Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

They sometimes break .

It’s all I can hear as she goes on about how the chlamydia infection can spread if you have vaginal, anal or oral sex or share sex toys… Though the woman is detached and professional, I feel like a chastened adolescent who should know the fuck better.

Afterwards, I sit at the Café Noir on the corner ay Weesperplein and Valckenierstraat. I decide against a beer and have a koffie verkeerd , and contemplate the shambles ay a life oscillating between extreme social boldness and cowardice, neither ay them ever deployed at strategically optimum times.

I dinnae even need the test results tae confirm it, as the next day the email comes in:

From: VickyH23@googlemail.com

To: Mark@citadelproductions.nl

(No subject)

Mark,

I’ve had some bad and very embarrassing news. I’m assuming you know what it is, as it directly affects you too. Under the circumstances I think it’s best we don’t see each other again, as it clearly isn’t going to work out now. I’m so sorry.

Well, there it is. You fucking blew it again. A great woman, who was so into you, and you give her a fucking dose because you cannae keep it in your troosers and have tae bareback ride some slag just because fucking Sick Boy humped her for years and you were jealous. Ya stupid, pathetic, useless and irredeemably weak bag ay shite .

I look at the email again, and feel something inside ays fold in two. My body seems tae go intae shock, and ma eyes water. I slump in front ay the TV in my apartment, letting my emails and calls pile up before deleting them all. If it’s important they’ll get back to me.

A couple ay days later, Vicky’s grim correspondence is confirmed by the test scores. I go back tae the clinic and they put ays on antibiotics for seven days, no sexual contact tae be had within this time. I have tae return in three months tae confirm that I’m all clear. The doctor asks about sexual partners, who I’m likely to have goat it fae, and who I probably gave it tae. I tell her I travel a lot.

I’m sitting back in my flat, smoking dope, feeling sorry for myself. Getting even more depressed through knowing exactly what I’ll do tae handle this setback: get wrecked, then sober up and fling masel into my graft. Repeat till death. This is the trap. There isnae a later. There’s no fucking place in the sun. There is no cunting future. There is only now . And it’s shite and getting worse.

The following evening and Muchteld comes tae the door, wi her partner Gert. He’s also been wi ays since the early days of Luxury, and they carry big bags ay shopping. Muchteld starts cleaning up the apartment, while Gert skins up and starts cooking a meal. — I have tickets for the Arena tomorrow.

— I don’t want to watch football. It just makes me miserable.

Muchteld, throwing takeaway cartons into a black bin liner, looks up and says, — Fuck you, Mark, football will not make you worse. We go to Ajax, then we eat and we talk.

— Okay, I concede, as a capitalised text pops in from Conrad.

WHY ARE YOU NOT ANSWERING MY CALLS AND TEXTS? THERE IS AN ISSUE AT THE STUDIO WITH KENNET. HE IS AN ASSHOLE! I WANT HIM FIRED AND I NEED A PROPER SOUND ENGINEER LIKE GABRIEL!

— You guys, I smile at them, hudin up the phone, — and this spoiled fat cunt, who has never stopped for a second tae think about anyone other than himself, you might have just saved ma life.

— Yet again, klootzak ! Muchteld laughs. — You must speak to him, Mark, he is bombarding the office with calls. He thinks you do not care about this track he is making.

— Yeah, okay… I say, without enthusiasm.

Gert gets me in a headlock, aggressively rubs my scalp. I can’t break free, he’s a bear of a man.

— Hey, honey, easy on my boy! Who manages the manager, right, Mark?

I love those cunts.

People kin be awfay funny, man. Ah mean, ah goat hassle fae Mikey cause ah nivir hud a passport. So the cat made ays git yin, n ah’m thinkin: it pure shouldnae be that wey, needin passports, cause wir aw Europe, likesay. Wis a lot ay hassle n aw, man, hud tae go through tae Glesgey n fill in tons ay forms. N they needed the photaes tae be jist right. Then, whin the passy finally comes through the door, n ah’m ready tae rock, Mikey’s naewhaire tae be seen! Took ays ages tae track um doon, but finally found the feral gadge in Diane’s Pool Hall, hingin wi some jungle cats. — It’s no happenin right now, mate, eh sais.

