MEN IN LOVE
ALSO BY IRVINE WELSH
fiction
Trainspotting
The Acid House
Marabou Stork Nightmares
Ecstasy
Filth
Glue
Porno
The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs
If You Liked School, You’ll Love Work . . .
Crime
Reheated Cabbage Skagboys
The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins
A Decent Ride
The Blade Artist
Dead Men’s Trousers
The Long Knives
Resolution drama
You’ll Have Had Your Hole
Babylon Heights (with Dean Cavanagh)
screenplay
The Acid House
MEN IN LOVE
The Quest for Romance
IRVINE WELSH
Jonathan Cape, an imprint of Vintage, is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies
Vintage, Penguin Random House UK , One Embassy Gardens, 8 Viaduct Gardens, London SW 11 7BW
penguin.co.uk/vintage global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published by Jonathan Cape in 2025
Copyright © Irvine Welsh 2025
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Quotes on page 97 from ‘Money, Money, Money’ by Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus; on page 176 from ‘Heroes’ by David Bowie and Brian Eno; on page 442 from ‘Love Is in the Air’ by Harry Vanda and George Young; and on pages 457 and 458 from ‘Baby Jane’ by Rod Stewart.
This is a work of fiction. In some cases real life figures appear but their actions and conversations are entirely fictitious. All other characters and all names of places and descriptions of events are the products of the author’s imagination.
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For Emma.
You make sure that every day, and in every way, I’m a man in love.
What is better than wisdom? Woman. And what is better than a good woman? Nothing.
– Chaucer
The Mentor 1 1
Infatuation 7
1. An Exile’s Diary; 2. My Name Is Simon David Williamson; 3. Nosebags in Amsterdam; 4. The Subversive Magic of Love; 5. The Love of His Life; 6. Stalking Souls; 7. Grime and Punishment
Mentor 2 81
8. Kitchen; 9. The Pressure Builds; 10. The French Erection; 11. Spring Is in the Air; 12. They Call Them Acid Days; 13. Neat Little Packages: 1; 14. Neat Little Packages: 2; 15. Neat Little Packages: 3; 16. A Forecast of Rain; 17. A Dutch Romance; 18. The Impostors; 19. Home Testing
The Mentor 3 199
Courtship 203 20. Train Tickets; 21. Chequers; 22. Fair Scotia; 23. Office Politics; 24. The Confrontation Game; 25. Thinking about the Government; 26. No Fucking in Chicken; 27. 2nd Conflict v Godfrey; 28. The Talented Mister Murphy; 29. Birth; 30. Unfortunate Children; 31. The Spirit of Adventure; 32. Do Not See, Do; 33. Weeds in the Garden; 34. A Second,
Third, Fourth, etc. Chance; 35. Not Where You Eat; 36. Pentlands; 37. A Stable Relationship; 38. A Home Office
39. Battling Hole Complacency; 40. Emotional Cheques; 41. A Knight of the Realm; 42. Resisting Temptation; 43. Choring Days; 44. Swinging in the Rain; 45. Wedding of the Year: 1; 46. Wedding of the Year: 2; 47. Wedding of the Year: 3; 48. Wedding of the Year: 4; 49. A Darker Room; 50. It Was Some Reception; 51. To Go Baw-Deep; 52. The Darkest of Rooms; 53. Wedding of the Year: 5; 54. Chants Crass and Guttural; 55. Feel the New Generation; 56. Newcastle Disunited; 57. A Retrospective Invite; 58. On Love – A Man of Our Era; 59. On Love – The Love Cat on the Hot Tin Roof; 60. On Love –The Warrior for War; 61. On Love – The Quester
THE MENTOR 1
Edward Allister Reece bore a strong physical resemblance to the writer Samuel Beckett. Rail-thin, sharp-featured, sprouting lush salt-andpepper hair, cut short-back-and-sides, he possessed a face with as many striations as Murrayfield ice rink. A born-and-bred son of the port of Leith, Reece had taken his merchant seaman’s papers at the local nautical college. Following the demolition of his tenement home in Burlington Street, he had decanted to nearby Granton with his wife, Jessie, and their two children, Alan and Karen. In the main, while waiting on a ship’s berth, Eddie frequented several Leith drinking saloons, notably the Marksman Bar in Duke Street, also occasionally seen in his neighbourhood pubs, the Tap or the Anchor, with the Wardie Hotel reserved for Sundays.
