Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

— I don’t – well, I suppose –

— You’d fuckin ride it raw, mate, Terry sings from the front seat. — It’s the wey wir hard-wired. Guaranteed. Ah’m only gaun by Richard Attenborough. That cunt’s been aw ower this fuckin planet, watched everything that moves n analysed its cowpin behaviour. Scientific. He taps his head. — Trust in Dickie.

Simon is looking at another incoming text message. — Hunting the women you want, avoiding the ones you don’t, it’s such a drag… He glances up at the back of Terry’s head as they roll over the North Bridge into Princes Street. — And it’s David Attenborough, ya fucking docile mutation. Richard was the cunt that died. The actor. Humped Judy Geeson after strangling her in 10 Rillington Place . Mind, kenning you, ye probably did mean Richard, Simon asserts, setting off a round of laughing and bickering with Terry, which to Euan’s ears is both pointless and obscene.

They fight their way to the bar of a George Street pub packed with festive revellers. Christmas songs of the seventies and eighties blast out. As Euan gets the drinks in, Terry immediately hooks up with a woman whom, Simon explains, he arranged to meet on Slider. In truculent entitlement he manoeuvres elbow room at the bar, Euan deploying polite diligence to attain the same result, as Terry vanishes with his consort. — And that’s it? He’s off with her? Euan asks.

— Yes, done deal. He’ll probably bang her in the back of the taxi. Simon holds up his glass. — Happy birthday!

Sure enough, Terry returns fifteen minutes later, a smile etched on his face. His companions are only halfway through their beers. — Mission accomplished, he winks. — Slide it in, slide it oot, git thum frothin at the mooth.

With their hard-won advantageous position at the bar, Euan anticipates another round, but Simon, checking his phone, suggests they move to an establishment down the street.

Outside, the cold is starting to bite. Euan is relieved that they don’t wander too far down Hanover Street before Simon leads their descent into a basement space. As his brother-in-law hits the bar, Euan turns to a yawning Terry. — Are you and Simon old friends?

— Kent Sick Boy for years. He’s Leith, ah’m Stenhoose, but we eywis goat on. Baith shaggers, baith Hibbies, ah suppose.

— Yes, he’s taking Ben to Easter Road at New Year.

— You follow the fitba, bud?

— I do, but I don’t really support any team. On my island, passions weren’t highly aroused.

— Keep aw that for the cowpin, mate, right? Country birds ur meant tae be game as fuck. Suppose thaire’s nowt else tae dae but, ay-no, mate?

Euan can only force an awkward nod, but his blushes are saved as Simon returns from the bar, carrying incongruously summery-looking drinks. He steers them over to a relatively quiet spot close to the toilets. — Time for a sneaky wee guzzle of the most vile cocktail ever. If you can knock this back in a oner, you are fucking men , he declares, thrusting beverages that look like pina coladas at Terry and Euan.

— Fuck… it’s Christmas but, ay, Terry says, holding his nose and knocking his back. Simon shadows him.

Euan sips at his drink. Despite the pineapple, coconut and lemonade, it has a rank but metallic bite to it; there is something bitter and evil at its centre. — What is this?

— My own special recipe. Designed for your birthday! Drink, drink, drain your glass; raise your glass high! Simon commands in song.

Euan gives a well-it-is-my-birthday-and-it-is-Christmas-Eve shrug and swallows it back. Whatever abominable concoction lies in the fabric of the cocktail, it’s easier to down it in one.

Simon eyes are diverted from the phone’s screen to look over to a woman wearing a green top, who is scanning the bar. — That one’s probably been on the prowl in the same spot since I rogered her last Christmas!

Terry swiftly looks across. He puts on a David Attenborough voice: — If the beast is at its watering hole, it’s about to get its hole watered… and he sweeps back his corkscrew mane, winks at the woman and heads over to her.

Euan and Simon watch him in action. When the woman starts giggling at some comment, her hand reaching to her hair, they know the deal has been sealed. To Euan, Simon’s rapacious eyes scrutinise Terry as much as his new companion. — Terry is phenomenally effective. With a certain type of woman, he spits out bitterly.

His reaction makes Euan uncomfortable, and inclined to change the subject. — You were up last Christmas to see your mum?

— Yes… Ah ha, he says, his busy index finger flicking through an on-screen catalogue of girls’ faces, most of whom seem to be in their twenties, — a Ghost of Christmas Tinder Present!

— I can see why it would be a powerful dating tool, Euan says nervously. He is suddenly aware of nausea in the pit of his stomach, followed by a tingling in his arms and chest. He feels warm and he is sweating. After a brief panic clashes with this excitement, he succumbs to a strange glow coming over him, like a golden cloak of levity has been lowered onto his shoulders.

— Euan, you can download this app in seconds, Simon urges. — Seriously. Or I’m happy to shop around on your behalf, and he casts his eye over a group of women, compelling Euan to follow.

— I can’t! I’m married… he says wistfully, thinking of Carlotta, — to your sister!

— Jesus fuck, am I in the wrong century, or what? Simon snaps. — Let’s enjoy the benefits of neoliberalism before it goes tits-up, finally detonating this wretched planet from under our feet. We have a perfect synthesis of the very best of the free market and socialism, right here on our phones! It’s the answer to the greatest problem of all time – the loneliness and misery caused by not getting your hole at Christmas – and it’s free!

— But I love Carlotta! Euan shouts in triumph.

His brother-in-law rolls his eyes in exasperation. — What’s love got to do, got to do with it, he sings, then explains in a forced patience: — In today’s marketplace, sex is a commodity like any other.

— I’m not in today’s marketplace, and I don’t want to be, Euan says, feeling his jaw starting to grind. His mouth is dry. He needs water.

— How quaintly Protestant. Johnny Knox would be proud. I am fortunate to be blessed with the papist’s slate-wiping gift of confession, which I cheerfully deploy once every few years.

Euan dabs his sweaty forehead with a hanky, sucks in some air. The Christmas tree lights and the glow of tinsel are particularly vivid. — I feel pretty buzzed after the champers and that vile-tasting short… What was it…? That lambswool jumper of yours, he touches Simon’s forearm, — it feels so soft.

— Of course. I spiked the cocktail with MDMA powder.

— You what… I don’t do drugs, I’ve never done drugs…

— Well, you’re doing them now. So kick back, relax and enjoy.

As Euan sucks in air and pushes his melting bones into a seat at a suddenly vacated table, Terry, who has been chatting to the woman in the green top, storms over to Simon, all lit up. — Did you pit E in that drink? Turnin ays intae a fuckin lesbo, ya sabotaging cunt! Ah’m away tae the bogs tae hit the ching n take the love oot ay this mix n git the fuckin shaggin back in. Fuckin clart! And he shakes his curls and heads to the toilets.

WHOOSH!

Euan is rising up through himself in an unabating ascent. It is good. He thinks of his father and that rapturous high the old man seemed to get from prayer and song on Sundays. He considers Carlotta and how much he loves her. He doesn’t tell her often enough. He shows it, but doesn’t say the words. Not nearly enough. He has to phone her now.