Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

He moots this to Simon. — Bad idea. Tell her straight or not at all. She’ll just think it’s the drug talking. Which it is.

— No it’s not!

— Tell her tomorrow then: at the Christmas dinner table. In front of us all.

— I will, Euan states emphatically, then he starts to tell Simon about Ross, and then his own sexual experiences. Or lack of.

— Ecstasy is a truth drug, Simon says. — I thought it was time we got to know each other. All these years we’ve been in the same family, yet we’ve barely spoken.

— Yes, we’ve certainly never had a time like this…

Simon prods his brother-in-law’s chest. The action isn’t aggressive or intrusive to Euan, it feels quite bromantic. — You need to experience different women, Simon’s head swivels across the bar, iPhone finally sliding into his pocket, — or the resentment will eventually destroy your marriage.

— No it won’t.

— Yes it will. We are nothing but consumers now: of sex, drugs, war, guns, clothes, TV shows. He waves his hand in grandiose derision. — Look at this crowd of miserable cretins, pretending to have fun.

Euan checks out the revellers. There is a kind of desperation about it all. A bunch of young lads in Christmas jumpers are swaggering in superficial bonhomie, but waiting for the one drink that will pit them violently against some strangers, or, failing that, each other. A group of office girls are comforting a morbidly obese colleague, who is bubbling in tears. Sitting a little apart, two others chuckle in a vicious, conspiratorial glee at her distress. A barman, lower lip hanging and eyes dulled in clinical depression, sets about the joyless task of collecting the glasses that appear on the tables like baby rabbits in a spring meadow. All this to an unceasing medley of Christmas pop hits from the seventies and eighties which have become such staple fare every Yuletide that they have people mumbling the words under their breath, like discharged military combat victims of post-traumatic stress.

It is in such an environment that Simon David Williamson increasingly warms to his theme. — We have to keep on going till the train hits the buffers; then we shelve the insanity and neurosis and build a better world. But we can’t do that until this paradigm comes to a natural end. So for now we simply go with neoliberalism as an economic and social system, and pursue those addictions relentlessly. We have no choice in the matter. Marx was wrong about capitalism being replaced by a wealthy, educated, workers’ democracy; it’s being replaced by an impoverished, tech-savvy, shaggers’ republic.

Enthralled and horrified by Simon’s bleak dystopia, Euan shakes his head in agitation. — But there has to be choice, he protests, as Roy Wood once again reiterates his wish that it could be Christmas every day, — there has to be doing the right thing .

— Increasingly not. Simon Williamson tosses his head back, running his hand through black and silver locks. — Doing the right thing is now for the loser, the mug, the victim. That is how the world has changed. He takes a pen and small notebook out of his pocket and draws a diagram on a blank page.

Before 35 Years of Neoliberalism:

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CUNT | HUMAN BEING | MUG

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After 35 years of Neoliberalism:

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CUNT | HUMAN BEING | MUG

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— The only real choices are proscribed, slightly different versions of the wrong thing, basically picking an alternative route to the same overriding hell. Jesus, these poodirs are total fucking old-school… Simon says, wiping some sweat from his brow. — Still, he lets his saucer eyes swivel to Euan, — it’s not all bad, then he turns and stares at a girl, who is standing a few feet away with a friend. He holds up his phone. She stares back and laughs before coming over, introducing herself as Jill, and presenting her cheek for, and receiving, a dignified peck from the rising Simon. As she converses with his brother-in-law, Euan is enchanted to find his misgivings peeling away. Jill is nothing like the desperate online daters of his imagination. She is young, confident, good-looking and obviously smart. Her friend, roughly the same age, but a little bit plumper, looks at him. — I’m Katy.

— Hi, Katy, I’m Euan. Are you, em, a Tinder person too?

Katy seems to evaluate him for a second, before responding. ‘My Girl’ by Madness comes on the jukebox. Euan thinks of Carlotta. — I use it occasionally, but it can get dispiriting. Most people are just looking for sex. Fair enough. We all have our needs. But it’s sometimes too much. Do you use the app?

— No. I’m married.

Katy raises her brows. She touches his arm, looking at him in enervated leniency. — Good for you, she sings, but in a detached manner. Then she spots somebody and flutters across the bar. Euan is staggered to experience a deep sense of loss at her departure, which is assuaged by the notion that everything is okay.

A slender blonde woman, probably in her thirties, Euan fancies, has entered the bar and is staring at Simon. She is striking, with almost translucent skin and haunting, luminous blue eyes. On meeting her stare, his brother-in-law sighs loudly. A Ghost of Christmas Tinder Past, and he apologises to Jill, and heads over to address the incomer. Jill and Euan watch in silence as they exchange some words, which Euan senses are heated, before Simon heads back to them. He jostles Jill and Euan over to an empty table.

To Euan’s surprise, the blonde woman joins them, a glass of white wine in her hand, never taking her eyes off Simon. He is preoccupied, canoodling with Jill. It’s at that point Euan thinks that the woman might be older than he first thought; her skin is flawless, but her eyes carry a weight of experience.

She turns to Euan, still looking at Simon. — Well, he obviously isn’t going to introduce us. I’m Marianne.

Euan extends his hand, glancing over at his brother-in-law whose fingers now caress Jill’s dark-stockinged thigh, as her tongue goes into his ear.

And Euan is looking at Marianne, who watches the scene in sheer loathing. Yes, he considers, she might even be close to his age, but there is something majestic about her. All the flaws of ageing, the lines, the bags, the crow’s feet, seem to have been airbrushed from her. He wonders if it could be the drug. All he sees is the essence of this strikingly beautiful woman. — Euan, he introduces himself. — Have you known Simon long?

— For years. Since I was in my teens. I’d say twenty per cent a blessing, eighty per cent a curse, she informs him in a monotone voice. To his ear, it straddles scheme and suburb.

— Wow. In what sense? he asks, moving closer to her, and looking at Simon.

— He’s a menace to lassies, Marianne says matter-of-factly. — He makes them fall for him, and then he just uses them.

— But… you’re still here, in his company.

— Then I’m still in his control, she laughs joylessly, then bitterly lashes out and kicks Simon’s shin. — Bastard.

— What? Simon breaks his grip on Jill to glare at her. — Are you fucking mental? Calm doon!

— Fucking bastard. Marianne kicks out again, then, looking at the younger woman, acidly scoffs, — You poor wee fucking cow. He’s an old cunt now. I least I was conned by a young, exciting guy, and she rises and throws the contents of her wine glass over him.

Simon Williamson sits immobile, wine dripping from his face, as the oohs and aahs of the nearby drinkers reverberate. Euan fishes out his hanky and passes it to his brother-in-law. — Go after her, Simon urges him, nodding at the departing Marianne. — Talk to her. Been stalking me for weeks, knowing I’d be up from London for Christmas. She resents that she’s no longer young, but it happens to us all. I mean, get the fuck over yourself, he intones in a rising plea to the bar, before turning to Jill. — Repeat after me: I will never turn into my mother!