Like Beckett, Eddie Reece was a literary soul, albeit in the secretive way common to many working men. Wary of exposing, for fear of ridicule, an enquiring, expansive mind, to both members of his own class and a disapproving bourgeoisie, most of his reading was done at sea, in the confines of a narrow cabin. One slim book was always by the side of his bed, and he read it as others might do the Bible or the Koran, dipping into sections at random. It was nothing fancy, a dogeared paperback, written in an old vernacular language that his more inquisitive shipmates found impenetrable.
The Marksman Bar was the haunt of the holy trinity of old-school Leith soaks: the shipbuilders from the Robb Caledon yards, the dockers and the merchant navy seamen. A small, ugly howff, it was a bit like a dole office, its harsh and challenging overhead lighting seemingly
designed for the exhibition of crumbling mortality. Its character was provided solely by those men – and they were practically all men – who imbibed in there.
In the early eighties, when industrial Leith was already a vanishing world, it had been fashionable for some of the local young team to drop in. They would enjoy a quick drink with their dads, uncles and neighbours. Listen to some old tales. Pick up dods of wisdom or stupidity, before making their way to their own favoured haunts.
Mark Renton, Simon Williamson, Francis Begbie, Daniel Murphy and Robert McLaughlin were part of a noisy, boisterous group of teenage pals and loosely federated allies who would pop into the Marksman early doors. The saltier dockers tended to proffer the youth with advice on chorie; it was all about knock-off and stolen goods. For the edgier boys on the tools at the yards, blade violence, though receding from its sixties and seventies high-fashion heyday, was very often the topic of conversation.
Spud Murphy’s fascination lay with the dockers and thieving. ‘Franco’ Begbie and ‘Second Prize’ McLaughlin listened intently to the welders, turners and fitters. But Mark ‘Rent Boy’ Renton and Simon ‘Sick Boy’ Williamson were fascinated by the merchant seamen, and one in particular. Eddie Reece quietly embodied the travel-and-shagging lifestyle this young pairing aspired to.
To discuss sex with either of their own fathers would have been distasteful. Both shipyard welder David Renton, due to a mortifying shyness on this issue, and non-worker Davy Williamson, on the grounds of sneering boastfulness, deterred their sons from making such overtures. The mentor had to be an uncle figure.
Therefore, they sought guidance from the circumspect libertine, Eddie Reece, who would allow his whisky glass to be filled, in exchange for the dispensing of his calm, philandering advice. If condensed, this counsel would have been: think global rather than local.
Reece would survey the bar, phlegmatically observing the brash young men consorting with his comrades. Very quickly he had singled
out Renton and Williamson. — You boys are curious. This place is too small for youse. He regarded them with another man’s smile, one he’d carefully mimicked in his cabin at sea, when convinced of its effectiveness.—Yi’ll be miserable if youse stey here. You’re wanderers. Proper port boys: such a blessin. See, a port is never a home, it’s just the front door intae it. The world is yir home. His eyes swivelled to the group of youths that were Renton and Williamson’s cohorts.—Take these lads, they’ll go doon the Spiral, meet some wee hairy, get her up the duff, and that’s them tied here forever. Game over. And they’ll be happy, Reece’s creased face furrowed deeper,—at least for a while. Till life . . . he looked around some of the older, more desiccated men in the bar,—gets mair and mair shite. They’ve ten years tops, then the lack ay adventure, the lack ay change, just crushes them slowly. That’ll never be enough for youse boys.
Plenty game fanny doon the Spiral, but, the teenage Renton had defiantly proclaimed. He was thinking of Kelly and Nicky, both of whom he fancied, and even Alison, though she was into Sick Boy. While he believed these local lassies were much more than Eddie was allowing, his testy response was due to Reece’s words striking a chord. His older brother, Billy, was destined to marry his school girlfriend. The only travel coming his way would be to military camps in Belfast and Germany with the army.
