Irvine Welsh - Filth

I ignore her. – What’s it tae be? I insist. There’s a lot of nutters prowling around at night.

She wisely chooses the first option, although with a bit of reluctance. – Awright then . . . she says, looking intently at me, as if she expects me to say anything else. I pull her to me and push my whisky-saturated tongue into her mouth. As soon as she starts to respond and I feel the lump in my trousers, I gesture at her to get into the back seat.

We get in and she takes off one of her boots and pulls both her thick tights and knickers down, pulling one leg out of them. I consider trying to get her tits out but she doesn’t look as if she’s got much up there so I decide to head straight for the main course. My finger goes to her fanny, and as I suspected she’s so juiced up I could have gone up to the elbow.

My flannels and pants are sliding down my thighs, the trapped warm air from the car heater giving the sharp fumes coming from them an extra dig. My cock’s sweaty and my thighs sting, and at one point I think I’m not going to get it in after the distraction of fitting that fuckin condom. I shouldnae have fuckin well bothered. After a couple of duff attempts caused by the lager and the constricted space, I eventually manage to get it up and blow my load after a few strokes. My thighs chaffed badly on her tights and the car upholstery. A long fuck was out of the question in such circumstances. I got a little alcohol-anxious and was just chuffed to get a result.

Annalise pulls a kleenex from her bag and tensely wipes herself, even though I was wearing a spunk-bag. Mind you, the juice she produced, she’d want to. As I pull off the bag and throw it out the window, I see her quickly pulling on her pants, tights and boots. I’m up with the keks and flannels and we silently move back into the front seats.

I scarcely look at her again, although I can sense her mood of bitter lamentation as I drive her hame. Bruce Robertson, a gentleman to the last.

– See you later doll, I wave a fond adieu at her long-coated back as her heels click over the Pilrig paving slabs. She doesn’t look back though.

Our Cover Is Blown

The aircraft. Peters and Lee. Lenny Peters was a great aviation singer. Jet plane flying high above me. Rainbow in the sky. But fuck that. I hate planes. All you can sense around you is sterile plane. The food tastes of plane; bland, cold, plastic. The air hostesses smell and look of plane; cool, pristine, fridgid. You just want to fill this environment with as much bawdy flatulence as you can muster. As we’ve had a few jags before getting on the flight, that’s quite a lot.

So Bladesey and I are pontificating on the nature of arsefucking. That wee hairy last night, I should’ve fucked her up the arse. Mind you, it took me an age tae get it intae her fanny, Christ knows how I’d’ve got it up her chorus and verse! It was a bit of a waste though: tidy fanny ganting on it. I should’ve stayed cool and taken her hame and taken my time. Then I could have fired into her casually for a while. Still, there’s other fish. There’s a stewardess I’d gie one tae, but Bladesey’s on the outside and instead of getting a decko at her bum he’s thumbing through the in-flight journal like the specky wee cunt that he is.

Bladesey’s problem is that he tries to intellectualise everything. Ye cannae dae that with shagging. It’s either gaun in the hole or it’s no. – Heterosexual anal sex need not actually imply an attitude of misogyny, he says in his whisper. – It’s just a valuefree activity between consenting parties. Yes, there is a cultural misogynistic baggage attached to it, as in the rap lyrics, but it’s essentially neutral. What people attach to it is their concern. I read in one of Bunty’s Cosmos that twenty per cent of heterosexual couples enjoy anal sex, while only fifty per cent of homosexual couples do . . .

– Eh? I asked, – You’re telling me that half the poofs around dinnae fuck each other up the erse? That sounds shite to me!

Bladesey looks shifty and panicky. – Keep your voice down Robbo. I’m only telling you what the article says.

– Listen Bladesey, I don’t believe that for a second. And I’ll tell you something about all those niggers with their fucking rap lyrics, aw that guff about shagging birds and blowing away pigs, it’s just wishful thinking, that’s all.

– The empowering fantasies of the dispossessed? Bladesey smiles, lowering those specs to the bridge of his nose. He’s a funny cunt alright, is Brother Blades.

Mind you, he fits in well here, because there’s a right bunch a misfits on this plane. There’s a pair of comedians in front of me, dressed identically in dark blue suits and ties, carrying briefcases. Fuck travelling trussed up like that; what a pair of fuckin dildos.

I turn to Bladesey. This is my mate for the trip, God help us. I’d better do the best with the shoddy material I’ve got and try and put the sorry fucker right. – Gangster rap is fuckin bollocks. Gangsters my hole, it’s a fuckin con job. If yir a real gangster the last thing ye dae is hing oot in a recording studio. Did Al Capone spend time in a recording studio? Did he fuck! He spent time being a gangster. Just wait till they get rap in Scotland. Every daft wee cunt who attended two or three matches at Easter Road wi a couple ay casual’ll be making rap records then.

– But surely those chaps in America that got shot, they must have had mob connections?

– Maybe they did. But the truth is, it’s we so-called pigs who offed the coons. When I was in the Met it was open season on the darkies. Same in New South Wales. Abos and Pakis were fair game to us. If you had a scoreboard with a tally of pigs versus niggers offed, we’d be well ahead. As for shagging, I read somewhere that white birds are ten times more likely to give blow jobs than black women. So all that rap shite is just nig-bo fantasy.

– Unless it’s white women that are performing for them, Bladesey laughs.

This gets my fuckin goat. – Only a slag that’s not right in the head, that’s sick and diseased would look at a darkie, I tell him.

– But you’ve, eh, enjoyed liaisons with ladies from different racial backgrounds, Bladesey whispers.

I clock the stewardess and gesture for another whisky. If you drink whisky you’ll never get worms. Burn out the enemy within. – I’ve fucked hoors of different colours. That’s different Bladesey; we’re talking about the unalienable right of the Scotsman abroad: to fuck hoors up the arsehole! We’re a dispersed race. Slàinte! I raise my glass.

– Do you mind?

A voice coming from behind me. I turn to see a Brylcreemed cunt with prominent teeth.

– What? I say, staring at him.

– If you must talk such filth, I’d appreciate it if you lowered your voice. There’s women and bairns can hear you . . . he nods to a furtive looking wee lassie and an embarrassed wifie.

Filth? Ah’ll gie the cunt fucking filth. Cunt’s never fucking well seen filth yit. – Are you asking me or telling me? I say to him.

– What? he says.

– Terry, the woman says, tugging at his sleeve.

– Eh Bruce . . . I think actually eh . . . Bladesey’s shiting it.

– Are you asking me or telling me? I repeat slowly and emphatically.

– I’m asking politely . . . but if you don’t keep it down I’ll get the stewardess . . .

I smile and shrug. – Fine. Sorry if we gave any offence. Just as long as you’re asking me.

I turn round and grip the armrest until my knuckles go white. – I’ll show that cunt, I hiss at Bladesey. – Mark my words Brother Blades.

– Leave it Bruce . . .

The remainder of the flight is uneventful and we touch down in Brussels. Bladesey and I have an hour to kill before the connecting flight to Schipol. I change some cash and hit the bar to get in a couple of pints of Stella. You feel like a millionaire with those Belgian francs but they’re worth fuck all.