— Ye mean… yuv cancelled the gig? Ah’ve pure sortay spent the deposit, man, ah goes, pointin tae ma new trainers.

— Ah widnae say cancelled, Spud, ah’d say mair postponed. That’s how ah wid pit it. Postponed at this stage ay time, is what ah wid say. Then eh goes, raisin ehs voice a bit soas the other gadges kin hear, — Vic Syme n me huv tae sort oot some details, that’s aw. Ah ken whaire tae find ye.

So ah goes hame again, n looks at the passport. N it wis like that fir weeks n weeks. Me aw excited, then Mikey sayin: still no go.

Ah cannae stoap gittin the passy oot ay the drawer. It’s barry, cause ah’ve nivir had yin before. It says Great Britain and Northern Ireland and European Community. But wi Britain mibbe headin oot ay Europe and Scotland mibbe headin oot ay Britain, ah’ll probably huv tae get a new yin before long! Mind you, a Scottish passport wid be barry, wi a thistle oan the front mibbe, instead ay that Her Britannic Majesty requests stuff which seems awfay auld-fashioned, and a rip-off offay the Stones, likesay. The Brian Jones cat that’s potted heid.

It makes ays feel like ah’m the man though: DANIEL ROBERT MURPHY. A subject ay Her Majesty the Queen. Even though ah’m likesay a pape ay Paddy stock, ah’m just as much ay a subject as any west Edinburgh Jambo or west coast Sticky Bun. Aye, they cats’ll no like that but, ay!

The thing is the weeks rolled by n ah nearly forgot aw aboot this big secret-squirrel hush-hush Berlin joab, cause ah gits sorted oot wi part-time casual work, daein forklift drivin in a warehouse. Peys sweeties but it’s guid tae graft n git a wage again but, ay. N still gies ays time tae go oan the John Greig doon at the Grassmarket. Spring isnae bad for the mooch cause cats ur aw optimistic n ah kin fantasise that aw they cool office lassies walkin past wid be impressed if they kent ah wis makin a top-secret delivery ay stuff behind the auld Iron Curtain n doon tae the mystic East ay Istanbul. N mibbe it would be pure exotic love in foreign climes, like that Sean Connery cat as Bond. In the aulder Bond fulums, likesay.

Then, one eftirnin, Mikey comes along tae ma pitch. — It’s time, eh goes. N man, ah’m pure sortay nervous, cause eh disnae look happy, eh’s goat that serious face oan.

— Ah’m ready, bud, ah goes, standin up. But ah wisnae really, cause ah’m sortay happy, ken? Things ur gaun a bit better now. But ah pure took the five hundred up front. — Bring ays yir kidney, Sydney, ah sais oot ay nerves. Mikey isnae chuffed but.

— Shut it. Eh looks around, gesturing ays tae follay him ower tae the pub. — This is fuckin serious. Ah never want tae hear that word comin oot your mooth again. Goat that?

— Aye, sorry, man, ah tell um, n ah git Toto leashed up n wir walkin ower the street.

— Ah pit masel oan the line gittin ye this work, Spud. Dinnae fuck it up. Dae the business n it’ll be a regular thing.

So ower in the boozer eh slips ays a wallet wi the plane tickets. A few days later ah’m at the airport, and Toto’s wi ays! Ah goat ma sis Roisin tae go oan that Internet thing n check eh wis wee enough tae take oan ma lap. Turns oot ah kin pure take um in this thing called a Sherpa bag, n ah dinnae huv tae pit um in the hold. Ah try tae keep um under eighteen poonds, but ah’ve let it creep up a bit, so ah’m tryin tae make sure eh disnae drink sae much in case eh disnae make the weight. Ah think aboot the bag, mindin how as a sprog ah used tae watch that Owen, M.D . oan telly aboot the Welsh country doaktir boy, n his dug was called Sherpa. But the bag couldnae be named after that canine gadge cause he was a huge dug, n wid never have goat in one ay these boys. Ah pure need the company, man, cause ah’ve nivir flew before n ah’m excited but dead nervous that mibbe some sneaky terrorist gadge might be oan the plane thinkin aboot another 9/11! Wid jist be ma luck tae be comin up in the world, then git blawn tae fuck by some boy whae wis worried aboot they Molly Malones zappin ehs faimlay. N ah dinnae trust naebody else tae look eftir the dug right.