Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh
Cock Problems
It’s fuckin grotesque tryin tae find an inlet. Yesterday ah hud tae shoot intae ma cock, where the most prominent vein in ma body is. Ah dinnae want tae get intae that habit. As difficult it is tae conceive ay it at the moment, ah may yet find other uses for the organ, besides pishing.
Now the doorbell’s going. Fuckin hell. That bastard shite-arsed fuck-up of a landlord: Baxter’s son. Auld Baxter, god rest the diddy cunt’s soul, never really bothered aboot the rent cheque. Senile auld wanker. Whenever he came roond, ah wis charm personified tae the auld cunt. Ah’d take oaf his jaykit, sit um doon, and gie um a can ay Export. We’d talk aboot the hoarses and the Hibs teams ay the fifties wi the ‘Famous Five’ forward line ay Smith, Johnstone, Reilly, Turnbull and Ormond. Ah knew nowt aboot hoarses and Hibs in the fifties, but as they wir auld Baxter’s only talking points, ah became well-versed in both subjects. Then ah’d rifle through the auld gadge’s jaykit poakits n help masel tae some cash. He eywis carried a massive wad aroond wi um. Then ah’d either pey um his ain cash, or tell the poor bastard thit ah’d already squared the cunt up.
We even used tae phone up the auld gadge if we were a bit short. Like when Spud n Sick Boy crashed here, we’d tell him a tap was leaking or windae wis broken. Sometimes we’d even break the windae oorsels, like when Sick Boy threw the auld black n white telly through it, and git the docile cunt tae come roond so’s we could rifle um. Thir wis a fuckin fortune in that cunt’s poakits. It goat so’s thit ah wis feart no tae rip um off, in case some fucker mugged um.
Now auld Baxter has gone tae the great gig in the sky; replaced by his hospice-humoured bastard ay a son. A cunt who expects rent fir this dive.
— RENT. Somebody’s shouting through the letterbox.
— Rents!
It’s no the landlord. It’s Tommy. What the fuck does the cunt want at this time?
— Haud oan Tommy. Jist comin.
Ah shoot intae ma knob for the second consecutive day. As the needle goes in, it looks like a horrible experiment being conducted on an ugly sea-snake. The gig is getting sicker by the minute. The rush wastes nae time in racin tae ma box. Ah git a magic high, then think ah’m gaunnae puke. Ah under-estimated how pure this shite wis, and took a wee bit too much in that shot. Ah take a deep breath and get it thegither. Ah feel as if a thin stream ay air is comin in tae ma boady fae a bullet hole in ma back. This is not an OD situation. Calm doon. Keep that auld respirator going. Easy does it. This is nice.
Ah stagger tae ma feet, n let Tommy in. That wisnae easy.
Tommy looks offensively fit. Majorca tan still intact; hair sun-bleached, cut short and gelled back. Gold stud and hoop in one ear; mellow sky-blue eyes. It has to be said that Tommy’s a fairly handsome cunt wi a tan. It brings oot the best in him. Handsome, easy-going, intelligent, and pretty tidy in a swedge. Tommy should make you jealous, but somehow he doesnae. This is probably because Tommy doesnae have the self-confidence tae recognise n make the maist ay his qualities; nor the vanity tae be a pain in the erse aboot them tae every other cunt.
— Split up wi Lizzy, he tells us.
It’s hard tae work oot whether congratulations or commiserations are in order. Lizzy is a shag extraordinaire, but has a tongue like a sailor and a castrating stare. Ah think Tommy’s still tryin tae sort oot his feelins. Ah kin tell that he’s deep in thought because he husnae telt us what a daft cunt ah am tae be usin, husnae even mentioned the state ah’m in.
Ah struggle tae show concern through ma self-centred smack apathy. The outside world means fuck all tae us. — Pished oaf aboot it? ah ask.
— Dinnae ken. If ah’m bein honest, ah’ll miss the sex maist. That n like, jist huvin somebody, ken?
Tommy needs people a loat mair thin maist.
Ma endurin memory ay Lizzy is fae the school. Me, Begbie n Gary McVie wir lyin in the Links at the bottom ay the running track, away fae the beady eyes ay that bastard Vallance, the housemaster, á Nazi cunt ay the highest order. We took up that position so’s we could see the lassies race in thir shorts n blouses, n accumulate some decent wanking material.
