Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [65]
Ah realise that ah never see Matty oan his ain, likesay. It’s likesay sometimes jist me n Rents . . . or jist me n Tommy . . . or jist me n Rab . . . or jist me n Sick Boy . . . or even jist me and Generalissimo Franco . . . but never jist me n Matty. That sortay sais something, likesay.
These bad cats leave the basket tae stalk their prey, and the atmosphere is like . . . brilliant. Sick Boy brings oot some E. White doves, ah think. It’s mental gear. Most Ecstasy hasnae any MDMA in it, it’s just likesay, ken, part speed, part acid in its effects . . . but the gear ah’ve hud is always jist likesay good speed, ken? This gear is pure freaky though, pure Zappaesque man . . . that’s the word, Zappaesque . . . ah’m thinkin aboot Frank Zappa wi Joe’s Garage n yellow snow n Jewish princesses n Catholic girls n ah think that it wid be really great tae huv a woman . . . tae love likesay . . . no shaggin likes, well no jist shaggin . . . but tae love, cause ah sortay feel like lovin everybody, but no sortay wi sex . . . jist huvin somebody tae love . . . but likesay Rents’ goat that Hazel n Sick Boy . . . well, Sick Boy’s goat tons ay burds . . . but these catpersons don’t seem any happier than moi . . .
— The other man’s grass is always greener, the sun shines brighter on the other side . . . ah’m fuckin singing likesay, ah never sing . . . ah’ve goat some gear n ah’m singing . . . ah’m thinkin aboot Frank Zappa’s daughter, Moon, likesay . . . she’d dae us fine . . . hingin oot wi her auld man . . . in the recording studio . . . jist tae see likesay the creative process, ken, the creative process . . .
— This is fuckin mad . . . goat tae move or ah’ll git gouchy . . . Sick Boy’s goat his hands in his heid.
Renton’s shirt’s unbuttoned n he’s sortay tweakin his nipples, likesay . . .
— Spud . . . look at ma nipples . . . they feel fuckin weird man . . . nae cunt’s goat nipples like mine . . .
Ah’m talkin tae him aboot love, n Rents says that love doesnae exist, it’s like religion, n likesay the state wants ye tae believe in that kinday crap so’s they kin control ye, n fuck yir heid up . . . some cats cannae enjoy thirsels withoot bringing in politics, ken . . . but he doesnae bring us doon . . . because, it’s likesay he doesnae believe it hissel . . . because . . . because wi laugh at everything in sight . . . the mad guy at the bar wi the burst blood-vessels in his coupon . . . the snobby English Festival-type lemon whae looks like somebody’s just farted under her nose . . .
Sick Boy sais: — Let’s hit the Meadows n take the fuckin pish ootay Begbie n Matty . . . straight, boring, draftpak, schemie cunts!
— Ris-kay catboy, ris-kay . . . he’s pure radge, likesay . . . ah sais.
— Let’s do it for the fans, Rents sais. Him n Sick Boy picked this up fae a Hibs programme advertising the Isle Of Man pre-season soccer tournament. It’s got Hibs top cat Alex Miller looking really stoned in the picture, wi the caption that sais, likesay, ‘Let’s Do It For The Fans’. Whenever thir’s drugs aroond . . . that’s what they say.
We float ootay the pub n cross over tae the Meadows. We start tae sing, likesay Sinatra, in exaggerated American Noo Yawk voices:
Yoo en I, were justa like-a kapil aff taahts
strollin acrass the Meadows
pickin up laahts aff farget-me-naahts.
Thir’s likesay two lassies comin doon the path towards us . . . we ken them . . . it’s likesay that wee Roseanna n Jill . . . two pure honey cats, fae that posh school, is it Gillespie’s or Mary Erskine’s? . . . they hing aboot the Southern likesay, for the sounds, the drugs, the experiences . . .
… Sick Boy outstretches his airms and sortay grabs wee Jill in a bear hug, n Rents likesay does the same wi Roseanna . . . ah’m left jist looking at the clouds likesay, Mr Spare Prick at a hoors convention.
Thir neckin away thegither. This is cruel man, cruel.