Glue by Irvine Welsh
Oan the bus ah realise thit ah’ve still goat the knife oan ays. Ah didnae mean tae bring it. Fuck it, thi’ll no be any bother the night. Ah wis really gled thit ah didnae pill it at the fitba. The thing wis ah goat so intae jist punchin n kickin, ah didnae even think aboot it.
So wi wir aw up tae Clouds that night, or what used tae be called Clouds. They call it The Cavendish now but every cunt still kens it as Clouds. It’s funny, but muh faither n muh Uncle Donald used tae git oan ma tits when they called places, pubs n that, by thir auld names. Now here’s me daein the same. Whatever ye call it though, it’s barry, cause in the queue we git treated like heroes. Thir wis a crowd ay they stroppy Clerie cunts bit they wir sayin nowt. Me n Carl had drank another boatil ay cider between us n we wir a bit ootae the game by the time we goat thair. Ye huv tae hud it thegither when yir gaun in, cause the bouncers’ll no lit ye in if yir steamboats, n ah’m worried aboot them sussin the knife, but we sail past them through the door. Thir’s a big mob in thair, Dozo n his crowd, n wir gaun ower the stories again. Then Terry n Marty Gentleman come in, n thir’s a big cheer fae Dozo n Polmont n some ay the other boys. Everybody’s askin thum aboot what happened wi the polis, time eftir time. Treated like fuckin heroes. Barry.
Terry’s no bothered aboot things though, ah’ll gie him ehs due. It’s like eh’s hud ehs fitba time, n this is ehs lassies time now. — Nae Lucy the night? Carl asks um.
— Naw, she took the fuckin strop cause ay ays gittin huckled. Didnae want her up here the night anywey. Setirday night’s ma ain night, ah like it best jist seein her in the week n oan Sundays, eh explains. That cunt leads some fuckin life. Terry kin git intae Annabel’s and Pipers n aw, the lucky bastard. Eh even goes tae the Bandwagon sometimes. Aw he’s oot fir is the fanny as usual. First ah sees um dancin wi that Viv McKenzie bird, then thir neckin in the corner. Then eh’s wi one ay the birds fae the Wimpy n eh’s bagged oaf wi her, bit it’s no the big yin wi the white teeth, it’s the wee yin wi the leather jaykit. Viv’s no bothered, she’s goat oaf wi Tommy fae the BBs’s mate, this Leith guy Simon Williamson.
Me n Billy n Carl go doonstairs cause that boy Nicky that sells the blues is doon thair n we git yin each offay um. They start tae take effect when ah’m oan the Galaxian wi Billy, which awright, isnae as good as Space Invaders or even Asteroids, but it’s aw thuv goat. Soon though, wir gittin a real buzz oaf they blues, so eftir a bit it’s fuck the Galaxian, n whaire’s the fanny? The fanny’s back up the stair of course, n so ur we. Ah’m intae a dance now.
We’re standin oan the edge ay the danceflair, watchin the lassies dancin under the mirrorball roond piles ay handbags. The dry ice comes oot n strobes start gaun. Billy wis sayin thit eh once saw that scruff-boy fae Leith, that Spud Murphy, git huckled fir chorin handbags whin eh thoat nae cunt could see wi the smoke machine oan. It’s no the bags oan the flair ah’m bothered aboot though, cause thir’s some total rides here, nae mistake aboot that. Aw they barry erses wrapped in they clingfilm-tight pencil skirts. It fair sets yir pulse racin whin yir oan the speed. One ay they lassies thit wis wi the Clerie boys is lookin acroass at ays, bit ah dinnae fancy the kind ay bother thit comes wi that. Some ay the Clerie boys’ve clocked us n aw. The cunts dinnae like the attention we’re gittin. Jist cause they nivir thought tae pill oaf a stunt like that at the game. Jealous fuckers. These wankers widnae huv the brains tae think ay it or the wideness tae dae it. Half they cunts are Jam Tarts anywey. Ah sees that Renton boy fae the fitba go past. Ah nod. — Good result the day, eh, the cunt goes.
— Nivir mind the fuckin result, whaire did youse git tae, you n yir mate? ah goes.
Carl laughs, n Billy looks aw intense at the boy.
Ah’ll gie the cunt ehs due, if eh’s ruffled eh’s no showin it. — The polis saw ma fuckin skerf comin oot ay the bottom ay ma jumper n they sent ays back. Jist as well they did, cause ah didnae see it masel n the Huns would’ve. Spud jist chummed ays, eh explains.
Billy laughs, lookin like eh disnae really believe the Renton boy, but eh’s giein him the benefit ay the doubt. It sounds like bullshit tae me, n ah kin tell by the wey that Carl looks at the cunt that he thinks so n aw. Still, ah’m no bothered. It’s up tae that Frank Begbie tae say something tae Renton, it wis him that broat the cunt. — See yis, eh goes, headin away.
