Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— That won’t be necessary. I’ll call you, he goes, n the cunt hings up.

Decent fuckin deal but; gittin peyed big bucks by the week but eh’s only gaunny need ays a few times tae run um doon tae Haddington! Wonder what business eh’s goat doon thaire. Well, that’s his, no mine. Meantime ah kin still dae ma ain fuckin thing! Ma ship’s fuckin well come in, awright!

Ah checks the phone: a load ay messages fae different burds — they couple ay young things fae Rhode Island n aw! They were tidy, n maist ay aw, game as fuck. Although Sick Boy sais chasin it’s the best sport, ye cannae eywis be bothered chippin away at thair defences. Sometimes ye jist want tae slap the fuckin goods oan the table n go: ur ye in or ur ye no? They wir fuckin in awright, wir they no! Shame that they’re off tae the Continent the day.

Ah’m sniffin aroond for minge oan the Bridges, but nae burds are flaggin me doon, so ah picks up another fare, this stiff-backed cunt in a tin flute, carryin a briefy. Dinnae think thaire’s a tip in this fucker.

So ah’m thinkin aboot lassies, n two in particular: Suzanne Prince and Yvette Bryson. The two ah fired intae bareback that weekend nearly ten year ago when ah wis oan a downer after the third divorce. As a result ah goat two wee bastards oot ay the deal. But I’m aw for Guillaume n the Ginger Bastard keepin thair mas’ surnames. Feminism, but, ay. Mind you, if it hud been up tae me ah’d huv hud that fuckin tube up baith thair snatches and been suckin like a double-teamin Calton Hill buftie till ah tasted claret, then spat baith the bloody bastards intae the lavvy pan. But they wanted tae keep thum, ay, so thir here, n ah’ve nae complaints, jist as long as the name Lawson’s kept oaf the certificates. Too fuckin true!

Baith Suzanne n Yvette are independent women, n ah think ah’m ootay the woods now, but people and thair circumstances fuckin well change. Ye cannae droap yir guard cause the CSA’s goat long airms. Well, thir no gittin intae these fuckin poakits. .

Ah’ve double-backed doon Prinny n ah’m headin up the Mound. Cunt in the back’s goat a coupon oan um so ah’d better start gabbin if ah want tae sniff oot a tip. — So what’s it ye dae yirsel, mate?

— Medicine.

— Doaktir, aye?

— Of sorts. I’m a specialist, the cunt goes, lookin ootside. — Why are we going this way?

— Trams. . one-wey system. . re-routed. . council. . So what d’ye specialise in? See me? Ah specialise in love. Mind that song? Sharon Broon? ‘Ah Specialise in Lurve’. . mind that yin? Naw?

— I don’t think so.

Blood oot ay a fuckin stane wi some cunts. — What’s it you specialise in then, mate?

— Gynaecology.

— Gyn-a-fuckin. . ya cunt! Ah nearly run through a rid light cause ay turnin back tae the boy. Eh snaps forward in the seat. As well eh belted up or the poor cunt would have squished through the Judas Hole n been sittin in strips oan ma fuckin lap! — Sorry, mate. . ah wis jist thinkin, you’ve probably seen mair fannies than me! Yir no wantin an assistant, ur ye?

The guy pushes ehsel back in the seat. — I don’t really think –

— Tell ye what, mate, ah ken my wey aroond a burd’s fanny! Tell ye that fir nowt! Ah’ve mibbe no goat aw the technical terms like you, but ah ken when ye push this button, BANG! This happens! Fill that hole, WHAM! Ya cunt ye, ah goes as a lorry tries tae cut ays oaf as wi rumble doon taewards Cameron Toll.

— Thank you. I’ll bear that sterling advice in mind, the boy says, but then the mobby goes off, nowt unusual aboot that, but the name THE POOF comes up on caller ID. Ah ignores it but ah’d better git doon tae the cunt’s sauna soon and take a wee peek.

