Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [47]
— Jist forgot, the cunt goes. Ah bet the rid-heided cunt’s forgot they fuckin cairds oan purpose. It’s fuckin borin withoot cairds eftir a bit.
That fuckin borin cunt starts readin a fuckin book; bad fuckin manners, then him n this Canadian burd, thir baith sortay students like, start talkin aboot aw the fuckin books thuv read. It’s gettin oan ma fuckin tits. Wir supposed tae be doon here fir a fuckin laugh, no tae talk aboot fuckin books n aw that fuckin shite. See if it wis up tae me, ah’d git ivray fuckin book n pit thum on a great big fuckin pile n burn the fuckin loat. Aw books ur fir is fir smart cunts tae show oaf aboot how much shite thuv fuckin read. Ye git aw ye fuckin need tae ken ootay the paper n fae the telly. Posin cunts. Ah’ll gie thum fuckin books . . .
Wi stoap it Darlington n these cunts git oan, checkin thir tickets against oor seat numbers. The train’s still fuckin stowed, so they’ cunts ur fucked fir a seat.
— Excuse me, these are our seats. We booked them, this cunt sais, flashin a ticket in front ay us.
— I’m afraid there must be some mistake, Rents sais. The rid-heided cunt kin be quite fuckin stylish, ah huv tae gie um that; he’s goat style. — There were no cards to indicate a seat reservation when we boarded the train at Edinburgh.
— But we’ve got the reserved tickets here, this cunt wi the John Lennon specs sais.
— Well, I can only suggest that you pursue your complaint with a member of the British Rail staff. My friend and I took these seats in good faith. I’m afraid we can’t be held responsible for any errors made by British Rail. Thank you, and goodnight, he sais, startin tae laugh, the rid-heided cunt thit he is. Ah wis like too busy enjoyin the cunt’s performance tae tell they cunts tae git tae fuck. Ah fuckin hate hassle, but this John Lennon cunt’ll no be telt.
— We have tickets here. That’s proof that these are our seats, the cunt sais. That’s it.
— Hi you! ah sais. — Aye, you, lippy cunt! He turns roond. Ah stands up. — Ye heard whit the gadge sais. Oan yir fuckin bike, ya specky radge! C’moan . . . move it! ah points doon the fuckin train.
— Come on Clive, his mate sais. The cunts fuck off. Jist is fuckin well fir thaim. So ah thought that wis endy fuckin story, bit naw, these cunts come back wi this ticket gadge.
The ticket boy, ye kin see the cunt doesnae really gie a fuck, the perr cunt’s jist daein his joab, starts gaun oan aboot it bein they cunts’ seats, bit ah jist tells the boy straight.
— Ah’m no fuckin carin what they cunts’ve goat oan thir fuckin tickets, mate. Thir wis nae fuckin reservation notices oan they fuckin seats whin we fuckin sat doon in thum. Wir no fuckin movin now. That’s aw thir is tae it. Ye charge enough fir yir fuckin tickets, make sure thirs a fuckin sign up the next time.
— Somebody must have taken it down, he sais. This cunt’ll dae nowt.
— Mibbe they did, mibbe they didnae. That’s no ma fuckin business. Like ah sais, the seats wir free, n ah wis right fuckin in thair. End ay fuckin story.
The ticket boy jist gits intae an argument wi they cunts, eftir tell in thum thit thirs nowt he kin fuckin dae. Ah jist leave thum tae it. Thir threatenin tae complain aboot the guy, n he’s gitting stroppy back.
One cunt in the seat in front’s lookin roond again.
— You goat a fuckin problem mate? ah shouts ower. The cunt gits a beamer n turns roond. Shitein cunt.
Rents faws asleep. The rid-heided cunt’s pished oot ay his fuckin skull. His draftpak’s half-empty n maist ay the cans’ve been tanned. Ah takes his draftpak tae the bogs wi us, empties a bit oot, n fills it up tae the same level wi ma pish. That’s what the cunt gits fir forgettin the fuckin cairds. Thir’s aboot two parts lager, one part pish in it.
Ah gits back n slips it intae place. The cunt’s fast asleep, so’s one ay the burds. The other’s goat her fuckin heid intae that book. Two rides. Dinnae ken whither ah’d rather shag the big fuckin blonde piece or the dark-heided yin the maist.
Ah wakes up that rid-heided cunt at Peterborough. — C’moan Rents. Yir fuckin strugglin