Reece recognised this unsettled force in Renton, refusing to let him off the hook.—Come on, son, you ken what I’m on aboot. You dinnae even need tae be an auld sea dog like me. A mile up the toon, he pointed outside,—for one month, you’ve got the Edinburgh Festival. Posh fanny. Birds ay aw nationalities and colours. He ran a hand through his luxuriant quiff.
Sick Boy was entranced.—Posh birds . . . sounds good.
Reece picked up his glass of whisky. Took a sip of the harsh blend.—Wi posh lassies you have tae make love tae them like ye would a cabin boy . . .
Renton and Sick Boy looked at each other, wide-eyed in shock.
A couple of Eddie’s comrades, who had overheard this, piped in,— Dinnae listen tae um!
He’s an awfay man!
But the two younger men instinctively knew that Reece was being deadly serious. They were all ears.
Portuguese cabin boys are the best, Eddie mused, raising the glass to his lips.
And to the chagrin of their mates, especially Frank Begbie, who questioned the need tae pey toon prices when there was game fanny doon here, Sick Boy and Renton became city rats, eschewing the charms of the old port. Particularly at festival time.
But they continued to poke their heads into the Marksman, rarely stopping, indeed somewhat bereft, if there was no sign of that attenuated figure, with trademark silver short back and sides, holding up the bar.
On one fruitful visit, they were treated to one of Reece’s most memorable throwaways.—You need tae decide whether you’re a shagger or a lover.
Lover, Mark Renton said immediately. Sick Boy hesitated.
Reece struck up again.—Because a shagger will get the most women . . .
Renton’s face fell slightly, as Sick Boy burst in with:—Shagger!
— . . . but when a shagger faws in love, it’s game over. Always spells trouble.
What are you, Eddie? Renton asked.
Reece looked at the two young men, then said sombrely, almost in regret,—I’m a shagger, son.
But your wife, your kids . . . Renton protested.
Shagger, Reece said emphatically, an almost menacing glint in his eye, as he rattled an empty glass on the bar.
Renton and Sick Boy responded to the old salt’s tutelage, filled his glass, and took off towards town.
The two youths were brothers in arms, soundtracked by Iggy Pop
and Lou Reed, egging each other on to different undertakings. To new transgressions.
There wasn’t an album they wouldn’t buy, or a drug they wouldn’t try.
Then it spiralled out of control, and the friendship went sour. Renton ran off with the cash from a drug deal. The four who were ripped off – Sick Boy, Franco Begbie, Spud Murphy and Second Prize – swore bitter revenge. They were left with nothing.
Nothing but the eternal quest of all men: the search for love.
Infatuation
AN EXILE’S DIARY
If others had not been foolish, we should be so.
– William Blake
I can barely bring myself to look outside the hotel window, across those dark, cobbled streets to the still, black waters of the canal. Especially when I see people out there. From this stifling room, the thoughts that my nerves, jangling under a gossamer skin, transmit to my brain, are unrelentingly bleak. Sometimes, I crave death’s deliverance: escape from these hyper-acute, sabotaging senses. Then a manic chuckle breaks from me as I contemplate this folly and the ridiculousness of my situation. Alone, alienated from everyone. A bag stuffed full of cash. Withdrawing from heroin. Marking off a day at a time in this diary. My hand steadier on the more recent entries. Letting time outrun pain. The minute particulars.
Pain means healing.
I’ve been here before. I can get through this shite.
The hotel room is small but well utilised: bed, sink, wardrobe, bedside table that extends into a petite built-in desk where, under these indented lights, I scribble my notes. A few books lie on it: Blake, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, all the
great English Romantic writers. There’s a hairdryer and an iron. A small combination safe is built into the wall. And my best friend and worst enemy, a noisy, truculent fan, whirring its barely stifled roar, insistent, almost hypnotic. I want to turn it off, but I would choke in the hot air, so I let its angry rhythm scramble my head, even as its cooling breeze soothes my burning body.
