Irvine Welsh - Filth

– Ken what he says tae me, we ask Ray Lennox.

– Naw, Ray replies, chopping out another quality line.

– He goes: The craft’s changed. Ah goes: What dae ye mean?

– Fuckin spastic.

– And he turns roond and ye ken what he says tae ays then?

Ray shakes his head.

He goes: If ye dig yerself intae a hole, dinnae rely oan your connections in the craft tae pull ye oot ay it.

– What’s that cunt on aboot? Lennox asks, exhaling in slow exasperation, his eyes wide and wired. That moustache is coming along. Bandito Lennox.

– Ah goes: What dae ye mean by that? He says: Just what I said. Dinnae rely on the craft tae dig ye oot ay a hole.

– Cheeky cunt, scoffs Lennox.

– See, he’s feart Ray. He’s feart ay our craft connections. Our influence in the craft. Hunts wi the hounds and runs wi the hares that cunt. Ken what eh sais as ah walked oot the door?

– Naw.

– Eh goes: Craft connections can only get ye so far.

– Eh! What a fuckin . . .

– But wait till ye hear this, then eh sais, wait till ye hear this yin, eh goes: Besides, you’re no the only one wi craft connections!

– Hah hah ha! What a fuckin wanker! That’s . . . that’s . . . ah mean, ye cannae take the cunt seriously.

– Exactly Ray. That’s what we felt like saying: You cannot be serious. Ah could hardly keep a straight face, ah kin tell ye. Ah just goes: Thank you, Brother Toal.

Ray smiles and then lets a silence hang for a bit. I can feel the cunt has been working up to something. – Listen Robbo, I’ve got something to tell you, he says, lowering his voice, – I don’t want you getting the wrong end of the stick, that’s why I’m telling you first. I want to get on in the department, but I’ve no real chance of a promotion over the next few years. Not enough experience.

You’ve just got your D.S. you cheeky wee cunt. Of course you huvnae goat enough experience. – I dunno though Ray. It’s how good you are that counts.

– I was even thinking of applying for the D.I. vacancy in the reorganisation myself. I ken I’ve nae chance, but it would be a good idea to give myself the experience of applying for some of those jobs, of going through a couple of promotion board selection procedures, just soas I know what tae expect when I am experienced enough. I’d hate to think that a couple of years or so down the line, when I was ready, that I’d fuck up, simply because I’d no experience of a panel interview. What do you think?

I think you’re a smarmy wee cunt. – Don’t see why not Ray, can’t do any harm, I nod.

Ray Lennox now, after our job. Ray Cuntybaws Lennox. Big Dick Lennox in the canteen and the club. Arselick Lennox in Toalie’s office. Shitey-drawers Shrivelled-knob Lennox when it come doon tae the action wi ma hoor ay a sister-in-law.

Treacherous Ray Lennox.

– Not a bad idea Ray, we wheezingly repeat, – can’t do any harm . . . puts a marker for the future.

– That’s it Robbo, just fly up a wee kite to let them know who Ray Lennox is, the cunt smiles and chops up more cocaine.

Criminal Lennox.

When he goes to the toilet I watch the hoor-house red cushion covers on his settee retreat under the implacable heat from the end of my cigarette. I do a few more of these, then turn it over.

Merry Christmas Mister Lennox.

Christmas Shopping

Cuntybaws Lennox, having dropped the bombshell that he’s trying to take my fuckin job, then has the audacity to all but chuck me out into the snow as he’s off to the paternal home for Christmas. Fuck’um: I need to Christmas shop anyway. They’re open late tonight. I have a pint in Alan Anderson’s old boozer, then repair to the bogs where I chop up a huge line on the cistern and snort it back. I need it to brave this shopping hell. I get down to the St James’s Centre. I have to use the coke energy to shop. Christmas fuckin Eve. Need tae get something for the bairn . . .

C&A’s catches my eye, as I need to get some new flannels. All my others are getting a bit smelly and I refuse to wear jeans as it’s the mark of a schemie. I grab a pair of fawn ones which look like my size, twenty-eight waist, medium leg, and I shakily hand over my credit card. The Visa credit limit is fucked, and I face up to the humiliation of the rejection. I pay it by Switch, and get the fuck out of here, loudly announcing as I go, – Cash flow, that’s all. Professional. Not a schemie. Man of wealth! Man of wealth!

But the vultures are circling. I can’t face that fucking Toys Я Us place. Where now . . . where now . . .

Fuckin John Lewis.

JOHN LEWIS STORE GUIDE: LADIES’ FASHIONS

I’ll maybe get something for Carole. Something nice. A Christmas Carole.

I can’t hack this though, the crowds and all that shite. I do another big line in the store bogs.

I’m still losing it outside because I’m standing alone (can we stand any other way) and they’re flying past in all directions those shoppers in John Lewis’s those eyes everyplace but mine just please look at me and one bitch in leather troosers does then averts her gaze to the OTHER GOODS heading for HABERDASHERY KNITTING WOOLS CUSTOMERS COLLECTIONS DRESS FABRICS DRESS PATTERNS . . . I say madam, go one floor up just past CARDS and LOST SOULS

Then I see it: £2.35 for a black, paper gift bag to put small gifts into . . . gifts . . . gifts for gifts . . . better to give than to receive . . . still to come . . . the fact, sweating midget spitting tersely into his mobby . . . the vacant procession of sheep up the escalator . . . the big cow you want to just scream GIES A FUCKIN SHAG at or even just look at me please police please please look at me

And I feel the hand on my arm and somebody’s asking if I am alright sir and I pull away and whip out my ID and snarl: – Police! please me like I please you . . . and then I move away through the house of the lord this great temple of worship to our God of Christian givingness spendingness consumer expenditureness business competitiveness shop and cheat deathness and into the street where the excluded jakeys beg for pennies . . . last night I said those words to poor Ray Our Shirt she reckons you’re a crap lay fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, fuck off please police me oh yeah like I police you

I’m fucked and I’m away hame wi nae fuckin presents expect my Man At C&A’s flannels.

Nae presents.

Naebody tae gie them tae anyway.

No way will I sleep. No way. I chop out a line and watch some porn. I’m unable to raise a wank though and it depresses me. I put my decomposing prick away and watch some of the Saturday night programmes I’ve taped. Jim Davidson’s Generation Game . Davidson’s a good comic. He keeps the trash in their place but the ponces at the BBC don’t let him show his full range. It passes the time until the twilight comes and it’s safe for me to crash.

Not Crashing

But I couldn’t crash.

So here it is, Merry Christmas, everybody’s having fun . . .

Some might be, but others, we have work to do. These OTA 1–7 forms won’t complete themselves, worse luck. So I’m out, bright and early, with Gus Bain and we’re cruising deserted streets, looking for a bit of action. The wide cunts will never ease up for something as trivial as Christmas, so neither do we.

It’s no difficult to find your fuckin fly-boys in this city. You’ve got the Leith ones, the Gorgie ones, the South Side ones and the Tollcross ones, although the latter two are fewer now thanks to the redevelopment of the city centre. Theatre and student types have colonised the South Side, with business sorts doing the same to Tollcross.

Ignore the Schemies: these cunts are a law unto themselves. As long as they stey oot ay the city centre, they can kill each other as much as they like on cheap bevvy, fags, drugs and high-cholesterol food. Zero tolerance of crime in the city centre; total laissez-faire in the schemie hinterlands. That’s the way forward for policing in the twenty-first century. Tony Blair’s got the right idea: get those jakey beggars out of the city centres. Dispossessed, keep away . . . we don’t want you at our par-tay . . .