Irvine Welsh - Filth

– Mibbee gittin too desperate Ray, giein the birds that I-want-intae-yir-drawers-at-all-costs stink.

Lennox looks thoughtful, and lets his finger rub the side of his nose. Talking of stinks, there’s an almighty Judi Dench coming into the car and I’m about to pull up that scummy bastard for letting one go, when I realise that its source is the sewage filtration plant. – Aye, mibbee, he concedes.

– Huv tae fix ye up wi ma sister-in-law again, eh Ray! I laugh. Ray looks embarrassed. He hates tae be reminded of the time we both rode that cow. Every cunt has their Achilles’ heel, and I always make a point of remembering my associates’ ones. Something that crushes their self-image to a pulp. Yes, it’s all stored for future reference.

Wheels Of Steel

Back doon at HQ everyone in the canteen’s gaun fuckin spare about the holiday memo. I say nothing. Best to play it cool and let their anger ferment for a bit. Of course, they’re all looking to me, as Fed rep, for a bit of leadership but I’ve got to keep my nose clean as there’s the new D.I. post which is coming up soon in the departmental reorganisation. No way would I put my neck on the line for any spastic in this place, although I obviously keep them thinking otherwise.

Toal’s shiting it about this departmental reorganisation. I don’t know why, he should be well used to it by now. They have one here every six months, and every one they undertake fucks things up even worse than before. So they set up a working party and they go away for ages and when they come back they recommend yet another departmental reorganisation. The best thing aboot this yin is that it puts our good friend Mister Toal on shaky ground as when I get this promotion I’ll be on the same grade as him. It’s a promotion I should have had long ago but for their stupid fucking rules and Carole’s idiocy.

But he’s on a wee run right now, is Toalie. He’s got us all in for another fuckin briefing, and this new civvy blonde piece is handing oot the notes. I get a waft of her perfume. I give Clell the eye and he nods back in shared acknowledgement of the fact that the blonde piece looks some ride. Ah’d say mid-thirties, body still firm, but jist startin tae git that heavier wey that I like. Well worth one.

Toal’s slavering on about this journalist coon that got topped and his diplomat father, but I can’t hear a fuckin word of it cause the blonde piece is standing in a light which makes her top look almost see-through and these jugs are fuckin well prominent. Ya cunt ye. Gie ye a fuckin migraine, thon. Thankfully Toal’s briefing is short, so I get downstairs for a coffee and a sausage roll.

I force myself to look through the copies of the file that Toal’s opened up on the topped silvery. They now have a positive identification: a Mister Efan Wurie. His father is the ambassador for Ghana. He was staying at the Kilmuir Hotel on the South Side. He only checked in a couple of days ago.

A couple of days ago . . .

That means

Shouldnae fuckin well be here.

He should not

A journalist. A diplomat’s son and a journalist. That wisnae

Shouldnae have been here in the first place

What sort of a journalist was he?

Only on some commie nigger mag that no cunt reads. Fitba fuckin fanzine journalism.

There’s little of note in the file otherwise, so I place a call to the Lothian Forum on Coon Rights, or whatever they call them. Maybe he was up here to meet an Edinburgh darkie. It’s engaged. I’m absolutely Aylesbury’ed, so I decide to knock off early, taking the motor out to my pal Hector The Farmer’s, who’s got some good video tapes.

I’m tearing out of town in the Volvo, the Michael Schenker Band giving it big licks. I’m always indebted to them for saving a crap Reading Festival I once went to. Before we know it, there it stands in front of me: Hector’s House.

Hector crushes my hand in a masonic grip, his alcohol-flushed face beaming at me. –Got time to come for a dram, he asks.

– Sorry mate, I’m on a murder investigation. Some daft nigger’s only gone and got himself topped. Still, there’s big OT possibilities. Got the goods?

– Aye, Hector smiles and produces a Tesco’s bag with two VHS format video tapes in it.

We arrange to meet at the Lodge later that week and I speed off homewards, a strong jab in my shiny flannels every time I pass a piece of quality fanny.

That night I’m home, home alone, although that’s my business, not Ray Lennox’s or any cunt else’s. I’ve got a large slice of gala pie for my tea. I put it into the microwave and watch the movie I got from Hector. Two hoors are having a good licking and frigging session and the black studs are just about to come and join them . . . no . . . I switch it off. I don’t want any black studs. I put on another tape featuring two lesbians and a milkman.

I bite into the gala pie and my teeth ache and send a spasm through my body. The fuckin thing’s still frozen in the middle. I eat it anyway. The video is okay but I start to feel uneasy as a fluttering rises and intensifies in my chest. The room looks gaudy with too many rough edges. I go to the kitchen and pour out a large measure of reassuring whisky. I take the bottle with me into the front room. Another glass and the unease passes. I’m not thinking about work. I’m here, at home.

I stay up and sleep in the rocking chair after having had a few nippy sweeties. I’m half-dozing and half-awake, thinking of Carole. She’ll be back soon. She knows what side her bread’s buttered on.

After a while my guts really begin to ache badly and I’m sweating. I sit writhing in the chair as it rocks in a sickening rhythm but I can’t go to bed, not until it gets light. I think I’m going to throw up. I keep it down, trying to breathe in slowly. The thick, stagnant alcohol sweat. My fuckin guts. It’ll be from that gala pie. I’ve a good mind to report the deli spastics to the environmental health, no that those fuckers are any use.

After a bit it thankfully eases off as sleep takes me away.

with my guts rumbling away. It’s darkness and I’m in bed. I don’t remember going to bed. This is unusual for me. I sense the space beside me and I grab at her dressing gown and hold it tightly. It still has her smell. I’d let it go in the night and I had the bad dreams as a result. I’ve also been inadvertently clawing at my balls because they are nipping something terrible.

My head feels broken and weak, like it’s been smashed open and its contents spilt all over the pillow. Despite this, the tendons of my neck feel yanked to their tensile limit, seemingly unable to support its dead weight. The first sunlight is filtering insipidly through the blinds making the room look washed out and blurry.

With some effort, I get up and wash and go to have a close shave but I’ve ran out of blades and scratch the worn one over my face. I decide against the car and head for the bus stop with a strange mixture of liberation and despair, realising that it’s only ten-twenty a.m. and I’ve already decided I’m going to be out drinking tonight.

My stomach is still upset and the stink of bodies on the bus seems overpowering. Too many schemies. Can they not have a bus which runs from Colinton into the city centre without having to pass through Oxgangs? When I alight a jakey holds out a hopeful grubby hand. I shake it and tell the cunt that Jesus loves him. He looks bemused as I move away and I’m doon the road by the time the growls start. If it wasn’t coming up to the season of goodwill I’d’ve gone back and had the cunt pinched.

I go to the newsagent and buy a Sun . I also look at the pornographic magazines on the top shelf. I make no apologies for this; the job is one in which it’s dangerous to think too much, so the best thing is to channel your energy into something that’s the easiest to think about but which does you no harm. For most of us sex fits the bill nicely.