I keep the lighting low, oppressed by the grotesque maroon walls. It’s the dead of night and I lie here on the bed, exhausted but wide awake in the summer heat; clammy, sweaty, just waiting. Sleep won’t take me. When it does, I’ll be stuck in between thought and dream, in a bizarre, fractured realm of torment, waking up even more fucked.
But every day gone feels like a small victory. I crave the passing of time. I rarely venture outside. Yesterday, when I heard them preparing the morning breakfast, I tiptoed down and took a coffee and croissant up to my room. I managed to get the pastry down after dunking it in the drink. My first solids in a while.
I want. It sounds better than I need. That’s a good sign. Thinking about wants, about sex, love. Could I stand a girl’s touch yet, across my burning, fevered skin?
No. Not yet. I can barely step out into the threatening world of cars, buses, trams and, most of all, cyclists. All seem determined to kill me. I avoid contact with people. There is one eye-catching receptionist downstairs at the desk beyond the narrow staircase; tumbling, chestnut-brown hair curling to her shoulders, lazy but piercing flirty eyes, big white teeth, smooth, unblemished Dutch skin with cheekbones as sharp as my old friend Francis Begbie’s Stanley knife. The curves and angles in the tight dresses she wears could almost be designed by computer to hit some kind
of sexual optimum jackpot. Most certainly in this machine, at any rate. She’s on some evenings when I go down to the allnight grocer for my sustenance tins of cold soup and tubs of yogurt and ice cream. Her name is Monique. I know this because I heard the hotel manager call on her.
In a chaste, romantic fondness, I think about girls I’ve known without sexualising them. I’m too fucked to wank and I was never keen on masturbation, preferring the wonderful wet dreams that abstinence serves up in the waking hours. They take me back into the arms of Hazel, Charlene, Fiona and Kelly: the ones you kind of loved. Then there were the others you rode, and the countless more you fancied. In the morning the bed often seems more saturated in spunk than sweat. Look at me: no hands!
Kelly . . what a great lassie she was. She kind of got me. If I’d been clean . . but I gave up Fiona for drugs, and Kelly, to get off them, along with my friends and family, my home. But now I’m in a hotel room, sick in a strange town. Often, I feel myself teetering on the verge of savouring a twisted romance inherent in this.
Sometimes Monique on reception gets picked up by a tall guy with collar-length black hair and a hooked nose. The performative growl of his motorbike assaults me in nerve-rasping offence. Then I watch her climb on the back, a shapely leg on display through the slash in a long skirt. On display? For who? Me? Ha! No helmet, her brown hair flowing as they tear off down the cobbled canal street.
I don’t know the manager’s name, though he did tell me, when I booked this room for the month. I’m now into one week past
that. Once the snotters stop blinding me, I quit shaking like a leaf in a gale, finally ridding myself of this body toothache, I might say hello properly. Hello, everyone, I’m Mark. Room 17.
It should take another fortnight.
As bad as it is, I’m still here. I will survive and do better. To paraphrase William Blake: thank fuck for once being a daft cunt.
2
MY NAME IS SIMON DAVID WILLIAMSON
All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame.
– Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The man, in his mid-twenties and a stranger to the group, rises from his chair of tubular black metal and moulded red plastic. His bearing strong and confident. Unlike most of the others in the functional room of this north London community centre, located in a nondescript backstreet off a main shopping thoroughfare, he is persuasively dressed, sporting a long Burberry overcoat. His hair is cut in mod revivalist fashion, with hooked pseudo-sideboards. Strip lights above dazzle a magnesium flare on the leather uppers of Italian shoes, handmade by a Milanese cobbler in Shoreditch. His eyes, a fiery blaze of luminous sepia, stand out in the sea of dulled trepidation around him. Perhaps the only clue of any residual trauma lies in a faint shading beneath them, and the gauntness of his pallid face.
As all eyes fall upon him, he lets the silence hang. Picks his moment.—My name is Simon David Williamson and I’m a drug addict, he announces in strident authority.
From the eight other occupants, the respondent chorus,— Welcome, Simon, ranging from grudged mumbles to enthusiastic salutations, bubbles through the room.
