Irvine Welsh - Filth

The track follows a serpentine route over frozen ground, cutting through a range of ice-encrusted trees into a clearing and down the hill towards the barn. As it dips, the path deteriorates into a patch of muddy swamp which has failed to freeze over.

I turn to Claire. – You should be used tae this sort of gig Claire, coming fae Aberdeen. Ewe’d have tae be good at your trade tae compete wi aw the sheep up thaire. Ewe’d have tae be good! Get it?

Nobody does, and the fucking Range Rover grinds to a halt, sticking in the mud. I look at my watch as the car snarls ineffectively, the wheels spinning, failing to grip.

Hector turns round in the seat. – Sorry Bruce, but we need a bit of your muscle. I’ve got tae dae this, he protests, shaking the wheel in response to my cold stare.

I get out of the vehicle, my feet sinking into the mud which covers my brogues. The bottom of my new slacks are fuckin . . . that useless auld cunt Hector . . .

I push in exasperation as I look at my watch and the motor springs free, sending a shower of mud on to my shins.

When I get back in Hector and Claire are grinning at me. – Sorry Bruce, but you’re no exactly dressed fir the ferm! Mind and no get a mess on Claire now!

I seeth silently as we get to the barn. It’s a huge, ugly, cold place, but it’s pretty isolated. I quickly set up the camera, though not fast enough for Claire.

– It’s freezing Bruce, hurry up!

The light’s still good, but it is cold. The frosted wind whistles around the barn with a clinical, cutting ozone smell of Arctic origins.

– Right Claire, I direct, – off wi the coat and oot ay they panties . . . if ye could jist lean ower that bar and spread those legs . . .

– How’s it lookin Bruce . . .? Hector says through pursed lips.

– Pit that fag oot Claire! A wee bit tae the left. . . . that’s it. Hector, it’s all yours.

Hector pulls the dug ower tae Claire and lets him have a good sniff of her. Then he starts pulling on the dog’s cock; at the same time he’s massaging his own through his troosers while staring at Claire. The dug’s tongue is hanging oot and his pink cock shoots oot like a plastic attachment on a toy, that Darth Vader’s lance in Toys Я Us.

Hector starts the ghetto-blaster which plays The Archers ’ theme tune. That was his idea. He points the yelping dug at Claire, restraining it by the collar. Then he lets it go.

The animal ignores her completely, springing at me and attaching itself to my leg, thrusting ferociously. – Get that fuckin thing off me, I shout, trying to push it away, but the bastard’s nostrils flare and a low growl comes from its throat. I stagger backwards, knocking over the tripod and camera. Hector grabs the dug and pulls him off me, by which time my C&A’s troosers are covered in canine spunk.

– Her, no me! I shout at the stupid, panting beast.

We set it up again for another try. Once more, this daft fucking thing flies at me and attaches itself to me. – Jesus Fuck Almighty!

That thin pink cock rips and spurts against my flannels. – Fuckin new troosers!

– Sorry Bruce, Hector shrugs and grabs the yelping, demented beast by the collar. Claire starts laughing, a loud, horsey hee-haw.

– That dug’s a fuckin queer, I curse, pointing at the fucker.

Hector’s got the fucking audacity to look affronted. – That dug’s sired mair championship pups than you’ve had hot dinners son, he grumbles. – He just likes you.

– I like you Hector, but I don’t fuckin well want to shag you. The dug’s a fuckin poof and that’s aw there is tae it!

Hector goes to console the animal, as if its feelings are hurt. – He’s just new tae this, that’s aw.

– It’s nae good him liking me, he’s meant tae like her! I point at Claire, who’s back in her fur coat. – There must be something we can dae . . . put something on her . . . like dog food or that.

– No fuckin way, Claire snarls, – Ah’m no gittin eaten alive by that thing!

– It was just a thought, I say. I try to give my flannels a wipe with my hanky, but I’m messing them up more with the snot and the charlie. This is a fuckin mess of a day.

We try the same thing, one more time, and again the dug goes for me. My new fuckin troosers are ruined. It’s totally useless, a complete waste of time. Darkness is creeping in and we’ve lost our chance. I accidentally-on-purpose stand on the collie’s tail and the cunt lets out a loud yelp followed by a series of accusatory gasping whines.

– Mind the dug! Are you okay boy? Hector coos. Claire looks disapprovingly at me.

She’s getting rode and no mistake. I’ve just about time for a quick one in the back of the Volvo. I proposition her but she’s informing me that she’s staying on at Hector’s to earn some more cash from her new sugar daddy. They link arms and smile smugly at each other. Cunts. I head back to mine in the Volvo, stopping at Crawford’s for some takeaway food.

I wanted those new strides for Bunty coming. Now I have to stick the cunts on the laundry mountain and dig out some soiled, but not quite so soiled ones from the stinking pile. The place is a real shithouse. The Dame Judi in here is worse than back at Hector’s barn. I pile everything I can into bin-liners, attack the surfaces with a damp cloth followed by some polish, and drag the hoover across the floor. I’m sweating when the doorbell goes. I switch off the hoover and breathe deeply.

Bunty comes in and I’m leading her straight up to the bedroom, where I’ve changed the sheet and the duvet cover and I get her on top of it. She’s well on, her twat dripping like Niagara Falls and as wide as the city bypass. I’ve banged on my tape deck and Bachman Turner Overdrive’s ‘You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet’ is blaring out. There are noises coming from next door, shagging noises. Stronach is fucking someone, probably that wee tart who works behind the bar at the hotel; I think that was her Mini parked outside. Of course, Julie’s away on some fucking daft course, he did mention it. I waste no time getting into Bunty. She’s game for it as well, the strong silent type. So Stronach’s headboard’s banging off the wall and so is ours, and there’s quite a competition going on. We’ll show that cunt. Thankfully Bunty’s taking a while to get there. But after a bit it starts to become too long, and I can’t hear Stronach next door. It’s taking her ages and in truth, it gets a drag, uncomfortable even, but I stick it out, even though I’m gritting my teeth at the end. When she does come I think we’re going to go crashing through the wall into Tom Stronach’s bedroom. That would show the cunt alright! Same rules!

As we settle into a post-coital snooze, I’m satisfied to note the silence coming from Stronach’s next door. No fucking staying power, either on the field or in the scratcher.

When we get up, I prepare a light lunch with the stuff I’d got from Crawford’s on the way hame, then absent-mindedly check the messages, playing the one Bladesey had stupidly left.

I casually observe as Bunty’s blood runs cold with Bladesey going into his spiel just after my daughter wishes me a Happy Christmas. Then I witness her going off again. It’s like a second orgasm, but this time the hoor freaks on outrage rather than sex.

– It’s him! On your machine! she raves.

– Bunty, that’s Cliff, I tell her. He’s just mucking about.

– But it’s him! It’s exactly like him!

– Anybody can do that! Manchistih! I say badly.

– It’s him! It’s him! I’m calling the police! That sad little bastard! I should have known! Living with a pervert! The things he wanted to do! I should have known! I’ve been such a fool!

She bursts into tears, her mascara running. – I’m going to make him suffer!