Lizzy pit up a game race, but finished second tae the lanky strides ay big Morag ‘Jam Rag’ Henderson. We wir lyin oan oor stomachs, heids propped up oan elbays n hands, watchin Lizzy struggle along wi the expression ay vicious determination which characterised everything she did. Everything? Once Tommy’s over his loss, ah’ll ask him about the sex. Naw ah winnae . . . aye ah will. Anywey, ah hears this heavy breathin and turns tae notice Begbie slowly swivellin his hips; starin at the lassies, gaun: — That wee Lizzy MacIntosh . . . total wee ride . . . fuckin shag the erse oafay that any day ay the week . . . the fuckin erse oan it . . . the fuckin tits oan it . . .
Then he lets his face faw doon oantae the turf. Ah wisnae as wary ay Begbie then as ah am now. He wisnae the main man in they days, jist another contender, n he wis also a bit shy ay ma brar, Billy, at the time. Tae some extent, in fact tae every extent, ah cynically lived oaf Billy’s reputation, bein a closet sap. Anywey, ah pulled Begbie ower oantay his back, exposing his spunk drippin, earth-dirty knob. The cunt hud surreptitiously dug a hole in the soft turf wi his flick knife, and hud been fuckin the field. Ah wis pishin masel. Begbie wis n aw. The cunt wis lighter in they days, before he started tae believe his ain, and it must be said, oor, propaganda aboot him bein a total psychopath.
— Ya dirty cunt, Franco! Gary sais.
Begbie pits his knob away, zips up, then grabs a handfae ay spunk n earth n rubs it in Gary’s face.
Ah’m nearly endin masel as Gary goes radge; standin up n bootin the sole ay Begbie’s trainer. Then he storms away in the cream puff. Whin ah think aboot it, this is really a Begbie rather than a Lizzy story, though it wis her brave performance against the Jam Rag that precipitated it.
Anywey, whin Tommy copped fir Lizzy a couple ay year back, maist cunts thought: Lucky fuckin bastard. Even Sick Boy has never shagged Lizzy.
Amazingly, Tommy still husnae mentioned smack. Even wi ma works lying aw ower the place, n he can probably tell that ah’m pretty bombed. Normally Tommy’s daein a bad impersonation ay ma auld lady in such circumstances; yir killin yirsel/pack it in/ye kin live yir life withoot that garbage, and other such shite.
Now he sais: — What does that stuff dae fir ye Mark? His voice is genuinely enquiring.
Ah shrug. Ah dinnae want tae talk aboot this. Thirs cunts wi degrees n diplomas at the Royal Ed n the City peyed tae go through aw this counselling shite wi us. It’s done fuck-all good. Tommy’s persistent though.
— Tell us Mark. Ah want tae ken.
But then, when ye think aboot it, mibbe mates, whae’ve stuck by ye through thick n thin, usually fuckin thin, deserve at least an attempt at an explanation, if the counsellors/thought polis get one. Ah launch intae a spiel. Ah feel surprisingly good, calm and clear, talkin aboot it.
— Ah don’t really know, Tam, ah jist dinnae. It kinday makes things seem mair real tae us. Life’s boring and futile. We start oaf wi high hopes, then we bottle it. We realise that we’re aw gaunnae die, withoot really findin oot the big answers. We develop aw they long-winded ideas which jist interpret the reality ay oor lives in different weys, withoot really extending oor body ay worthwhile knowledge, about the big things, the real things. Basically, we live a short, disappointing life; and then we die. We fill up oor lives wi shite, things like careers and relationships tae delude oorsels that it isnae aw totally pointless. Smack’s an honest drug, because it strips away these delusions. Wi smack, whin ye feel good, ye feel immortal. Whin ye feel bad, it intensifies the shite that’s already thair. It’s the only really honest drug. It doesnae alter yir consciousness. It just gies ye a hit and a sense ay well-being. Eftir that, ye see the misery ay the world as it is, and ye cannae anaesthetise yirsel against it.
— Shite, Tommy sais. Then: — Pure shite. He’s probably right n aw. If he asked us the question last week, ah’d huv probably said something completely different. If he asks us t
Ma problem is, whenever ah sense the possibility, or realise the actuality ay attaining something that ah thought ah wanted, be it girlfriend, flat, job, education, money and so on, it jist seems so dull n sterile, that ah cannae value it any mair. Junk’s different though. Ye cannae turn yir back oan it sae easy. It willnae let ye. Trying tae manage a junk problem is the ultimate challenge. It’s also a fuckin good kick.
— It’s also a fuckin good kick.
Tommy looks at us. — Gies a go. Gies a hit.