— There. Got your attention. Williamson tosses his head back.—That keeps us in that comfortable world of absolutes. Sobriety is essential. Intoxication is the devil’s work . . .
Philip Carter, a skinny, angular man in faded jeans and grey polo-neck sweater, scrunches his features in disbelief. Chairing such groups means attesting to all sorts of evinced behaviours. This, disturbingly, hints at something new.
— . . . the only problem being it’s absolute bullshit. Williamson thrusts his jaw forward.—Most people are here because, let’s face it, he looks around the perplexed faces in pitying contempt,—they’re either inherently mentally ill, or somebody, some butt-fucking stepfather or uncle, has made them that way. Drug abuse? Just the manifestation of this.
His words set off gasps of shock, bemusement and scorn. One burly, shaven-headed man springs up, pointing at him, declaring, to the cheers and applause of others,—You don’t know nuffink abaht my loife! Don’t tell me abaht my loife!
Simon David Williamson sits in calm defiance, chin visibly extending further.—You’re telling me all I need to know, right now!
The skinhead takes a step forward.—Who are ya, you cahnt?
He’s restrained by another man, who fastens a grip on his wrist.—Don’t rise to his bait, mate.
— Thank you, Len, Mickey. Philip Carter waves them down, urging calm.
Perhaps embarrassed by his loss of control in contrast to Williamson’s demeanour of sharkishly cool satisfaction, Mickey, the skinhead, complies, lowering himself back into his seat, settling for training a malevolent glare on his antagonist.
Carter pauses to let the heat leak from the faces around him. Then he addresses Simon David Williamson.—Well . . . Simon . . . seeing as you have it all figured out, why are you here?
Simon David Williamson, known as Sick Boy in his home town of Leith, Edinburgh, Scotland, glances at the blondehaired girl opposite him in the semicircle. The one he’d seen in the street earlier, and had followed into this hall. After her golden mop had demanded a second glance, the lacy gloves she wore had further intrigued him. The next hook was her unbowed, upright posture, as she moved in an untroubled glide through that door. A dramatic contrast to the hunched, furtive, beaten look normally evidenced at such venues. For this was Sick Boy’s modus operandi: hanging around rehab group meetings, waiting till he saw a desirable woman go into one.
The woman, early twenties, around five six, with dark, hypnotic eyes, regards him with interest. She is dressed in what he judges as a combination of expensive boutique, high-street chain and second-hand-store chic, but blended with the aesthete’s care. Yes, he has her attention. Time to show his human side, and dispense what they crave.—Forgive my presumption . . . Sick Boy begins, in suddenly penitent tones,—I’ve had ma issues wi drugs, he corrects himself,—my issues with drugs . . . and lowers his head, shaking it slowly. When he lifts it to reveal his gaze again, his eyes are wide and moist.—I’ve found it hard tae accept, because there seems to be no reason. He slams his fist into his palm.—I mean, neither of my siblings touched drugs. I’ve never been abused, had mental health issues, or any other trauma. Why me? he pleads.
A few heads nod empathically.
Carter again permits the silence in the room to play for a couple of beats. Then, while looking to Sick Boy, he addresses the gathering.—One of the things we do in this group is to
accept that the ‘why’ is less important that the actuality of it. When we do this, and permit our own powerlessness in the face of addiction, then we really start the process of recovery.
Another woman, whom Sick Boy considers too obese to be a genuine drug addict (there seemed to be one in every NA group), regards him with a sneer.—With that arrogance, you’ll never accept your own powerlessness in the face of the drug!
— Ere, ere! Mickey shouts.
— Thanks, Caz. Philip Carter nods to the woman.
Sick Boy savours the percolation of his own malice. Caz and effect. You’ve been flapping adrift in sobriety a long time. Bakery goods urnae lifebelts. It seeps satisfyingly through him as he settles back to listen to stories all too familiar. They were constantly aired in such groups; some he had recited himself, and, depressingly for a man who loved to celebrate his own sense of uniqueness, almost verbatim. The meeting rambles on, and he finds it hard to keep his eyes off the blonde girl. As he scrutinises her, his sole taps a beat on the wooden floor. Dripping with focus and intelligence, carefully evaluating the words of the speakers.
