Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

The Tempelhofer Feld is on the site of the old Berlin Flughafen, which shut down several years back. They plan to make it into a refugee camp. Now the youthful, colourful ravers are cultural émigrés from the old, clapped-out, straight society of capitalism that can’t pay them a living wage and exists solely to suck the wealth of their parents into its coffers through debt.

The Nazi-era terminal, said to be the biggest listed building in the world, is stark, imposing, gloomy and beautiful. Its giant hangars curve out implausibly under a column-free cantilevered roof. In its flightless era it’s mostly leased out, and one of the biggest tenants are the Polizei . Two cops with machine guns look stonily at us as we head into the building, our pockets stuffed with wraps of cocaine. We find the offices, in a glass-fronted control centre overlooking the big arena and its stages. Besides the cops, Berlin’s traffic-control authority and the central lost-property office are based here. There’s also a kindergarten, a dancing school and one of the city’s oldest revue theatres. We watch the out-of-town ravers, milling about, gaping in awe at this strange utopia the locals casually accept. — This is some gaff, I concede to Klaus, who practically ignores me. Now that the festival is under way, he seems tae have ditched sociable and turned intae a narky fascist cunt, snapping orders at stressed underlings. I go off to check things out as the arena fills up, shimmying through the revellers. A skinny young guy I’ve never heard ay plays an interesting set. I’m getting into it. I head for the DJ box, wondering if I can get a word when he’s done, when I see that there are no decks there. Ewart. The place does not have record decks. Fuck. I realise that I forgot to arrange for turntables to be there .

I hurry back to the control centre, flustered. I’ve stated repeatedly tae Carl that he needs to move with the fucking times. All I get in response is a shrug and him muttering about how ‘we’ll sort something out’, usually as he chops oot another line ay coke. Emily and Conrad probably wouldnae remember their SD cards and headphones if I wisnae constantly chasing them up, but they are of a different era. The culpabilty is mine, though: I ought to have mentioned this on the rider.

I’ve haven’t had dealings with Klaus before, and tell him about our decks problem. He laughs in my face. — We have not had record turntables in here for over a decade!

— Is there nothing around, on any of the other stages?

He looks at me as if I’m tapped, shakes his head slowly.

— Fuck. What can we do? Exasperation has made me publicly air my concern. Big mistake. Ye never show your doubts or fears in this game. Suck it all up.

The promoter shrugs. — If you cannot play, we cannot pay. Somebody else will do the slot.

Carl, loitering at the long Formica-topped bar, has caught this exchange and comes over. The bastard is already ablaze with ching. At least that makes my next question to Klaus superfluous. — Mark, you’re a manager, aye?

I ken exactly where this is gaun, but my lot in life is tae play this tedious game out. — Aye.

— So fucking manage. Find a set ay turntables. Should not be mission impossible here in Berlin. Still plenty time before the gig. Now I’m going tae wander the festival site, have a few drinks, and try and get ma cock sucked. I’ve always liked German birds.

I’m sucking down my wrath, at him, yes, but also at myself. There’s little tae be gained in protesting impotently and I’ve been here before. As galling as it is to admit, the cunt is right. It is my job tae solve problems and right now we have a big yin. But I cannot believe this fuckin doss cunt. — DJs huvnae used vinyl since John Robertson was a Hibby. If you’d spun since fuckin 9/11 you’d fuckin well realise that. That’s why you have airms like a fucking ape, cartin they boaxes aboot. A fuckin USB, that’s aw you need. You dump your set into the Pioneer, press play and pump your fists in the air like a daft cunt. That is DJing now. Get teckied up, no eckied up!

Conrad and Emily seem friendlier; they’ve been working together in the studio, which is good news. I’m concerned with his secrecy about this track, though. I hope the fat fuck isn’t cutting a deal with somebody else. He comes over, drawn to our conflict, and wobbles his head, sniggering in derision. — So unprofessional.

Carl responds in haughty disdain. — Others might get doon wi aw that shite, bro, he says to me, not even looking at my Dutch star, — that’s no fucking DJing but, no tae me, he sings in defence. But he’s covering up the fact that he’s embarrassed. Carl is more like a fish out ay water every day and I ken exactly how the poor bastard feels.

So I’m off, oot ay the site, intae the street, trying tae get a fucking signal on the mobby tae find music-equipment stores, which is almost impossible with the crowds milling around, all on their phones. Eventually, the bars pop up and I’m scrolling around, looking for some kind ay shopping district, but there seems to be nothing around for miles. The sky is blackening and it’s starting to drizzle. I wander despondently for a bit, heading through a big flea market.

I can’t believe it.

I’m normally as blind as a Scottish referee over long distances, but desperation has given me X-ray vision. Literally fifteen minutes outside the site, in this market, is an electrical goods stall. I still have to walk closer to confirm that jumping the fuck out at ays among knock-off fridges, freezers, amps and stereos, there really are two old-school Technics decks! My heart is pounding, and even more uncannily: THEY HAVE NEEDLES AND CARTIDGES! Thank you, God! Thank you, God of Edinburgh dance music…

I approach a young Middle Eastern-looking kid in an Everton FC football top. — The decks, do they work?

— Yes, of course, he says. — As if they are new.

— How much?

— Eight hundred euros. His expression is gravely serious.

— These are ancient, I scoff. — Two hundred.

— They are vintage, he says coolly, brows arching, lips riding back to display a set of dazzling white choppers. — Seven hundred and fifty.

— No way. They probably don’t even work. Three hundred.

The kid’s face does not change one reflexive muscle. — They work as new. I can only go to seven hundred. You look anxious, as if you need them urgently. You must think of this as a favour I am doing you, mister.

— Fuck… I delve intae ma pockets and count out the poppy. Thankfully, a manager eywis needs a wad. There’s eywis some cunt – drug dealer, hotel doorman, taxi fucker, hanger-on, security, polisman – who wants paying off or needs a bung. The wee cunt is now smiling, serenading me with a chorus ay — As new, my friend, as new…

— You’re a manipulative, unscrupulous, little fucker. I hand the boy the cash and issue him ma embossed card. — Ever contemplated a career in the music business?

Sitting up in business class is an unmitigated delight. It’s not so much the benefits of the actual service; more knowing you’ve got your status over the plebs officially confirmed for the next three hours. From my seat, I pull an obligatory face of impatient disdain as they pass by me, on their walk of shame to steerage. That aside, it gives me the luxury of territory and time to think things through.

Across the aisle, there’s a gay bastard; blond hair, tight trews, blue round-collar T-shirt, and he’s being outrageously loud. I kind of wish Ben was like that. What’s the point of having a buftie-boy son who isn’t outrageously effete? Who just wants to live a boring hetero life? Oppression breeds struggle, which engenders culture, and it would be shite if swashbuckling camp was to vanish from the globe just because some uptight cunts have finally discovered that the world is round. This boy, mid-thirties, is a bit of a star. Even the stewards – outrageous ferrets to a man – are all cast as Ernie Wise in face of his swaggering affectation. In the name of sport, I decide to compete with him to see who can be the most mincing, self-indulgent, attention-seeking cunt on the plane. — Try-ing to get a drink on this death trip. I shake my hand enough to indicate nerves, but also to suggest that the wrist is a bit rubbery.