Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [12]
And what is Rents proposing, on this beautiful afternoon of vintage cruisin weather? The cunt has the fuckin audacity tae suggest that we go back to his gaff, which reeks of alcohol, stale spunk and garbage which should have been pit oot weeks ago, tae watch videos. Draw the curtains, block out the sunlight, block out your own fucking brainwaves, and deek him sniggering like a moron wi a joint in his hand at everything that comes on the pox-box. Well, non, non, non, Monsieur Renton, Simone is not cut out to sit in darkened rooms with Leith plebs and junkies rabbiting shite aw affie. Cause ah wis made for lovin you bay-bee, you wir made for lovin me . . .
. . . a fat hound has waddled out in front ay the lemon wi the VPLs, blocking my view of that subliminal rear with her obese arse. She has the fuckin cheek tae wear tight leggings — totally and completely oblivious to the delicate nature of Simone’s stomach!!
— There’s a slim chicky! ah sarcastically observe.
— Fuck off ya sexist cunt, the Rent Boy sais.
Ah’m tempted tae ignore the bastard. Mates are a waste of fucking time. They are always ready to drag you down tae their level of social, sexual and intellectual mediocrity. I’d better dismiss the radge though, in case he thinks he’s got one up on us.
— The fact that you use the term ‘cunt’ in the same breath as ‘sexist’, shows that ye display the same muddled, fucked-up thinking oan this issue as you do oan everything else.
That scoobies the cunt. Eh sais something biscuit-ersed in reply, in a pathetic attempt tae salvage the situation. Rent Boy 0, Simone 1. We both know it. Renton, Renton, what’s the score . . .
The Bridges is hotchin wi minge. Ooh, ooh la la, let’s go dancin, ooh, ooh la la, Simon dancin . . . There is fanny of every race, colour, creed and nationality present. Oh ya cunt, ye! It’s time tae move. Two oriental types consulting a map. Simone express, that’ll do nicely. Fuck Rents, he’s a doss bastard, totally US.
— Can I help you? Where are you headed? ah ask. Good old-fashioned Scoattish hoshpitality, aye, ye cannae beat it, shays the young Sean Connery, the new Bond, cause girls, this is the new bondage . . .
— We’re looking for the Royal Mile, a posh, English-colonial voice answers back in ma face. What a fucking wee pump-up-the-knickers n aw. Simple Simon sais, put your hands on your feet . . .
Of course, the Rent Boy is looking like a flaccid prick in a barrel-load ay fannies. Sometimes ah really think the gadge still believes that an erection is for pishing over high walls.
— Follow us. Are you going to a show? Yes, you can’t beat the Festival for bringing out the mantovani.
— Yes. One of the (china) dolls hands us a piece ay paper wi Brecht: The Caucasian Chalk Circle by Nottingham University Theatre Group on it. Doubtless a collection of zit-encrusted, squeaky-voiced wankers playing oot a miserable pretension tae the arts before graduating to work in the power stations which give the local children leukemia or investment consultancies which shut doon factories, throwing people into poverty and despair. Still, let’s git the board-treading ootay the system first. Fucking toss bags, don’t you agree, Sean, ma auld fellow former milk-delivering mucker? Yesh Shimon, I shink you may have a shtrong point thair. Auld Sean and I have so many parallels. Both Edina lads, both ex-co-op milk boys. Ah only did the Leith run, whereas Sean, if ye listen tae any auld fucker, delivered milk tae every household in the city. Child labour laws were more lax then, I suppose. One area in which wi differ is looks. Sean is completely out-Sean in that department