Irvine Welsh - Filth

Quite a sound movie, and it’s good to see a film so politically correct. I can relate. The schoolies are all hot and the spacedykes pretty fuckin superb. I’m tempted to have a wank, but I need to keep a full tank for the serious business of hooring.

So I’m window shopping for a suitable prossy in the red-light district. Round by the Old Kirk it’s all fat black mamas and that’s no good to me at the moment. Then I come across an alley full of Thai girls, some with long pinched faces who are obviously rebuilt boys. Right now though, it has to be premium-priced caucasian minge after that video. Blonde as well, like in the film.

There’s a fat cunt stuffing his face with chips and mayo ahead of me and I’m thinking that I could go for some of that, carbohydrates for the shag NRG. My aftershave stings my face in the chill night air. I had a good raw shave in the hotel in Cok City, which is ideal with all amenities including Dutch cable TV complete with the erotic channel. In every other country you have tae pey for it. Fuck that! Those Dutch cunts have got it sussed: sex, drugs, get it out into the open and let people buy it. It would never work in Britain though, cause there are too many sad cunts who would spoil it for everyone. Like the holidaymakers here. I get into my favourite alley and there’s a crowd of smutty lads in front of me, giving it big verbal. One loudmouthed prick is negotiating with this little angel who’d be ideal for me and I want to stove the cunt’s heid in and just dive into the room with her.

I walk on, and one girl smiles and winks at me, spacedyke-style, but I go past her as I need to check out the wares. Possibly a bit too old and fat to be a real space lesbian. It’s getting too busy here. I might visit the Pijp tomorrow. A Dutch guy I met here last year put me on to it: a twenty-minute tram ride from the centre of the city, where the locals do their shopping, and the locals always know where to find the bargains.

I spy another wee shag but too dark-haired, nonetheless mentally stored in the fuck-file for tomorrow. A big slut is giving me the finger as she sits in horrible lingerie on her seat, but then suddenly, a few doors down, this fat, greasy shit is excreted into the street, and behind him is a vision. She’ll do nicely. She goes back in and says to me, – One minute please.

She’s obviously going to wash her cunt out and the like which is fine by me because I want all that fat greabo’s traces obliterated. I think of Bladesey, sitting in the room or in an Italian restaurant on his tod, looking like the social inadequate that he is. Or perhaps the bastard will be bouncing on top of one of those fat black hoors right now, or getting his sweaty little arse whacked with some implement as he kisses the heel of a new mistres’s black leather boot.

I wish I was a spaceman. She beckons me into her chamber: red light, red bedspread, and red chaise longue. There’s a print of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers on the wall, which adds a nice homely touch.

– I cannot kiss you, she smiles, – rules. She gives a fetching little shrug.

I’m getting my kit off and laying out my clothes; jacket, jumper, shirt, flannels, on the chaise longue, while she sits on the bed. She’s smiling and reclining in quite a graceful way and her caresses are superfluous as I’m already hard. She slips on the condom and lies back as I get on to her and up her, and start to give her one.

Okay baby, let’s take this rocket to Uranus.

This hoor is perfect, and she can act as well. No way is she into it, but you almost believe her. A drama school training should be compulsory for all hoors. As I empty the bag, she does a fantastic stage groan with an appreciative – ohhh it’s so beautiful baby . . .

– You must come again, she tells me, as I get dressed. – How long are you here for?

– A few days, I tell her. She’s a good hoor alright, a true professional. There’s no need for her to keep up the façade of interest now that the contracts have been exchanged; even at this time of the year it’s a seller’s market, but this lassie has her professional pride.

– So come again! Come again here! she laughs.

– I’ll do that, I smile, and exit into the busy, narrow passage, nippy at being surrounded by loud, sweaty men after having been with a cool, serene woman. It’s like moving from heaven to hell just by opening a door. It’s freezing cauld out here and the rain has pished down on the cobblestones. You’d never think that it was further south than where I’ve just come from. Fuckit: I’m no here for the weather, besides it’s warm enough up a hoor’s chuff.

I’m suddenly bunched together in the alley with the same group of insolent mongoloid lads I saw earlier, who are joking and shouting. I slyly connect with one in the ribs and he’s winded and bent over double as I push through the crowd, sliding away. I hear his mate asking, – Wat’s oop Mick? Wat’s oop? But this fuckwitted spastic is too immobilised and confused to work that out and by then I’m well away, bristling with excitement and satisfaction. It’s that front-line feeling; that rush when you’re at a picket-line or at a big game and you’ve got your truncheon and shield and the whole force of the state is behind you and you’re hyped up to beat insolent spastic scum who question things with their big mouths and nasty manners into the suffering pulp they so richly deserve to become. It’s a great society we live in.

I hate them all, that section of the working class who won’t do as they are told: criminals, spastics, niggers, strikers, thugs, I don’t fucking well care, it all adds up to one thing: something to smash. Yes, I might be a wee bit past that squeaky bollocks frontline bullshit, but what I still love, and always fuckin well will, is that good old-fashioned two-on-one with a scumbag in the interview room. The psychological warfare, far more satisfying. The harder they are to break, the more rewarding it is. You’re right back in the territory of the games.

Like the next hoor I find after I’ve had a recuperative beer and whisky in a brown bar. I’m pumping away at her and she’s just taking the fuckin lot. Nice girl. The spacedyke imagery is still vivid in my head and I blow my muck quickly. As I’m getting my kit on I’m asking her if she wants to make serious money.

– I do already, she says arrogantly, but the hoor’s light of calculating greed ignites her eyes and when I’m back in my room at my hotel, she’s right along once she’s finished her morning shift.

Yes, she’s expensive, especially a day session, but that’s what overtime’s for, to cover such costs. Thank fuck for the form OTA 1–7!

This lassie’s a student at Amsterdam University. Six years’ higher education the state provides for these pampered cunts. She’s on the game cause she’s been changing from English to Sociology to Philosophy to Film Studies and wasted six years of a grant. That’s what all these wee students at our unis should be made to do: hoor for their grant money. Come to think of it, that’s what some of them are being made to do. Nice one the free market.

This wee yin here, she’s agreed to a fuck up the erse, with great reluctance as she’s going on aboot Aids and she’s no got any extra-strength condoms. Just as well, I wouldnae have been able to feel a fuckin thing. She’s very athletic though, the way she bends over the back of the chair. My lips dry as I watch the sinew tighten in the back of her legs in those high heels and I’m getting as hard as rock. I’ve given the pole a good greasing but she’s pretty tight. Once I get in though, it starts to slide up. I can tell that she’s in a bit of distress cause she’s making hissing noises and her back muscles are tensing, but it’s probably just cause the fuckin hoor’s loving every minute of it.