Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [124]
Another snaps: — A tourist! They speak very loudly. Cheeky cunts.
One then sais, gesturing in ma direction: — I don’t know though. I wouldn’t kick that out of bed.
You prick. You fucking doss prick.
Ah’m seething inwardly, trying tae pretend ah didnae hear that remark. Ah cannae afford tae lose this job. Ah need the money. No cash; no Uni, no degree. Ah want that degree. Ah really fuckin want it more than anything.
As they study the menu, one ay the guys, a dark-haired skinny wanker wi a long fringe, smiles lecherously at us. — Orlroit dahlin? he sais, in a put-on Cockney accent. It’s a vogue thing for the rich tae dae on occasion, I understand. God, ah want tae tell this creep tae fuck off. Ah dinnae need this shite . . . aye ah do.
— Give us a smile then, girlie! a fatter guys sais, in a booming, officious voice. The voice ay arrogant, ignorant wealth unchallenged, untainted by sensitivity or intellect. Ah try tae smile in a condescending wey, but ma face muscles are frozen. Thank fuck as well.
Taking the order is a nightmare. They are engrossed in conversations aboot careers; commodity broking, public relations and company law seeming tae be the most popular, in between casually patronising and trying tae humiliate me. The skinny creep actually asks me what time ah finish, and ah ignore him, as the rest make whooping noises and dae a drum roll on the table. Ah complete the order, feeling shattered and debased, and depart tae the kitchen.
Ah’m really shaking wi rage, wondering how long ah can control this, wishing that Louise or Marisa were on tonight, another woman tae talk tae.
— Can’t ye get these fuckin arseholes oot ay here? ah snap at Graham.
— It’s business. The customer’s always right, even if he’s a fuckin knob-end.
Ah remember Mark telling me aboot the time he worked at the Horse Of The Year Show at Wembley, doing catering wi Sick Boy, one summer years ago. He always said that waiters have power; never mess wi a waiter. He’s right, of course. It’s now time tae use that power.
Ah’m smack-bang in the middle ay a heavy period, and ah’m feeling that scraped out, drained way. Ah go tae the toilet and change tampons, wrapping the used one, which is saturated wi discharge, intae some toilet paper.
A couple ay these rich, imperialist bastards have ordered soup; our trendy tomato and orange. As Graham’s busy preparing the main courses, ah take the bloodied tampon and lower it, like a tea-bag, intae the first bowl ay soup. Ah then squeeze its manky contents oot wi a fork. A couple ay strands ay black, uterallining float in the soup, before being dissolved wi a healthy stir.
Ah deliver the two paté starters and two soups tae the table, making sure that the skinny, gelled fuck-up has got the spiked one. One ay the party, a guy wi a brown beard and phenomenally ugly, protruding teeth, is telling the table, again very loudly, aboot how terrible Hawaii is.
— Too bloody hot. Not that I mind the heat, it’s just that it’s not like the rich, baking heat of Southern California. This place is so bloody humid, you just sweat like a pig all the time. One is also continually harassed by peasant scum trying to sell you all their ridiculous trinkets.
— More wine! the fat, fair-heided prick petulantly booms at us.
Ah go back tae the lavvy and fill a saucepan with ma urine. Cystitis is a problem for me, particularly during ma periods. Ma pish has that stagnant, cloudy look, which suggests a urinary-tract infection.
Ah dilute the carafe ay wine with ma pish; it looks a bit cloudy, but they’re so smashed they winnae notice. Ah pour a quarter ay the wine intae the sink, topping up the carafe with ma pish de resistance.
Ah pour some more ay ma pish ontae the fish. It’s the same colour and consistency as the sauces which marinate it. Crazy!
These pricks eat and drink everything withoot even noticing.
It’s hard tae shite ontae a piece of newspaper in the toilet; the bog is small, and it’s difficult tae squat. Graham’s also shouting aboot something. Ah manage a small