Irvine Welsh - Filth

That word again.

– Bunty . . . we don’t want to be jumping to conclusions . . . there may be a perfectly good reason as to why Cliff . . .

– No! Don’t defend him! she shrieks.

– I’m not defending him, I’m just saying that we cool our jets, I snap. – If Cliff is guilty of humiliating the both of us then believe me, no power, no fucking power on Earth will stop me from tearing him apart with my bare hands. Believe that, I say, staring at her with resolve and almost feeling sorry for Bladesey as the hatred glazes over in her eyes. – But we need to be sure.

– I’m sure! I’m fucking well sure . . . Oh Bruce . . . she moans softly, her face twisted and traumatised. She focuses on me suddenly. – What did he mean about tapes? He said something about tapes! What was it!

I make a show of swallowing some air. – Look Bunty . . . it’s . . . God, this is so difficult.

– Tell me!

– Cliff was . . . Cliff and a few of the lads at the Lodge . . . they . . .

She’s looking manically at me.

– They used to get video tapes from some guy at the Lodge. A farmer guy. It’s not really my scene. I obviously knew what they were but I just thought, well, that’s up to them. Cliff wanted to watch them here, he didn’t want you to know anything about them. He obviously thought you’d object.

– What sort of tapes . . .

I go to the cupboard behind the telly, and pull out a couple of Hector’s choicest. – They’re pornographic. I’ve never looked at them myself, but I can imagine what’s in them.

– I knew it! I want to see them. Put one in!

– Bunty, I don’t think it would be wise.

– Oh yes, I want to know everything! I want to know all about him. The real him! she sobs.

I acted reluctant, but Bunty was insistent. We watch a bit of Vibrator Massacre , and she runs to the toilet puking, just as I was getting into it. She’s seen enough.

I calm her down a little and eventually call her a taxi home. I was certain she’d phone the police and make a formal complaint against Bladesey. I kept half-heartedly trying to talk her out of it, gently urging her to call Cliff at his mum’s, give him a chance to put his side of things and all the insincere bullshit under the sun, but I knew that her mind was made up. I get a bell from Gus at the Lodge after tea, telling me that they are planning to haul Bladesey in for questioning. Good news travels fast. Later on Bunty leaves a message telling me that she’s gone to her mother’s with Craig. She didn’t want to be there when he got back from Newmarket.

This sets me up in fine fettle for the do tonight, with the earlier débâcle with that stupid dug now last Tuesday’s Daily Record . I’ve given Ray Lennox my spare ticket and after meeting for a pint in the Antiquary, we head to the Sheraton for Stronach’s Sportsman’s Dinner. I’m a wee bit concerned as I haven’t spoken to Stronach since our little neighbourly tiff over noise levels on Christmas Day.

I’ll be three sheets but I take the motor; I’ll pick it up later if I’m too wasted. I switch on the car radio. It’s that Celine Dion bird singing that horrible song, the one she was just made to sing. Lennox is blabbing on about some departmental shite and Dion goes off, only to be replaced by the Eurythmics. Lennox is going on about how Gus has got it in for him.

I’ve got Annie Lennox on the radio whinging in one ear and Fanny Lennox next tae me daein the same in the other yin.

To my surprise, Stronach greets me heartily. It seems as if he wants to let bygones be bygones, or perhaps it’s because he senses my potential to wreck his big night if fucked with. I brazenly install myself and Lennox at his table which he’s not too pleased about as he’s in the company of the former England forward Rodney Dolacre. Wonder of wonders: Dolacre has actually come up for the do. Dalglish and Souness couldn’t make it; both rise further in my estimation. I’m astonished that Dolacre has, until I learn that the real reason he’s in Scotland, with his agent by his side, is to arrange his own testimonial match with Celtic.

It’s a good crack with the usual loads of jokes about how fitba guys are the salt of the earth and women are only good for cleaning, cooking and shagging. I’m enjoying the fact that Stronach is ill-at-ease because Dolacre’s upstaging him, though Lennox fucks up by saying something sycophantic to our testimonial sportsman. When was the last time Lennox was in Gorgie in a non-working capacity?

The meal is pretty good. I start off with the prawn cocktail, then go for steak, chips, mushrooms and onion rings, followed by Black Forest Gateau. Stronach and Dolacre have some pasta dish while Lennox has Chicken Kiev. There are quite a few hingers-oan at this table, loads of minor football celebs trying to catch Dolacre’s attention as he’s still a pretty big name. Stronach, now bolstered by Lennox’s arse-licking, has stopped trying to compete with Dolacre and is basking in the reflected glory.

I have to give it to that English cunt Dolacre, he’s got us daft Jocks well sussed out. – These arseholes’ll always bring between five and ten thousand down, which at our prices could mean an extra quarter of a million quid in the kitty. All I have to do is play up this old Irish granny routine. Suppose I’d better dig one up from somewhere, he winks at his agent, before elaborating. – See, a couple of the lads, English boys, used to play for the Republic. They’ve been teaching me all those daft Mick songs.

Someone produces an Evening Times . It contains an interview with Rodney: I grew up in a large Irish family in North London and all the folks back home in the old country were mad keen Celts. I would have dearly loved to have been able to pull the hooped jersey over my head.

– I said striped jersey at first, he laughs. – I couldn’t remember that they played in hoops! Thank God the journalist was sympathetic! Bleedin Nora, he snorts, – I mean, one Jock team’s much the same as any other to me. All shit, ain’t they? Still, I’ll take their giros! Another ten thousand on the gate: can’t be sneezed at, can it?

I saw Stronach go red at that point.

Dolacre gives a witty speech, as does a Scottish First Division manager, but the rest are just fucking windbags who like to hear the sound of their own voices. Dolacre leaves early, before the auction takes place. The strip he wore in the England B international versus the Czech Republic a couple of years ago in his last representative game is auctioned and fetches a hundred and fifty quid for Tom’s testimonial fund. It was bought by Alan Beach, the plumber’s merchant, who’s on the testimonial committee.

At the end of the night Lennox departs and I decide I’m too fucked up to drive the Volvo so I share Stronach’s taxi home. – That Rodney Dolacre is a laugh, eh, I smile, – It was great hearing his fitba tales.

– Arrogant English cunt, Stronach spits.

I go into my home and Shirley calls. I let the machine get it. – Broosss . . . I need to talk to you Brooooss, her distressed mechanised tone whines. – It’s very important . . . phone me Broossss . . . please . . .

I put on a Private video, one of Hector’s, which features some good arse-fucking shots. It never fails to amaze me, the purchase those male actors get on the old arse-fucking. Poles must be well-greased. Mind you, these birds but, their arseholes must be stretched like a mother-of-ten’s fanny.

Shirley. Don’t mistake me for somebody who cares my love.

I go to do a shite. I’ve taken some of Rossi’s laxatives but I can’t see any of the worm. It’s no good just getting its body out anyway, you need to get the whole head, otherwise it just keeps growing. I try to turn in, but I feel uneasy and sleep with the light on. These cunts with their OT cutbacks’ll kill me.