— Aye, ah sais back.
As Renton goes past, Carl gies the wanker sign tae ehs back.
Ah’m huvin a blether wi Billy n Carl whin ah see her comin in. It is her. She’s so fuckin gorgeous ah cannae look. Caroline Urquhart. She walks past us in a group ay lassies. Ah nivir kent she came here, ah thought she went tae aulder places like Annabel’s n that. Ah turn away n try tae be cool. Ah’m a bit fucked, bit in a good wey, gittin energy offay the blues. Carl’s away wi it, talkin shite as usual. — Listen . . . Billy, Gally, listen the now. Eh ye cannae git VD offay a lassie’s tit? By feelin it likesay.
Ah starts laughin, n Billy does n aw. — You’re a heidbanger, Ewart.
— Naw ah wis jist like . . .
— You’ve nivir hud a ride, huv ye? Billy accuses.
Carl’s gaun a bit white, but eh steys quite cool. — Course ah huv, it’s jist thit ah read somewhaire aboot a boy thit goat VD fae feelin a lassie’s tit, eh sais. It’s funny, but some cunts git a beamer whin thir embarrassed, other cunts, like Carl, go white.
— Get tae Falkirk. Eh nivir rode her? Billy scoffs.
— Naw, it wis jist offay feelin her tit.
— That’s garbage. Piss off ya radge! Hear um, Gally, Billy says tae ays, shakin ehs heid. Carl likes tae act the big fanny merchant but ah doubt eh’s ever hud a ride in ehs puff. Eh’s knocked aboot wi quite a few lassies n eh wis gaun oot wi that Alison Lewis fir a bit, but ah doubt eh goat anything offay her. Na, he’s no hud a ride. Neither huv ah, mind you, n it’s aboot fuckin time ah did. Ah’ve hud the tit, gied the finger, been wanked off n hud ma cock gammed, so ah’m dyin tae git it proper. The lassie ah used tae go wi, Karen Moore, she didnae want tae go aw the wey but. So fuck that, ah packed her in; ye kin only git cock-teased fir so long. She wis a nice lassie but, n muh Ma liked her, in fact she went aw narky whin ah telt her ah’d packed her in. Ah felt like sayin tae her, you fuckin well go oot wi her then. You’ve probably goat mair chance ay gittin yir hole oaf her thin ah huv!
Anywey, ah’m up for it the night. That Odyssey’s oan, that Use it Up n Wear it Oot, n ah deek Caroline Urquhart up oan the flair dancin wi her mate. She’s wearin a barry rid dress, wi black tights. Her mate’s awright, good bit ay tit on it. Fuckin hell, it’s that Amy Connor! She looks different in that green toap n the make-up, her hair aw up. Aulder. Billy’s seen thum n aw. — Rides, eh goes. Then eh looks at ays n says, — Fancy movin in thaire?
Ah feel a bit funny. A bit nervous. Ah rubs at whaire ah felt that pluke comin up. It even seems tae huv gone intae a heid! A pluke under the strobe lights wi Caroline Urquhart! If ah make a cunt ay masel, n git k.b.’d, ah’ll huv tae face her every day at school. — No wantin oaf wi a bird fae the school, ah gasp, a bit too quick. Billy lits it go but Terry widnae huv. Mind you, he’s away in wi ehs new mates now, ehs hard, wide mates. — Ah mean, that’s shite, ah add.
— Popeye, Birrell says.
— Naw, bit listen Billy, thir’s stacks ay fanny here, ah point ower tae two other birds dancin oan thir ain. One’s goat straight blonde hair. She’s a ride. The other’s goat long dark hair, n her erse looks good in that pencil skirt. — See they rides but.
— Tidy, Billy agrees, n wi move in, dancin away in front ay thum. Ah nods tae the blonde bird n she does tae me n aw. Ah’d like tae smile at her but ma mates might think ah’m a poof. Wi did they fuckin Huns the day, so ye cannae go actin aw poofy wi birds n showin every cunt up. The likes ay Terry kin git away wi it cause he’s goat that kind ay personality. That Atomic by Blondie comes oan so ah take that as ma excuse tae chat up the bird. — That’s you, eh, Blondie, the blonde hair n that, ah goes, feelin ehr hair fir a bit. She jist smiles bit in a wey thit
— Ah wis it the fitba the day. At Easter Road. Took the fuckin Huns, eh, ah shout in her ear. She smells dead nice.
— Dinnae like fitba, she goes.
— Yir no a fuckin Jam Tart, ur ye?
— Dinnae like fitba. Muh Dad supports Motherwell.
— Motherwell’s fuckin shite, ah goes. Mibbe ah shouldnae huv been sae fuckin nippy thair, but they are nothin n she hus tae be telt.