— Fuck off Tommy.
— Ye sais it’s a good kick. Ah pure wantae try it.
— Ye dinnae. C’moan Tommy, take ma word fir it. This jist seems tae encourage the cunt mair.
— Ah’ve goat the hireys. C’moan. Cook us up a shot.
— Tommy . . . fuck sake man . . .
— Ah’m tellin ye, c’moan. Supposed tae be fuckin mates, ya cunt. Cook us up a shot. Ah kin fuckin handle it. One fuckin shot isnae gaunnae hurt us. C’moan.
Ah shrug n dae as Tommy requests. Ah gie ma works a good clean, then ah cook up a light shot and help him take it.
— This is pure fuckin brilliant Mark . . . it’s a fuckin rollercoaster ride man . . . ah’m fuckin buzzin here . . . ah’m jist pure buzzin . . .
His reaction is shitein us up. Some cunts are just so predisposed tae skag . . .
Later, when Tommy comes doon and is ready tae go, ah tell um: — Yuv done it mate. That’s you goat the set now. Dope, acid, speed, E, mushies, nembies, vallies, smack, the fuckin lot. Knock it oan the heid. Make that the first n last time.
Ah said that because ah wis sure the cunt wis gaunnae ask us fir some tae take away wi him. Ah’ve no goat enough tae spare. Ah’ve never goat enough tae spare.
— Too fuckin right, he sais, flingin oan his jaykit.
When Tommy’s gone, ah notice fir the first time thit ma cock’s itchin like fuck. Ah cannae scratch it though. If ah start scratchin it, ah’ll infect the bastard. Then ah’ve goat some real problems.
Traditional Sunday Breakfast
Oh my god, where the fuck am I. Where the fuck . . . I just don’t recognise this room at all . . . think Davie, think. I can’t seem to generate enough saliva to free my tongue from the roof of my mouth. What an arsehole. What a cunt . . . what a . . . never again.
OH FUCK . . . NO . . . please. No, no fuckin NO . . .
Please.
Don’t let this be happening to me. Please. Surely no. Surely yes.
Yes. I woke up in a strange bed in a strange room, covered in my own mess. I had pished the bed. I had puked up in the bed. I had shat myself in the bed. My heid is fucking buzzing, and my guts are in a queasy turmoil. The bed is a mess, a total fucking mess.
I take the bottom sheet up, then remove the duvet cover and wrap them together; the pungent, toxic cocktail in the middle. It’s bundled into a secure ball, with no sign of leakage. I turn the mattress over to conceal the damp patch, and go to the toilet; showering the crap off my chest, thighs and arse. I now know where I am: Gail’s mother’s house.
Fucking hell.
Gail’s mother’s. How did I get here? Who brought me here? Back in the room, I see that my clothes are neatly folded. Oh christ.
Who the fuck undressed me?
Try tracing back. It’s now Sunday. Yesterday was Saturday. The semi-final at Hampden. I had got myself into some fucking state before and after the match. We’ve no chance, I thought, you never do at Hampden against one of the Old Firm, with the crowd and the referees firmly behind the establishment clubs. So instead of getting worked up about it, I just decided to have a good crack and make a day of it. I don’t want to think about the day I made of it. I don’t even remember whether or not I actually went to the game. Got on the Marksman bus at Duke Street with the Leith boys; Tommy, Rents and their mates. Fuckin heid-bangers. I remember fuck all after that pub in Rutherglen before the match; the space-cake and the speed, the acid and the dope, but most of all the drink, the bottle of vodka that I downed before we met in the pub to get onto the bus to get back into the pub . . .
Where Gail came into the picture, I’m no really sure. Fuck. So I get back into the bed, the mattress and duvet seeming cold without the sheets. A few hours later, Gail knocks at the door. Gail and I have been going out together for five weeks but have not yet had sex. Gail had said that she didn’t want our relationship to start off on a physical basis, as that would be how it would principally be defined from them on in. She’d read this in Cosmopolitan, and wanted to test the theory. So five weeks on, I’ve got a pair of bollocks like watermelons. There’s probably a fair bit of spunk alongside that pish, shite and puke.
— You were is some state last night David Mitchell, she said accusingly. Was she genuinely upset or playing at being upset? Difficult to tell. Then: — What happened to the covers? Genuinely upset.
— Eh, a wee accident Gail.
— Well, never mind that. Come downstairs. We’re just about to have breakfast.
