flies batter oaf ma face, sending shivers through ma body.
ah grab at one, and tae ma surprise and elation, feel it buzzing in ma hand. ah
squeeze tightly enough tae immobilise it. ah open my mitt tae see a huge, filthy
bluebottle, a big, furry currant ay a bastard.
ah smear it against the wall opposite; tracing out an 'h' then an 'i' then a 'b'
wi ma index finger, using its guts, tissue and blood as ink. ah start oan the
's' but ma supply grows thin. nae problem. ah borrow fae the 'h', which has a
thick surplus, and complete the 's'. ah sit as far back as ah can, withoot sliding
intae the shit-pit below ays, and admire ma handiwork. the vile bluebottle, which
caused me a great deal of distress, has been transformed intae a work of art which
gives me much pleasure tae look at.
the socialists go on about your comrades, your class,
your union, and society. fuck all that shite. the tories go on about your employer,
your country, your family. fuck that even mair.
they were always slagging each other off. generally, if
one said sugar, the other said shite.
ah love ma, love her too much, but in a way which is hard
for us tae define, a way which makes it difficult, almost impossible, tae ever
actually tell her. but ah love her nonetheless. so much that ah don't want her
tae have a son like me. ah wish ah could find her a replacement. ah wish that
because ah don't think change is an option for us.
it's nae good blamin it oan the english fir colonising us.
ah don't hate the english. they're just wankers. we are colonised by wankers.
we can't even pick a decent, vibrant, healthy culture to be colonised by. no.
we're ruled by effete arseholes. what does that make us? wretched, servile, miserable,
pathetic trash that was ever shat intae creation. ah don't hate the english. they
just git oan wi the shite thuv goat. ah hate the scots.
on his way out the door with the american women, sick boy
turns back, raising one eyebrow at renton, roger moore style, as he vacates the
bar. a speed-induced flash of paranoia hit renton. he wonders if perhaps sick
boy's success with women is based on his ability to raise the one eyebrow. renton
knows how difficult it is. he'd spent many an evening practising the skill in
front of the mirror, but both brows kept elevating simultaneously.
this one's for you fido, or rocky, or rambo, or tyson or
whatever the fuck your shite-brained, fuckwit of an owner has dubbed you. this
is fir aw the bairns you've slaughtered, faces you've disfigured and shite you've
deposited in our streets. above all though, it's for the shite you've done in
the parks, shite which always finds its way onto simone's body whenever he puts
in a sliding tackle in his midfield role for abbeyhill athletic in the lothian
sunday amateurs' league.
ah wonder if anybody this side of the atlantic has ever
bought a baseball bat with playing baseball in mind.
choose us. choose life. choose mortgage payments; choose
washing machines; choose cars; choose sitting oan a couch watching mind-numbing
and spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fuckin junk food intae yir mooth. choose
rotting away, pishing and shiteing yersel in a home, a total fuckin embarrassment
tae the selfish, fucked-up brats ye've produced. choose life.
well, ah choose no tae choose life. if the cunts cannae handle that, it's thair
fuckin problem.
fuck the facts, these trivial
things, they petty jealousies become part ay the mythology in a place like leith,
a place fill ay nosey cunts who willnae mind their ain business. a place ay dispossessed
white trash in a trash country fill ay dispossessed white trash. some say that
the irish are the trash ay europe. that's shite. it's the scots. the irish hud
the bottle tae win thir country back, or at least maist ay it.
—ah've telt ye ah dinnae eat meat ma, ah sais.
—ye eywis liked yir mince n tatties. that's whair ye've gone wrong son, no eating
the right things. ye need meat.
now there is apparently a causal link between heroin addiction and vegetarianism.
—...hearin a woman speak in french when yir shaggin her
is such a big turn oan.
—aye, but whit's she saying? ah bet it's somethin like: your deek eez so how
you say, tynee, 'ave you starteed yet... ah bet that's whit she speaks in french
fir.
every cunt under the sun thinks thit thir ma's the best
cook in the world. ah thought so tae, until ah went tae live oan ma ain. ah realised
then thit ma ma's a shite cook.
faither's growing a moustache. with his close-cropped hair
he will look like a liberated homosexual, a clone. freddie mercury. he disnae
understand the culture. ah explain it tae him and he's dismissive.
the next day, however, the moustache is gone. faither now 'cannae be bothered'
growing it.
it's more likely because i envy the cunt. he doesnae care.
because he doesnae care, he cannae be hurt. never.
...failure, success, what is it? whae gies a fuck. we aw
live, then we die, in quite a short space ay time n aw. that's it; end ay fuckin
story.
then sun has a power. you can understand why people worship
it. it's there, we know the sun, we can see it, and we need it.
—have you goat a girlfriend? ah doubt it, because yir
a fat, ugly prick. why no just go intae the toilet wi a dirty book and have sex
wi the only person crazy enough tae touch ye—yirsel.
ah look again at the joint burning away in her hand. ah
try tae feel something. anything. what ah'm really looking for is the demon, the
bad bastard, the radge inside ay me who shuts down ma brain, who propels hand
to joint and joint to lips and sucks and sucks like a vacuum cleaner. he's no
coming oot tae play. maybe he doesnae live here any mair. all that's left is the
nine-to-five arsehole. |
