Trainspotting (1993) by Irvine Welsh

Justin Siegel writes:

Forget the film adaptation, which is admittedly a wonderful movie. Welsh's novel, stuffed to the brim with rotting and decay and stale piss and puke, is a pure hit of gruesome genius, most likely the greatest book I'll ever read. It focuses on the exploits of Mark, Spud and Sick Boy, three heroin-happy mates in mid-'80s Edinburgh, and their various zany misadventures in dealing with relationships, withdrawals, cash problems and, most importantly, their fear of reality.

(pp. 89-91)

Now he sais : - What does that stuff dae fir ye Mark? His voice is genuinely enquiring.

Ah shrug. Ah dinnae want tae talk aboot this. Thirs cunts wi degrees n diplomas at the Royal Ed n the City peyed tae go through aw this counselling shite wi us. It's done fuck-all good. Tommy's persistent though.

- Tell us Mark. Ah want tae ken.

But then, when ye think aboot it, mibbe mates, whae've stuck by ye through thick n thin, usually fuckin thin, deserve at least an attempt at an explanation, if the counsellors / thought polis get one. Ah launch intae a spiel. Ah feel surprisingly good, calm and clear, talkin aboot it.

- Ah don't really know, Tam, ah jist dinnae. It kinday makes things seem mair real tae us. Life's boring and futile. We start oaf wi high hopes, then we bottle it. We realise that we're aw gaunnae die, withoot really findin oot the big answers. We develop aw they long-winded ideas which jist interpret the reality ay oor lives in different weys, withoot really extending oor body ay worthwhile knowledge, about the big things, the real things. Basically, we live a short, disappointing life ; and then we die. We fill up oor lives wi shite, things like careers and relationships tae delude oorsels that it isnae aw totally pointless. Smack's an honest drug, because it strips away these delusions. Wi smack, whin ye feel good, ye feel immortal. Whin ye feel bad, it intensifies the shite that's already thair. It's the only really honest drug. It doesnae alter yir consciousness. It just gies ye a hit and a sense ay well-being. Eftir that, ye see the misery ay the world as it is, and ye cannae anaesthetise yirsel against it.

- Shite, Tommy sais. Then : - Pure shite. He's probably right n aw. If he asked us the question last week, ah'd huv probably said something completely different. If he asks us the morn, it wid be something else again. At this point in time though, ah'll hing wi the concept that junk'll dae the business whin everything else seems boring and irrelevant.

Ma problem is, whenever ah sense the possibility, or realise the actuality ay attaining something that ah thought ah wanted, be it girlfriend, flat, job, education, money and so on, it jist seems so dull n sterile, that ah cannae value it any mair. Junk's different though. Ye cannae turn yir back oan it sae easy. It willnae let ye. Trying tae manage a junk problem is the ultimate challenge. It's also a fuckin good kick.

- It's also a fuckin good kick.

Tommy looks at us. - Gies a go. Gies a hit.

- Fuck off Tommy.

- Ye sais it's a good kick. Ah pure wantae try it.

- Ye dinnae. C'moan Tommy, take ma word fir it. This jist seems tae encourage the cunt mair.

- Ah've goat the hireys. C'moan. Cook us up a shot.

- Tommy ... fuck sake man ...

- Ah'm tellin ye, c'moan. Supposed tae be fuckin mates, ya cunt. Cook us up a shot. Ah kin fuckin handle it. One fuckin shot isnae gaunnae hurt us. C'moan.

Ah shrug n dae as Tommy requests. Ah gie ma works a good clean, then ah cook up a light shot and help him take it.

- This is pure fuckin brilliant Mark ... it's a fuckin rollercoaster ride man ... ah'm fuckin buzzin here ... ah'm jist pure buzzin ...

His reaction is shitein us up. Some cunts are just so predisposed tae skag ...

Later, when Tommy comes doon and is ready tae go, ah tell um : - Yuv done it mate. That's you goat the set now. Dope, acid, speed, E, mushies, nembies, vallies, smack, the fuckin lot. Knock it oan the heid. Make that the first n last time.

Ah said that because ah wis sure the cunt wis gaunnae ask us fir some tae take away wi him. Ah've no goat enough tae spare. Ah've never goat enough tae spare.

- Too fuckin right, he sais, flingin oan his jaykit.

When Tommy's gone, ah notice fir the first time thit ma cock's itchin like fuck. Ah cannae scratch it though. If ah start scratchin it, ah'll infect the bastard. Then ah've goat some real problems.

(pp. 278-279)

"The Elusive Mr. Hunt"

Kelly is working behind the bar at a punter's pub in the South Side. She is kept busy, as it is a popular shop. It is particularly mobbed out this Saturday afternoon when Renton, Spud and Gav call in for a drink.

Sick Boy, positioned at the phone in another pub over the road, calls the bar.

- Be wi ye in a minute Mark, Kelly says, as Renton goes up to get the drinks in. She picks up the ringing phone. - Rutherford's Bar, she sings.

- Hi, says Sick Boy, disguising his voice, Malcolm Rifkind merchant-school style. - Is there a Mark Hunt in the bar?

- Thir's a Mark Renton, Kelly tells him. Sick Boy thinks for a second that he's been rumbled. However, he carries on.

- No, it's Mark Hunt I'm looking for, the plummy voice stresses.

- MARK HUNT! Kelly shouts across the bar. The drinkers, who are almost exclusively male, look around at her ; faces breaking into smiles. - ANYBODY SEEN MARK HUNT? Some guys at the bar collapse into loud laughter.

- Naw, but ah'd like tae! one says.

Kelly still doesn't catch on. With a puzzled expression at the reaction she is getting, she says : - This guy on the phone wis after Mark Hunt ... then her voice tails off, her eyes widen and she puts her hand to her mouth, understanding at last.

- He's no the only one, Renton smiles, as Sick Boy comes into the pub.

They practically have to hold each other up, as they are so overwhelmed with laughter.

Kelly throws the half-empty contents of a water jug at them, but they scarcely notice. While it's all a laugh to them, she feels humiliated. She feels bad about feeling bad, about not being able to take a joke.

Until she realises that it's not the joke that bothers her, but the men in the bar's reaction to it. Behind the bar, she feels like a caged animal in a zoo who has done something amusing. She watches their faces, distorted into a red, gaping, gloating commonality. The joke is on the woman again, she thinks, the silly wee lassie behind the bar.

Renton looks at her and sees her pain and anger. It cuts him up. It confuses him. Kelly has a great sense of humour. What's wrong with her? The knee-jerk thought : Wrong time of the month is forming in his head when he looks about and picks up the intonations of the laughter around the bar. It's not funny laughter.

This is lynch mob laughter.

How was ah tae know, he thinks. How the fuck was ah tae know?