She left, and I wearily got dressed and tentatively crept down the stairs, wishing I was invisible. I take the bundle down with me, as I want to take it home and get it cleaned.
Gail’s parents are sitting at the kitchen table. The sounds and smells of a traditional Sunday breakfast fry-up being prepared are nauseating. My guts do a quick somersault.
— Well, someone was in a state last night, Gail’s Ma says, but to my relief, teasingly, and without anger.
I still flushed with embarrassment. Mr Houston, sitting at the kitchen table, tried to smooth things over for me.
— Ah well, it does ye good tae cut loose once in a while, he commented supportively.
— It would do this one good tae be tied up once in a while, Gail said, realising a minor faux pas as I raised ma eyebrows at her, unnoticed by her parents. A wee bit bondage would do me fine. Chance would be fine fucking thing . . .
— Eh, Mrs Houston, I point to the sheets, in a bundle at my feet on the kitchen floor. — . . . Ah made a bit of a mess of the sheet and the duvet cover. Ah’m going tae take them home and clean them. Ah’ll bring them back tomorrow.
— Aw, don’t you worry about that, son. Ah’ll just stick them in the washing machine. You sit down and get some breakfast.
— Naw, but, eh . . . a really bad mess. Ah feel embarrassed enough. Ah’d like tae take them home.
— Dearie dear, Mr Houston laughed.
— Now no, you sit down, son, ah’ll see tae them, Mrs Houston stole across the floor towards me, and made a grab for the bundle. The kitchen was her territory, and she would not be denied. I pulled it to me, towards my chest; but Mrs Houston was as fast as fuck and deceptively strong. She got a good grip and pulled against me.
The sheets flew open and a pungent shower of skittery shite, thin alcohol sick, and vile pish splashed out across the floor. Mrs Houston stood mortified for a few seconds, then ran, heaving into the sink.
Brown flecks of runny shite stained Mr Houston’s glasses, face and white shirt. It sprayed across the linoleum table and his food, like he had made a mess with watery chip-shop sauce. Gail had some on her yellow blouse.
Jesus fuck.
— God sake . . . god sake . . . Mr Houston repeated as Mrs Houston boaked and I made a pathetic effort to mop some of the mess back into the sheets.
Gail shot me a look of loathing and disgust. I can’t see our relationship developing any further now. I’ll never get Gail into bed. For the first time, that doesnae bother me. I just want out of here.
Junk Dilemmas No. 65
Suddenly it’s cauld; very fuckin cauld. The candle’s nearly melted doon. The only real light’s comin fae the telly. Something black and white’s on . . . but the telly’s a black and white set so it was bound tae be something black and white . . . wi a colour telly, it wid be different . . . perhaps.
It’s freezing, but movement only makes ye caulder; by making ye more aware that there’s fuck all you can do, fuck all you can really do, tae get warm. At least if ah stey still ah can pretend to masel ah have the power tae make masel warm, by just moving aroond or switching the fire oan. The trick is tae be as still as possible. It’s easier than dragging yourself across the flair tae switch that fuckin fire oan.
Somebody else is in the room wi us. It’s Spud, ah think. It’s hard tae tell in the dark.
— Spud . . . Spud . . .
He sais nothing.
— It’s really fuckin cauld man.
Spud, if indeed it is the cunt, still says nothing. He could be deid, but probably no, because ah think his eyes are open. But that means fuck all.
Grieving and Mourning In Port Sunshine
Lenny looked at his cards, then scrutinised the expressions on his friends’ faces.
— Whae’s haudin? Billy, c’moan then ya cunt. Billy showed Lenny his hand.
— Two fuckin aces!
— Spawny bastard! You spawny fuckin cunt Renton. Lenny slammed his fist into his palm.
— Jist gies that fuckin loot ower here, Billy Renton said, raking up the pile of notes that lay in the centre of the floor.
— Naz. Chuck us a can ower then, Lenny asked. When the can was thrown over he missed his catch and it hit the floor. He opened it, and much of its contents gushed over Peasbo.
— Moantae fuck ya doss cunt!
— Sorry Peasbo. It’s that cunt, Lenny laughed as he pointed at Naz. — Ah sais tae um tae chuck us a can ower, no tae fling it at ma fuckin heid.
Lenny rose and went to the window.
— Still nae sign ay the cunt? Naz asked. — The game’s fucked withoot the big money.
— Naw. The cunt’s patter’s fuckin rotten, Lenny said.
— Gie the cunt a bell. Find oot whit the fuckin story is, Billy suggested.
— Aye. Right.