n back in the cab. Ah look in the mirror at the grey stubble each time ah stoap at a light. Then a number comes up thit ah huv tae pick up oan. Ah’m getting fed up wi The Poof n ehs instructions. Ah’m meant tae be avoidin stress! Eh’s still in Spain, n eh’s still goat ays checkin oan the sauna. Kelvin fuckin hates ays, cause ah’ve warned that twisted wee Poof Apprentice cunt aboot fucking aroond wi the lassies eftir Saskia’s black eye. So ah finds masel spillin the beans, hopin that ah goat my side ay the story in before Kelvin. — Ah ken eh’s your brar-in-law, Vic, but eh’s gittin oan ma fuckin tits n eh’s gittin a right-hander in the puss. Ah’m tellin ye.

Of course ah jist gits the big fuckin silent treatment doon the line, as ah parks up in Hunter Square. Then his funny voice comes back oan. — So eh’s damagin ma merchandise. Ah telt um aboot leavin fuckin marks, eh sortay laughs. — But yir right, eh is ma brar-in-law. So you jist cool yir jets, Charlie Bronson, unless yuv goat a death wish. . n the cunt laughs, — ah’ll sort him oot. You’ve heard nae word oan that wee Jinty, ah suppose? Nae mair rozzer activity?