Wir gaun oaf the flair, n she goes back taewards whaire her mates ur sittin. — See ye well, ah goes.
— Aye, right, she sais, gaun away n sittin doon wi her mates.
Billy comes ower. — Bag oaf?
— Ah’m fuckin well in thaire, ah goes. — She’s fuckin well gantin oan it. He’s no bagged oaf wi the other one though. Hudin ays back. Then that Start! by The Jam comes oan, the one thit knocked Bowie’s Ashes to Ashes oaf number one. Ah like it though, n wir singing it, bit it’s like wir singin aboot the Huns . . . ‘if I never ever see you . . . it will be a start!’ Doo doo doo doo . . . Fuckin bramer.
See they blues . . .
. . . before ah ken it the last slow number’s oan, the deejay’s tellin aw the guys tae git up n move oan in thair, no that any cunt needs encouragement. Ah fires up intae that wee blonde lassie again. It’s an auld song but, that Olivia Newton-John daein that Hopelessly Devoted tae You fae Grease. We snog fir a bit, but ah git a hardo n ah kin feel her bucklin away. Ah’m like Cropley the dug here.
Whin the music stoaps wi pill apart n she smiles. She squeezes ma hand n looks at me, but ah sort ay freeze, no kenin what tae say. — Eh, see ye in a minute, she goes, headin back oaf the flair where ah sees Billy talkin tae that Renton n this Matty boy fae Leith. Ah cannae see Carl. The blonde lassie’s ower wi her mates.
Thuv goat the lights up n the music oaf n thir chuckin us oot. We’re tryin tae check oan every cunt. Carl seems tae huv bagged oaf wi some fat ginger bird, Billy says eh saw um sneakin away wi her. Must huv been a right fuckin muck-bucket fir him tae be sae snide aboot it. Ah’m tryin tae be cool, but ah’m lookin for her, no Caroline Urquhart, but that wee blonde piece.
Ah see hur eftir, as wir gaun oot, intae the foyer. The wee blondie. Her mate comes up tae ays n nods ower at her n goes, — She fancies you.
Ah looks ower n sees her face, aw hard n serious n cocky n ah jist wish she would mibbe smile like she wis daein earlier, n no look like she wis gaunny offer ays a square-go, bit ay cannae smile either, cause thir’s too many cunts aroond thit would take the pish. So ah nods tae the door n wi head oot n roond the corner, tae the alley doon by the back ay Clouds jist behind Tollcross n wir doon thaire n ah’m neckin her n tryin tae git the tit, but she’s pillin ma hand away n she’s no even gaunny gies the fuckin tit n that’s nae fuckin use tae me . . .
. . . ah’ve goat tae git a real bag-off . . .
. . . ah dinnae want tae be a virgin . . .
— Dinnae be a fuckin lesbian then, ah goes.
— Ah’m no fuckin lesbian, right son!
— What’s fuckin wrong wi ye then?
She pills away fae ays, n starts gaun ower tae whaire hur mates are. Ah starts tae say somethin, n she jist turns roond n goes, — Piss off you, right.
Her mate looks a fuckin wide lassie, hard-face, dark hair. The type wi mental brars, ye kin jist tell. She looks at me n goes, — Fuckin beat it, son. Right? Just fuckin well beat it!
Just then Caroline Urquhart and hur mate Amy are comin oot wi Terry n that Simon Williamson boy, this gadge fae Leith. It seems thit eh’s a mate ay that Renton n Tommy n Matty as well as Joe Begbie’s brar. Terry’s laughin n eh’s goat ehs airm aroond Caroline n she looks at ays like ah wis fuckin . . . like ah wis fuckin nowt . . .
N then ah hear this shoutin n everybody looks acroas tae whair this pagger’s takin place n it gies me the excuse tae git the fuck away n ah’m movin ower. Billy grabs ma wrist n goes, — Leave it, Gally, this is Dozo Doyle wi these Clerie cunts. They’re nowt tae dae wi us.
— Fuck off! Ah pushes past um n ah pill oot the fuckin chib n ah’m ower. Then ah stoap n think; what the fuck um ah daein here? Ah jist stand thaire. Dozo’s paggerin the Clerie boy n the guy’s mates clock the knife n thir oaf doon the road. The blade did the trick! That Polmont’s jist standin daein nowt. The Clerie boy’s doon and Dozo’s bootin at him. Then Polmont nods at me n eh takes the chib off ays, and ah jist gie’s um it, n eh bends doon n rips the other gadge’s face apart wi it. My hert jist goes bang, as ah see the boy’s skin open up and nothing for a second, then a gash and blood tearin oot ay it. Doyle looks doon at the boy. — Fuckin Clerie wank!
The boy’s hudin ehs face thegither, n eh’s sayin stuff, daft stuff thit means nowt n ah’m lookin doon at um. It wis meant tae be a square-go . . . Dozo n the boy . . .
