Irvine Welsh - Filth

When I get hame there’s a couple of letters. One’s a gas bill, the other has a Chelmsford postmark and it’s from Tony and Diana. I feel my cock stir and think about the four-hundred-mile drive to Chelmsford. I could do it through the night on charlie, fuck myself blind for a couple of hours, then head straight back. Yes. I ignore the gas bill, I ignore all of these. Carole takes care of that shite, and I’ve enough fuckin paperwork in my job, for fuck sakes. I eagerly tear the Chelmsford letter open. 14th December 1997

Dear Bruce, I hope all is well with you. We are writing to tell you that we all feel that it’s not a good idea that you join ourselves and Laurence and Yvonne next month. I am sorry that you and Carole are having difficulties, but I don’t think it would be appropriate for you to join us without her. We’ve had some great times together, but I think that any period of experimentation needs a little bit of time for reflection. This is what Diana and I are currently undertaking. I hope you and Carole resolve your difficulties satisfactorily. Best wishes, Tony Crosby

Tony, the fucking twat. I feel a spasm of hatred twist through me as the power simultaneously leaves my cock. Fuckin soft Tony: lecturer in fine art at the Chelmer Institute or whatever you call it. All our frenetic fucking going on and him mincing around like a vegetarian in an abattoir. Carole fuckin well shiting it as well, giving him a nervous hand-job. They don’t have the big-match temperament. That Diana does though. Fuckin hell, I could have done with going another fuckin few rounds wi yon big hoor.

I think about phoning Geoff Nicholson of the Essex police, and telling him about this sordid little club. Solid in the craft, is Geoff. I’m just about to pick up the blower when there’s a knock on the door and it’s Tom Stronach, his wavy fair hair sticking up in tufts. He’s dressed in a grey Russell Athletic sweatshirt and grey tracksuit bottoms. He looks quite downcast.

– Tom . . . how goes it? I ask in phoney concern.

– I’m fuckin Zorba’d Bruce. One thousand, two hundred and thirteen paying customers. I gave that fuckin club twelve years of loyal service.

– I see. I thought the gate was nearer two thousand.

– Naw, the Evening News bumped it up a wee bit.

– Well, I was there, I lied. Some fuckin chance. Versus a Derby County reserve side on a pissing wet Tuesday with only eight shopping days left until the gig?

Tom shakes his head, then brightens up a little bit, – I did get a nice note from Kenny Dalglish.

– I’m sure he’d have been there if he could, I shrug. – Guys like that, they must get loads of requests. It’s a bad time of the year.

– Aye, right enough, Tom concedes. – Anyway Bruce, I’ve a couple of tickets for you for the Sportsman’s Dinner, for my testimonial likes. We’re gonny huv it in that lull between Christmas and New Year. Any excuse to keep the perty going!

– Nice one Tom, I say, grasping the embossed tickets he hands over with the leaflet. Instantly I see that it was a mistake, the bastard has stung me. The ticket reads:

YOU ARE INVITED AS A V.I.P. GUEST TO

THE TOM STRONACH TESTIMONIAL SPORTSMAN’S DINNER

at the Sheraton Hotel, Lothian Road, Edinburgh

on Monday, December 28th, 1997

Dress is informal (lounge suits)

Donation of £60 for all ticket holders to the Tom Stronach Testimonial Fund.

Donation. Sixty bar. Stung by that bastard Stronach! I’m saying nothing, but the cunt’s straight in. I might have guessed. He’s known for it. There’s always a bit of jiggery-pokery, high drama and stand-offs reported in the Evening News when his contract comes up for renewal. The bastard isnae slow when it comes to dosh. – Sorry I cannae let ye have them buckshee Bruce, but it defeats the whole purpose, if ye ken what ah mean.

– Mmm, right Tom, I cough, – I’ll just get my cheque-book.

Cunt.

I’m scribbling out a cheque and he’s rabbiting away in my ear, – Graeme Souness might be one of the after-dinner speakers. I’m hoping that Kenny’ll make it this time as well. And Rodney Dolacre’s definitely coming up. He’s a great speaker.

– Mmm. Rodney Dolacre, ex-England. I hear that he makes a bit of money on the circuit. He’s done some stuff with Besty, Marshy and Greavesy.

– Aye, it was good of him to express interest.

No way will Dalglish, Souness or Dolacre come to that tube’s testimonial dinner.

Stronach wastes little time in donning that mantle of arrogance which characterises most fitba guys on a roll. – If ye want any mair tickets Bruce, just gies a shout. Ah’m no sayin ah’ll be able tae get them mind, but ye ken, seein as it’s you n that.

– I’ll bear that in mind, I snap, handing over the cheque which is equivalent to twelve blow-jobs from a Leith hoor. Bastard.

The cunt leaves with a smile on his face. He’s aw fuckin pleased wi himself cause he thinks that he’s got one over on Bruce Robertson. Well you are in for a shock, my dim-witted spastic footballing friend, because the news for you is that the same rules apply.

Later that night Chrissie comes over. Stronach’s net curtains twitch, but he’s playing tonight, so it’ll be that nosey golddigging hoor he married. I pull Chrissie in and we start to turn the gas off for each other. The hoor is getting good at this, her that wisnae intae it at all in the first place.

– Tighter Bruce . . . tighter . . . she groans, and I feel my own windpipe constrict a few centimetres as she twists her belt.

I’m finding it difficult to keep enthusiastic. I keep thinking about the rivals in the promotion stakes: GUS BAIN PETER INGLIS JOHN ARNOTT

Fuck every one of youse plebs . . .

– Fuck me harder Bruce! Fuck me harder! Chrissie’s imploring.

Fuck every one of youse . . .

There’s Stacey’s school picture on the sideboard. I can’t look at it, I wish I’d turned it away, or put it in the drawer. She’s watching us . . .

Stacey’s watching me and this cow . . .

. . . this isnae . . .

I’m a good man . . . she said it . . . the woman, his wife . . . I tried to pump the life back into the boy . . .

Pump

Like I’m pumping this bitch . . .

Pump

– Oh Bruce . . . c’mon . . . oh . . . oh . . . oh God . . . oh . . . oh . . . oh . . . ooohhhhh . . .

And I’m still pumping, but the mair ye gie this hoor, the mair she takes. I’m really fucking well trying and it’s a relief when that horrendous shriek fills the air to signal that she’s getting there and I feel the belt slacken from my neck and I twist my hips deftly and start to fire my own spunk home.

– Fuck sakes Chrissie . . . I gasp as my ejaculations fade like the pulse of a dying man and my gyrations settle to motionlessness.

I collapse on to her, roll off and we doze for a while. I wake up first and inspect the damage.

The blood vessels in my eyelids have ruptured and there’s a thick mark on my neck. I’m a professional law enforcement officer. I have to deal with the public. I can’t go around looking like this because of that selfish bitch. No with a promotion board coming up.

– That was great, she says, stretching languidly before getting getting up and getting dressed. – Listen Bruce . . . she says as she moves fluently into her underwear then her skirt and blouse, – I know we need to talk about what kind of commitment we want to make to each other, but I don’t see that there’s a need to rush things.

– I think that’s quite sensible, I say. She’s looking smart. Put on a bit of weight, had her hair tinted. There’s more confidence and grace in her movements.