Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

Ma heid’s fucked. Aw ah dae is read. Even started writin a poem the other night. Ya cunt, ah’m turnin intae Rab Birrell. The kind ay radge that might say ‘ Presence is Led Zeppelin’s best album’ when they ken is it fuck Led Zeppelin’s best album , but just tae show oaf their poxy debatin skills.

Fair lookin forward tae this game now, distract ays fae the shaggin thoughts. Ah’m aw set tae meet up wi the Birrells n that, but ah didnae want distracted fae ma readin so ah switched off the cheeky phone last night. Now thaire’s a stack ay calls, maist ay them fae Yvette, the Ginger Bastard’s ma, whae’s gaun crazy, insistin that ah meet her first thing this morning.

Ah makes some porridge, cuttin back oan the salt for this ticker, watchin the early-morning Scottish news. Ah recognise the building the cameras ur at, so ah turns it up n it’s a feature oan the missin Bowcullen Trinity whisky, and how an anonymous party is offerin a reward ay twenty grand for information leadin tae its return. Ronnie. Well, ah suppose when you’ve flung that much dosh away on it, a wee bit mair means fuck all. Good tae ken but; money in the fuckin bank. But ah’ve got other things tae think aboot, so ah gits Yvette on the blower. — It’ll huv tae wait, ah’m gaun oot tae Hampden but, ay. Cup final.

— I know what’s going on, Terry, but we have to meet first, n she sounds awfay upset.

So we meets in this place up the Old Town, the posh studenty gaff oan George IV Bridge whaire they say that Harry Potter burd jist sat doon in a corner n wrote aw they books. N ah ken ah’m no gaunny like this particular fuckin story cause Yvette’s look reminds ays ay the one she gied ays aw they years back. When she telt ays she wis up the stick. Ah wisnae fuckin well chuffed. Ah mind ay sayin: ‘A bit ay ma spunk takin root in ye might say that ah’m good faither material tae you. Tae me it says thit you’re nae good at swallayin pills.’

But she tells ays what the fuck’s been gaun oan wi the Ginger Bastard n ah cannae believe ma ears. — Eh wis what?

— He was caught with his hand up a girl’s skirt.

— What? How? Ah mean, whaire?

— At school.

So ah’m sortay thinkin aboot him, n ah goes, — Well. . it could be worse –

— How could it be worse! He’s fucking nine years old!

Ah cannae help it, n even though ah ken it’s wrong n spells big trouble, part ay me is thinkin: ah’ve nivir been sae proud ay any cunt in ma life as ah am ay the Ginger Bast — wee Harry right now. Even Jason, when eh graduated fae that uni in law.

She’s far fae chuffed but. — He’s been harassing several girls on the phone and on Facebook, asking them to send him pictures of them naked. Apparently all the boys are at it now. It’s one of those sickening developments that needs to be stopped right now, and I’m not having my son, our son –

That sets ma warnin bells oaf. — How is it that he’s the yin gittin singled oot but? Sounds like victimisation tae me.

— What?

— Ginger-heided bairns stand oot. Thaire’s some cunts thit think thir fair game tae discriminate against, n it’s no right!

— It’s nothing to do with that! It’s because he’s the one who’s been approaching the girls directly!

Ya cunt, that wis me that telt him tae dae that! Be a fuckin man n dae it tae thair face , ah sais tae um. Then ah’m thinkin aboot Donna, and what they cunts ah did ower oan the estate wir sayin aboot her. Whae telt them tae act like that tae lassies? Life is fuckin complicated these days. — Laddies are different — ah read aw aboot it. Science. We’re prone tae hormonal surges fae an early age. Bursts ay testosterone in the napper. Youse jist git emotional wi hormones once a month, we have tae suffer it constantly. It’s bound tae make him a bit radge.

— Don’t turn your feeble life-excuses into his ones! And since when did you become interested in science?

— You’d be surprised, ah goes. — But yir right; this isnae aboot me, it’s aboot our son’s future. So ah’ll talk tae um: faither tae son.

She looks totally stunned at that response. Fuck sakes, ah cannae be that much ay a useless, selfish cunt, surely tae fuck?! But then she recovers her composure, that wey that posh cunts are trained tae. — And let him know what, precisely?

— And let him know that it isnae acceptable behaviour!

— Good!

Well, she’s still no that happy, but we finish oor tea in a strained civility. Across at the next table thaire’s a couple ay muck-buckets, but thir settin up a near root, even in the medicated Auld Faithful. Ah’m glad tae get away, but ootside it’s as bad. In fact, now thit the better weather’s kicked in it’s fuckin torture. The toon’s full ay fanny. Ah huv tae try n think aboot the likes ay Doughheid or Bladesey suckin my tadger, jist tae stave oaf the erection, even wi they useless fuckin pills. Tae think thit whin ah wis wi a burd n gittin excited, ah used tae think aboot a gam fae ma auld rid-couponed mate Post Alec, tae hud back the moment, but that’s well fucked up now! Ya cunt, Freud wid be able tae fuckin well retire wi me oan ehs books!

Perr Alec, bein eatin by maggots; n that auld cunt Henry, hingin oan like the fuckin cunt eh is till the fuckin Cup final’s over. Well, ah gits doon the Business Bar n Billy n Rab are ootside and Sick Boy’s thaire n aw! — Was going to watch it on the box, but jumped on a last-minute flight. It’s not every day we get to fuck those retards in a Scottish Cup final.

— It’s no been any day we got to fuck anybody in a Scottish Cup final since 1902, Billy goes.

— Don’t be such a pessimist, Sick Boy says. — They are gambling with other people’s money and they are going tits up, history. It’s fate that we come along with a shite, struggling team on a quarter of their stolen wage bill, and hammer them into the dust. Terry?

— No really been takin that much notice.

Rab Birrell looks at ays like ah’m a bam. — Whaire huv you been: Mars?

— Might as well huv been, ah goes.

— Speaking of fucking, Sick Boy whispers, — when are you going to send this boy down? I need to audition him, as it looks like this cheque that a partner in the Ukraine sent me has miraculously cleared. I’ve rewritten the Shagger 3 script, calling it Humper , with a new protagonist who is Shagger’s brother. Didnae want to wreck the franchise and shut the door on Curtis in case it doesn’t work out for the little ingrate in the San Fernando Valley.

— I’ll get him down. But ye no want to see him up here?

— I’m on holiday , Sick Boy sais, aw pompous, — I need to spend time with my family .

Well, we gits intae the stretchy n eases oot tae Hampden. Plenty ay fuckin champers n charlie, wi nae bizzy eyes gittin through the tinted gless. It’s the only wey tae dae it. Ah hus a nice wee literary discussion aboot William Faulkner wi Rab, which hacks off Billy, n hus Sick Boy shakin ehs heid. But ah wish we’d jist steyed in the limo drivin around, cause the day goes doonhill quick eftir that.

Hibs are fuckin shite; whatever happened oot there we were gaunny lose. But we might have had a classic Cup final, a two-three or a three-four. Instead the referee fucks it right up. We’re talkin aboot it in the motor gaun back, aboot ten minutes intae the second half.

Sick Boy is gaun mental. — That little cunt Black didnae even git spoken tae by Thomson eftir elbayin Griffiths in the puss when he should have fucking walked. It’s all a big laugh between them. Ye know from that point on those cheating cunts wi thair drug n human traffickin money, peyin for players they cannae afford, ur gaunny git away with fuckin murder on the pitch as well as off it.