Ah jist stand rooted tae the spot as Polmont hands the blade back tae me. Ah take it, ah dinnae ken what fir. Cause it’s mine, ah suppose. Polmont looks at me and makes a face, and Dozo shakes ehs heid. They laugh and start walkin away.
A couple ay guys come over, watching me, watching the boy, the blood. Then they’re gone. One sais somethin, but ah cannae hear um. The guy’s still goat ehs hands ower one side ay his face n eh looks up and sees me wi the knife. Eh looks at me in disgust, like ah’m an animal.
Ah turn n run acroass the car-park doon the lane n intae the main road. Ah run fir ages, only stoapin whin ah’m oot ay breath. Then ah throw the knife away, intae one ay they big bins. It takes ays a while tae realise whair ah am. Ah’ve been gaun in the wrong direction. Ah backtrack, but by a roundabout wey n take the backstreets hame, avoidin the main roads.
It starts tae rain. The lights fae the street lamps reflect oan the blue-black pavement makin ays feel sick n dizzy n ah zip up ma Harrington n button the collar. My guts burn wi every step ah take. Everytime ah hear a police siren or see a cop car, ah think it’s fir me. Ma hert flies up tae ma mooth n ma blood jist runs cauld. Ah see the toon change; the shoaps become the posh toon hooses, then it’s the tenements, then it’s like nowt for ages, then the dual carriageway n the lights ay the scheme.
A (Virgin) Soldier’s Song
Wir hingin aboot the shoaps at Stenhoose Croass oan Sunday mornin. Sundays are shite and they git shiter the longer they go oan. Thir’s nowt tae dae but tae talk aboot the weekend and feel the fear and the depression creep up oan ye until it’s Monday mornin. Ah once sais tae muh Uncle Donald whae works oan the estate at Rentokil, — Does it git any better whin ye leave school n go tae work? Eh jist shook ehs heid n laughed at ays as if tae say; aye, that’ll be fuckin right.
Bit it’s still the mornin n aw the weekend triumphs ur fresh. Especially wi that wide cunt Terry whae goes, — Ma fuckin cherry’s still goat a nip oan it fae ma wee schoolgirl last night. Smooooth fuckin ride, eh huds ehs hands oot n thrusts ehs hips aw slow. He goat nowt offay her, no offay Caroline Urquhart.
Fill ay fuckin shite that cunt.
—What aboot aw that ‘ah widnae touch her’ garbage ye used tae come oot wi? ah goes.
— Well, Terry smiles, — ah thoat, now thit ah’m workin, it’s no bad huvin a wee bird fae the school tae ride now n then.
Billy looks aw impressed by the lyin cunt, n ye kin tell thit Terry laps that up. Birrell goat stuck right in at the fitba n he wis the boy really, well, him and Gent, even if Terry wis the yin thit wis nicked. N eh never crawls up tae Doyle n that like Terry does. Ah think Billy’s right intae Caroline Urquhart n Amy Connor n aw. Every cunt is, even if they lie aboot it, like Terry. — She wis gaun oot wi that big boy, wis she no? eh asks.
— Naw, the cunt dumped her. Eh’s gaun oot wi another lassie now. So ah wis oan hand tae lend a sympathetic ear . . . eh grins, — . . . n a sympathetic tadger n aw, eh laughs, thrustin ehs hips again. — Ah should be thankin that big cunt cause eh taught her the ropes awright. Ah thought she’d be aw that jerky, stiff wey, like a wee virgin
Bullshit.
She widnae huv sooked that sweaty cunt’s dirty knob.
— Whae wis that boy thit bagged oaf wi her mate? Billy asks.
Terry takes a swig ay the Irn Bru eh’s goat. — Simon the boy’s name is. Good lad. Eh goat a tit-ride offay Amy Connor. Eh’s a mate ay Joe Begbie’s brother, that cunt Franco thit goat done wi me. Ah’m jist hopin thit ah’ve no goat a dose offay that wee Caroline, cause ah’m oaf doon tae Lucy’s fir Sunday dinner this afie, n ah ken whit’s fir eftirs!
— Thoat she wis pissed oaf wi you gittin nicked? Carl asks.
— Aye, that cunt ay a faither ay hers is tryin tae poison her against ays. Thing is, it’s nae good. Once a bird’s hud Terence Henry Lawson, that’s her spoiled n only the best will do. They cannae git enough ay it man! Guaranteed!
The big-heided cunt passes the juice ower tae me.
Ah nod the Irn Bru boatil away n eh passes it oan tae Carl, whae takes a slug. He’s lookin aw pleased wi ehsel. Mibbe eh goat ehs hole offay that fat ginger. Ah fuckin well hope no, cause it would mean that ah wis the only one here that husnae hud it now. Billy’s hud it oaf Kathleen Murray, n offay Terry’s sister Yvonne n aw.