Irvine Welsh - Filth

I personally think that aprons are for silly wee lassies to wear in the kitchen and no for grown men on a night out. The ritualism of the Lodge has its uses however; it’s made me far more sexually inventive. This helps with the games.

I make myself some toast on the grill, but I burn the first lot and have to try again. I open the back door to let out the smell. Outside in the back garden I see that Stacey’s bike hasnae been put intae the shed. It’ll rust tae fuck. I stick it inside and then go to the bottom of the garden on the pretext of pottering, but I want to get a good nose into Stronach’s hoose. He’ll be at training today, and I could do with a sketch of his bird, see what that wee cow’s up tae. She doesnae seem tae be at hame though and it’s nippy out here.

The second batch of toast is fine. It’s midday and I fill in my overtime from last night at Jammy Joe’s on the OTA 1–7 form and head up to HQ in the Volvo accompanied by a tape of Iron Maiden’s self-titled debut album, the offering where Paul Di Anno rather than Bruce Dickinson is at the mic.

The recent snows have frozen over. Of course, this means chaos on the roads with the highway cunts unable to cope. As if they werenae used to bad weather. There’s a bottleneck stretching from Colinton to fuckin Aberdeen or the likes. THIS HAPPENS EVERY FUCKIN YEAR. I feel like getting out of the car and choking the living shit out of any spastic whose face offends me, which in this case is just about every cunt. Fuckin police force here . . .

Fuckin emergency services

Cunts

I’ll fuckin

I park the car outside the shops before Napier College. It’s a so-called university now, but every cunt knows it still as Napier College. The punters know a real uni when they see it and this fuckin place for trainee basket-weavers in no way fits the bill. Same rules. There’s a decent bakery here and I radio in and tell them that the traffic’s scandalous and I’ll see them when I do.

When I finally make it in, I start going through the papers on the Wurie case. I’m interrupted by a call from Gus Bain who’s up in records. If I didnae ken that bastard better, I’d say that he was sniffing roond the big blonde piece up there n aw. But he’s been married tae the same auld boot for seventy thousand light years, the churchy auld cunt.

– Bruce. Gus here. Have you opened your internal mail yit? A wee present fae the funny felly up the stair.

I rip open one of the pile of sealed envelopes in my in-tray, the one with the Nid’s name on it.

INTERNAL MEMOTo: D.S.s Gillman, Stark, Robertson, Mclnally, Thomas, Inglis, Clelland, Noble, Phillips, Lennox and Bain From: Chief Superintendent Niddrie. Date: 3rd December 1997. Re: Equal Opportunities Module: Racism Awareness. The course tutors have brought to our attention cases of inappropriate attitudes and behaviour on the course of which you were a member. With this in mind it is intended to hold a series of individual debriefing sessions with course members, the tutors and members of the core team of which myself and Deputy Chief Constable Mathieson are members. With this in mind, please report to my office on Friday, 4th December at 2.15 p.m., the scheduled time for your debriefing.

I’m sitting digesting it, and snapping open another Kit Kat when Inglis and Gillman come in moaning.

– That’s the fuckin morn, Gillman snorts. – What kind ay notice is that?

Niddrie must be getting his heid nipped by the top brass. This case isn’t going to go away, more’s the pity. The boys are girning away about it and old Gus has arrived. The auld boy’s fairly up for stirring it as well.

– Well, ah’ll tell ye something, he’s saying, – ah’m no gaun up thair withoot a Fed rep. That’s you, he smiles, looking at me.

It’s patently obvious that the sorry old goat is trying to get me to wind up Niddrie and Toal and bomb myself right out of the promo race. He’s such a predictable old fuck. It makes sense to humour him.

– Too fuckin right Gus! What the fuck is this shite? Ah’m straight ontae the blower tae Niddrie. You get roond the rest ay the guys. Tell them: say fuck all withoot a Fed rep. This is a fuckin disciplinary fit up. These cunts are looking tae make one ay us an example just because the papers and they mealy-moothed cunts are kickin up shite about this deid silvery moon.

– Right, Gus says.

I sit down and compose myself. I then phone this Marshall guy from the Multicultural Forum on Coon Rights or whatever they call it, the cunt that’s been hassling me. – Hello Mr Marshall? D.S. Robertson here.

– I’ve been trying to get you for ages to arrange a meeting . . .

– Yes, it seems we’ve been a bit like ships in the night. Two o’clock tomorrow okay for you?

– Yes, that’s fine. Shall I come to your office?

– No, not at all, I’ve kept you waiting, I’ll come down to you, I tell him.

I put the phone down, a satisfying glow coming over me. I then bell Niddrie as I catch Gus’s attention. I gesture at him to put the kettle on.

– D.S. Robertson here. Re your memo. That date you’re giving me, it’s not convenient, I tell Niddrie. – I’ve made an appointment for that time and I can’t get out of it.

– Cancel it. This takes precedence, Niddrie sharply informs me. Niddrie hates me calling him direct. Everything should go through Toal. Niddrie believes in the strict hierarchical division of the organisation’s reporting structure. The chain of command. He gives newcomers to our division the old ‘my door is always open’ bullshit, but woe betide the cunts if they ever get daft enough tae try walking through it.

It would be pleasurable to fuck Niddrie about without needing to play the craft card. I know that those New Labour wankers up the City Chambers have been intoxicated with their election victory and are strutting around like peacocks and coming down hard on Niddrie and co. and one of their beefs is equal opps. – I’m meeting people from the Forum on Racial Equality and Community Relations, I tell him.

There’s a silence on the other end of the line. – Shit . . . listen . . . you’ll have to go to that one. We’ll need to make it Thursday afternoon. Three-thirty.

Niddrie puts the phone down on me. I keep the receiver to my ear and then I bell Toal, noting that Gus, busying himself with the coffee, hasn’t seen me redial. He still thinks I’m talking to the Nid.

– It’s Bruce Robertson, I whisper. – Niddrie’s gied me a new time for the briefing. I have a forum meeting to go to. I’m informing you as my direct supervisor, I raise my voice for Gus to hear, – I’ll come along, but I’ll have a Fed rep with me. Drysdale from the south side.

Gus raises his eyebrows. He puts a cup of coffee in a Hearts mug in front of me. This isn’t my Hearts mug, it’s Inglis’s. I’ll fuckin catch something off that cunt.

– I think you’ve misunderstood the memo Robbo, Toal says.

– Aye?

– This is an exploratory debriefing session. There’s no question of anyone being reprimanded or disciplined at this point.

– So what you’re saying is that this may be a precursor to disciplinary action?

– No . . . not necessarily. It’s an open-ended discussion.

– So it’s a counselling session then?

– Well . . . yes . . . but not a counselling session in the sense of it being related, or even potentially related at this point in time, to the disciplinary systems of the Edinburgh and Lothians Constabulary.

– But my attendance is compulsory?

– Everyone must attend.

– You’re asking me or telling me?

– Robbo, what I’m hoping from you and the rest of the team is your willing co-operation. If this isn’t forthcoming then I’ll be forced to introduce a disciplinary element.