Irvine Welsh - Filth

Then I place another call to Bunty. Cunty. Cunty Bunty, how does your minge grow?

– Hello Boontay. That’s your name, int it?

– Yes. Who are you?

– Bet you’ve got hairs on your fanny like the branches of a tree. When was the last time you made loove Boontay?

– I don’t see that’s any of your business . . . you must lead a very pathetic life if you have to take such an interest in other people’s. I feel sorry for you.

My oh my. I do feel patronised all to hell. How can I recover from this shattering blow to the very core of my self-image? Easy peasy pudding and pie. – Well, thenkyaw! But what about your life Boontay? Is it that boring?

– That’s my business. Who are you? What do you want? . . . What’s your name?

Questions and answers; honesty, lies . . .– My name’s Frank, actually.

– Well Frank, I think you’re a very sorry excuse for a human being.

Do you now darling? How fascinating that you noticed. It was Daddy. I blame him. He was a bad man. But what about you sweetheart; what about you, who married one Clifford Blades? – They told us you take it oop the boom Boontay. Is that right?

– God you’re pathetic. Who told you then? Who told you that nonsense?

– It were . . . it were . . . little Frank.

– Who’s he then?

– Ee’s . . . ee’s . . . I’m not talking to you anymore, I squeak. This hoor is an A1 baw-buster. Cool as ye like. No wonder poor auld Bladesey’s on personal hand-jobs with the old newsprint. The bigger they are, the harder they come though. This is going to be a challenge. We decide to beat a temporary retreat.

– Tell me, who’s this Little Frank? she insists.

– Oops . . . sorry Boontay, me mam’s joost calling for me, I have to go. You’ll get me into trooble you will. Coming Mam . . . no I’m not making dirty phonecalls to prostitutes . . .

I slam the phone down. That big hoor can take the stick. Good. She’ll fuckin well need to. The funny feeling in my troosers tells me that a chugging session with Hector The Farmer’s material is well due. A good wank to some big-titted hoor, then try to dispatch the remains of last night’s Ruby Murray intae the next life. My bollocks are still a bit raw and flaky, and I get further aroused at the thought of wee Stephfanny’s lips round my cock.

It gets too much after a bit so I head down to Maisie’s sauna, also known as The Fish Factory. Maisie isn’t in for a blether and some advice as to how my specialist needs can be met, but I find a young hoor and take her over to Links B&B run by a guy from craft who owes me one. I try to ride her but my cock and balls are tender as fuck with that eczema, so I finger-fuck her roughly and get her to suck me off. She’s not into it at all, but I tell her I’ll shut their fuckin place down if I get any bullshit off her and she complies. When the smell of her gets unbearable, I tell her to fuck off before I’m tempted to break her jaw.

I fall asleep for about an hour and I wake up with a bad anxiety attack, and don’t know where I am. I have to open the window and look out on to the darkened Links to get my bearings. It’s quarter-to-nine and I’m going to be late for Bladesey. I fire up town in a taxi, which is driven by a guy I know vaguely from the

cause I was three sheets last night and in such a condition you always go one strength up in the curry stakes just soas you can taste it. I think those benny tabs have a high bi-carb content, so that’s not helping either. I’m not working this Saturday morning. No, I’ve promised to visit my friends the Blades.

At Home With The Blades

Bunty might be a tough nut to crack on the blower, but Bladesey’s told me that it’s all been getting to her. This is as it should be. Right now there’s a lump in my flannels and I feel charged up with a sense of my own power over her. It’s time I met up with this big hoor, as I promised Bladesey.

The snow’ll be starting up again soon. It’s going to fall heavily. You can feel it in the air. The decorations are up in the city and the lights are on. They finally buried the Wurie guy in London. There was a piece about it on last night’s television news; as expected, it was critical of the investigation. Fuck it, the coon’s well out the way underneath the earth and frost. The most important thing is that the roads are clearer, and I get out to Carrick Knowe in no time.

Bladesey’s shiteing his pants. Possibly with good reason. Bunty’s looking pretty severe, and he got in three sheets last night. I saw to that. She’s a big woman, a hefty woman, but press the right buttons and that big hoor would go off like an alarm clock for all her superior ways. I know the type. Same rules apply. She’s as straight as they come though; no knock-off in this Habitat/John Lewis furnished gaff. No tick, and not a smidgen of dust. Make a good polisman’s wife. Or fuck. About five-five, but eleven stone plus, on the voluptuous side of fat, black hair curled and twisted into ringlets a younger woman would wear (Bunty must be mid-thirties) and quite a bit of flash jewellery; necklace, earrings, bracelets which giving a tarty hint which is out of synch with her haughty tones.

The sum total of the particular equation that is Bunty adds up to: far too much woman for Bro. Clifford Blades. He’s nearly stammering: – This is Bruce, my friend I told you about. Eh actually, he’s the one I’m going to Scarborough for the masons’ beano with.

I try to stifle a laugh. Scarborough. Huh. Catch me in a pleb resort like that? I think not my sweet, sweet friend. – Pleased to meet you Bunty, I smile, extending my hand and letting a full, wholesome grip linger.

She returns my smile. – Bruce, isn’t it?

Yes it is, you meaty-thighed, big-titted whore. – Yes . . . I begin.

– Cliff’s told me all about you, she says, a fraction teasingly.

– Oh, nothing defamatory I hope . . . I turn to Bladesey, – for your solicitor’s sake, that is, I quip.

– Not at all. On the contrary, says this big tart with the huge earrings. Grab a hud of these and yank and she’d have tae go doon oan ye, nae choice, although her fanny might be like Murray field Ice Rink the minute ye did. But perhaps not, because this cow respects power. I ken the type. I snap into professional mode. – I understand how unsettling this must be for you Bunty. However, try not to worry unduly. I’ve dealt with creeps like this one before. Most of them, if you’ll pardon the expression, are all mouth and no trousers. Slamming the phone down only goes to show them that you’re frightened. They feed off that fear. Stay as cool as you can, and talk to them. That’s when they start tripping themselves up. Getting careless, running off at the mouth.

– Your officer said not to get into it with them, she says, slightly quizzically.

– Yeah, we generally tell our younger, less-experienced officers that. And yes, I find that works if you want them to stop. If you actually want to catch these bastards though, if you’ll pardon my French, you have to use different tactics.

– Oh, I want him caught, don’t you worry about that, Bunty says in an almost low growl, – I want him to suffer.

I feel my cock stiffen at the emphasis this big hoor puts on the word ‘suffer’. Phoa! – Well Bunty, I say, it comes out in a soft wheeze, – Ehmm, excuse me, bit of a throat, I cough, – The best thing you can do is offer a bit of self-disclosure.