Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [46]
Rents is tannin the voddy, n wir jist near Portybelly whin the cunt’s awready made a big fuckin dent in it. Hates a voddy, that rid-heided cunt. Well, if that’s the wey the cunt wants tae fuckin play it . . . ah grabs the J.D. n swigs it back.
— Here we go, here we go, here we go . . . ah sais. That cunt jist smiles. He keeps lookin ower it the burds, thir likesay American, ken. Problem wi that rid-heided cunt is thit he’s no goat the gift ay the gab is far is burds go, likes, even if the cunt dis huv a certain style. No likesay me n Sick Boy. Mibbe it’s wi him huvin brars instead ay sisters, he jist cannae really fuckin relate tae burds. Ye wait oan that cunt tae make the first fuckin move, ye’ll be waitin a long fuckin time. Ah fuckin show the rid-heided cunt how it’s done.
— No fuckin shy, they British Rail cunts, eh? ah sais, nudgin the burd next tae us.
— Pardon? it sais tae us, sortay soundin likes, ‘par-dawn’ ken?
— Whair’s it yis come fae then?
— Sorry, I can’t really understand you . . . These foreign cunts’ve goat trouble wi the Queen’s fuckin English, ken. Ye huv tae speak louder, slower, n likesay mair posh, fir the cunts tae understand ye.
— WHERE . . . DO . . . YOU . . . COME . . . FROM?
That dis the fuckin trick. These nosey cunts in front ay us look roond. Ah stares back at the cunts. Some fucker’s oan a burst mooth before the end ay this fuckin journey, ah kin see that now.
— Ehm . . . we’re from Toronto, Canada.
— Tirawnto. That wis the Lone Ranger’s mate, wis it no? ah sais. The burds jist look it us. Some punters dinnae fuckin understand the Scottish sense ay humour.
— Where are you from? the other burd sais. Pair ay rides n aw. That rid-heided cunt made a good fuckin move sittin here, ah kin tell ye.
— Edinburgh, Rents goes, tryin tae sound aw fuckin posh, ken. Fuckin smarmy rid-heided cunt. He’s aw ready tae steam in now, aw Joe-fuckin-Cool, once Franco breks the fuckin ice.
These burds ur gaun oantay us aboot how fuckin beautiful Edinburgh is, and how lovely the fuckin castle is oan the hill ower the gairdins n aw that shite. That’s aw they tourist cunts ken though, the castle n Princes Street, n the High Street. Like whin Monny’s auntie came ower fae that wee village oan that Island oaf the west coast ay Ireland, wi aw her bairns.
The wifey goes up tae the council fir a hoose. The council sais tae her, whair’s it ye want tae fuckin stey, like? The woman sais, ah want a hoose in Princes Street lookin oantay the castle. This wifey’s fuckin scoobied likes, speaks that fuckin Gaelic is a first language; disnae even ken that much English. Perr cunt jist liked the look ay the street whin she came oaf the train, thoat the whole fuckin place wis like that. The cunts it the council jist laugh n stick the cunt none ay they hoatline joabs in West Granton, thit nae cunt else wants. Instead ay a view ay the castle, she’s goat a view ay the gasworks. That’s how it fuckin works in real life, if ye urnae a rich cunt wi a big fuckin hoose n plenty poppy.
Anywey, they burds take a wee bevvy wi us, n Rents is pretty steamboats, cause ah’m feelin it n aw n ah kin drink that rid-heided cunt under the fuckin table any fuckin day ay the week. Mind you, ah wis oan the pish last night wi Lexo, eftir we pilled that joab it the jewellers it Corstorphine. That explains how ah feel that fuckin pished now. Whit ah really fancy now though, is a game ay cairds.
— Git the cairds oot Rents.
— Nivir brought any, he sais. Ah dinnae fuckin believe that cunt! Last thing ah fuckin sais tae um the other night wis: Mind the fuckin cairds.
—Ah telt ye tae mind the fuckin cairds, ya doss cunt! Whit wis the last fuckin thing ah sais tae ye the other night? Eh?