Ah’m no keen on this gig, cause once ye git tagged a criminal, crime comes lookin for ye. Ah’m nae gangster or career tea leaf or drug dealer, but ah never look a gift horse in the mooth. If somebody offers ye a wee tickle n it looks tasty, then aye. But thaire’s bams whae outline the maist pointless, ludicrous jailbait propositions, jist usually cause thir lookin for something tae dae, a bit ay adventure. Ye tell these cunts, nicely of course: git tae fuck. Drug dealin is a big risk and a load ay hassle for no much reward. Cabbyin’s borin, n scud’s a nice wee earner for the luxuries, but ye cannae rely oan it. I’ll dae bits for Connor, but no for Tyrone or The Poof if ah kin help it. The supervision ay scrubbers n pimps, well, it’s jist no ma bag, ay.

— This is the Infirmary, if you just pull in here, a voice comes fae the back.

— Sound. Gaun intae look at some mair fannies then, mate?

— Something like that.

— It’s tough shift, but some cunt’s goat tae it! Come tae think ay it, ah git tae look at a loat ay fannies in the back ay this cab. Usually no the kind ye want but, ay-no, mate?

— I suppose not. . Well, thank you.

— Tell ays one thing, mate, gaun back tae the technical side, like. Ken how Eskimos huv goat a thousand words fir snaw, youse boys, gynaecologists, huv youse goat the same fir fannies, aye? Bet yis huv, ah goes, daein the auld trick ay no openin the doors until the wallet comes oot, n above aw, keep talkin! The guy peys me way too much; result! A fucker like that wid nivir huv tipped if ah wis a sooir-faced cunt. That mumpy cunt Doughheid, he eywis moans aboot the tips. It’s cause yir a sooir-faced cunt, ah ey tells um.

But this boy’s coughed up, and eh seems tickled. — Eskimos. . snow. . I’ll have to remember that one!

So ah’m headin back intae toon. Ah picks up some mair posh fae Rehab Connor n droaps it oaf tae Monny in Leith. Connor’s probably aboot the biggest dealer in toon right now. Never touches it ehsel. In fact eh works as a full-time drug counsellor for the Social Work Department. Gies every cunt two numbers: one if yir clean but huvin a crisis and need tae talk tae somebody, the other yin if ye need sorted oot. Got the market fuckin covered, the snidey cunt! Telt ays once that eh wis counsellin some boy n the gadge goes, — Look, it’s no workin oot for ays, Connor, this sobriety, this counsellin. Ah really need ye tae sort ays oot. Connor goes, ‘Nae worries, mate, but ye really will need tae call ays oan ma other phone. Ah’ve goat ma reputation tae think ay. Have tae be professional but, ay.’

Then ah decides tae call it a day n go tae the scheme tae visit the auld lady, Alice Ulrich, surname gied tae her by deceased German second husband. Ah’m parked up outside the Festival Theatre oan the Bridges, n this cunt taps the windae at the lights. Ah must’ve forgot tae switch the sign oaf. — Booked, mate, ah tells the boy.

— You have your ‘For Hire’ sign on.

— Forgot tae switch it oaf but, ay.

— You’re obliged by contract law to take me.

— Sorry, mate, would love tae, but jist had a job come in. Ah taps the screen. — Control, ay. Computerised.

— That’s bloody nonsense!

— Ma hands ur tied, mate. Nothin wid gie me greater pleasure thin tae take yir fare, but ah’m a slave tae Control, ay. Ye dinnae take the jobs they gie ye, they pit ye oaf line aw night as punishment, ah goes, startin up the motor n pillin away. Ah kin hear um still slaverin oan in the street about contract law, some cunts’ll no be telt. Anywey, ah pills up tae the lights n honks at this brunette in a long broon coat, gittin a saucy wee grin back. Nice tae be nice.

So ah heads oot tae the auld girl’s at Sighthill. She ey sais she nivir goes oot but whin ah gits roond she’s goat her coat, hat n gloves oan. — Kin ye gie yir auld mother a lift, Terry son? Ah widnae ask, it’s jist the weather. .

— Whaire ye gaun?

— The Royal.

Jesus-suck-yir-baws-Christ, it’s miles away n ah jist fuckin well came fae way oot thaire. — What’s up — ye no well?