Irvine Welsh - Filth

Drummond’s going on about her favourite shite: politics and changes in legislation and how it affects policing. She’s looking a bit tired. Too many long nights at the office, trying to trace where a hammer comes from. That’ll never be detected. I heard that cunt talking about me as well, her and the fag Inglis.

– Poor old Clell. He’s defo lost the plot since that move to Traffic, Ray says. – Went to see him the other day. He looks at me and Drummond. – He was saying that we were working for the alcohol marketing board. He’s obsessed with this Drugs Führer the Government’s appointed.

– No, we are working as enforcers of the law. The democratically elected government of the day makes the laws in Parliament. We enforce that law, Drummond squeaks, in polis rhetoric.

– Hmm, I say teasingly. Clell may have a point. This new Drugs Führer wants to attack demand rather than supply. That means sending more kids to jail. If that works and kids are scared to take illegal drugs, then they’ll turn on to legal ones like alcohol as a substitute.

– Which means more violence! Ray gives us the thumbs up.

– Tougher sentences! I say.

– Mair polis! Ray laughs.

– And, mair promoted posts, I rub my hands. – It also means mair prisoners, mair prisons, mair wardens, mair security guards. Pump-priming, basic Keynesian economics! Then we’ll get Maggie back in ten years’ time telling us we’ve been spending too much!

– But we can cut back on education, social work and health and aw that shit, Lennox nods.

Drummond’s looking horrified. – We’re only the enforcers of the law of the land. I mean, if a left-wing government was elected to power and had a radical agenda which became law and that law was ignored or opposed by vested interests then that law would be enforced by us just as rigorously. That’s how it is in a democracy, she says smugly.

– Bollocks, I tell her. – If you believe that then you’re even thicker than I thought.

Ray raises an eyebrow as Drummond pouts sourly.

– I mean . . . go back to the miners’ strike. Our job then was

I don’t know who asked that queer to open his flaccid mouth. That cunt should stick to thinking about young laddies’ cocks or whatever pervy shite goes on in his sick head and leave the politics to the experts.

– No, we upheld the law, Drummond’s screeching. Fulton nods supportively.

– If unions had never broken the laws, we wouldnae have any democracy . . . in the first place, I say, wondering why the fuck I’m coming out with all this wank.

– But that’s history. It isn’t like that now, Drummond says.

– Yes, you’re right Amanda, I correct myself, – But there are people within the unions now who don’t give a fuck about democracy. Maggie sorted them out, but they’re still there, just waiting for that Tony Blair spastic to show signs of weakness and let them back in. That was why things got so messed up with the last Labour government. These bastards held sway. Scargill and the likes. That’s why we had to sort them out.

– That Scargill was a trouble-maker, Inglis snorts, – but Tony Blair though, gie him his due, he’s got rid of that unions and socialism nonsense in the Labour Party now.

As usual Lennox says fuck all. The best way I suppose. – Right enough, same rules apply. Anyway, I say, – enough boring politics! It’s Christmas! What’s the story with the Christmas do? You were organising that Amanda.

With great restraint I stop myself from adding, That’s aw yir fuckin well good for.

– Yes, well, we’ve booked The Burning Ruby Tandoori House in Cockburn Street for the meal, she says with distaste. Her and Fulton wanted to go to Pierre Victoire’s, but no way would the lads have that. I wasn’t into any sick frog poofs lisping around me while I was trying tae eat. I’m surprised Inglis didn’t want that, mind you.

– There is just one problem though Bruce, Ray says.

– Aye?

– Well, Ralphy Considine’s been on the team, and I suppose he counts as one of us. We’ve yet to decide whether or not he should be invited for the curry.

No way is a uniformed spastic one of us, but then again, I know that Drummond’s against Considine coming on the Christmas session.

– Of course Ralphy Considine has to be asked, I tell them. – I’m getting a little bit sick of this division between uniformed and non-uniformed officers. We’re all on the same team and should reap the same benefits.

I’m thinking about these scouse spaswits that did me over in Amsterdam. One of them had that t-shirt on. A red one. Commemorating Shankly, I think.

– Very laudable sentiments Bruce, Drummond says, – and I think everyone sitting here would endorse them. But surely there are other issues to consider.

I raise my eyebrows noncommittally and let Drummond launch into one about however we may personally feel about it, we have to acknowledge that the force is a hierarchical organisation and if we try to fly in the face of the organisation’s culture we will set up opposition, division and disillusionment in what are, after all, sensitive times with the reorganisation pending.

– That’s an interesting point Amanda. I think I’m reluctantly coming round to your view. Maybe it does seem a wee bit selfindulgent to make personal statements of our liberalism at a time when the organisation needs continuity of practice.

There’s a few nods around the table, all except Inglis who doesnae look happy. He’s an irrelevance. No votes for queers in this section. So Drummond has her way and we decide that it’s expedient not to invite a uniformed spastic to our Christmas do.

Result!

Of course, if I had said, No way a uniformed spastic gets invited to a plain-clothes do, then Drummond would have been the first to shoot me down in flames. But the last thing I want is to be sitting in my brown (the new black) leather jacket, checked shirt and fawn flannels in the curry hoose beside Considine decked out in a white shirt, black polis troos and shoes.

After this little meeting I get restless, and I feel a chug coming on. I head downstairs with the paper.

I do a bit of graffiti in the bogs:

PETER INGUS IS A FUCKIN HIV SPREADER

and: INGUS = SICK, DISEASED QUEER

I’m sitting there looking at it for a while. I start chuckling and my sides ache. Then a depressed feeling digs in, followed by a steady outrage. It was wrong to do this to a brother officer. The force can’t have this going on. I’m the fuckin Fed rep here. To describe a brother officer in this manner . . . I’m psyching myself up, getting into role.

I pull the chain and flush away my shit. There’s some traces of worm, but no sign of the head. I’ll get the bastard though, sure as fuck I’ll get him.

I’ll get him alright.

I go upstairs and stride purposefully over to Peter, tapping his wrist and steering him over into a corner.

– Peter, have you seen the graffiti in the toilet? I ask, in a low concerned voice.

– Ach, thir’s always something thair. Ah nivir take any notice, he shrugs.

– Maybe ye should, I tell him, letting my anger rise. – I’m getting a bit fuckin well fed up of this shite. As fuckin Fed rep ah’m no having people’s character defamed in this way. I’m gaun up tae see Total now. I raise my voice and look over the room, – Some cunt’s playin silly fuckers here. Just hope ah dinnae find oot whae it is!

I storm out of the room, leaving them looking bemused. I’m charging up the stairs to Toal’s office and I’m in without knocking. – Gaffer, a wee word.