He’s relieved when the coffee break is signalled. Knows from experience in the rehab environment just how replete with opportunity such respite time can be. Opting to take care of pressing business first, Sick Boy apologises to Mickey, citing nerves as an excuse for his belligerent, obnoxious behaviour. The sturdy man, who’d looked like he wanted to break his legs, graciously accepts. Extends a hand. A hearty shake exchanged.—Takes a big man ta see the error orf is woys.
Nodding with a terse smile, Sick Boy slips away to approach the blonde girl, who stands by the green coffee urn. Immediately he ascertains that her hair colouring comes from a bottle: darker brown roots are in evidence.—Hi, he smiles.
She lets her eyebrows, plucked quite thinly, raise in an
entrancing double arc that frames a strong gaze.—That was quite impressive.
— Thanks. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sold on sobriety, definitely not going into that black hole again, Sick Boy emphatically declares,—but I’m not convinced that this is my vehicle. I don’t want to spend my time talking about how horrible drugs are and hearing stories of lives fucked up. I’ve seen all that shit.
— That’s exactly where I am, she nods.—I’m Amanda, by the way.
Her accent, though tempered a little with fake Estuary twang, gives her away as privately educated posh; her relaxed but self-possessed bearing amplifying this impression.
— A pleasure to meet you, Amanda. I’m Simon –
— David Williamson. You were categorical about that, she says, flushing a little.
— Well, Amanda, we seem to be on the same page, and I’m not quite sure it’s this one, he grins, looking around the group.
Mickey is emotionally imploring an unyielding Caz.—Moi lill gehl . . . woi wohn she let me see moi own lill gehl . . .
Sick Boy holds up the styrofoam cup of battery-acid brew to Amanda.—Want to split and get a proper coffee somewhere else?
— Like just sneak off? It might be frowned upon.
— Oh, let them frown away. He deploys a lopsided grin.— Just because wir sober doesn’t mean we arenae entitled to some transgression.
Amanda’s conspiratorial smile lights him up inside. Convinces him they are lovers-in-waiting.
On the pretence of toilet breaks, they slip out separately, Amanda first, with Sick Boy following. Catches her up on the cold, grey street, and they walk to a nearby cafe. He orders a
camomile tea. Amanda opts for a coffee, lighting a cigarette, the offer of which he declines. She regards his thin brew.— What is that?
He informs her, before explaining,—I’ve packed in tobacco along with the other intoxicants. I’ll occasionally treat myself tae a proper Italian coffee, but . . . he looks haughtily over at the woman behind the counter,—I’m unconvinced by the quality of the roast here. Besides, I refuse tae use caffeine or nicotine as default substitute drugs. Look at those pricks back at that place; jonesing for a fag and coffee break, rattling like fuck and pretending that they’re sober, he declaims.—Dae ays a favour.
Amanda nods slowly at each word, weighing them carefully. Sick Boy thinks at that moment: lose the Scottishisms. Then she takes a long drag on her cigarette, before stating in deliberation,—What I hate about it is the sheer focus on drugs all the time. They never seemed to be as present in my life when I was actually doing them.
Nodding in mesmerised accord, Sick Boy is riveted. Aware of this, he abstracts himself, trying to figure her out. As they talk, he decides that Amanda suffers from nothing more than what he regards as the thoroughly respectable self-obsession of being an over-indulged, good-looking young woman. They opt to jump on the tube into town, alighting at Russell Square to stroll around the British Museum.
By the time they exit, darkness is falling, the meagre October heat streaming out of the air. Amanda invites him back to her place for another cup of tea. He accepts. On the walk to the tube, they steal flirty, slightly bashful glances at each other, almost oblivious to the droplets of rain speckling them. Giggle when their eyes simultaneously meet, enjoying the dance.
Amanda’s flat is in Swain’s Lane, Highgate, located above a supermarket in a row of upscale retail outlets. Proximate to the entrance of the grand, landscaped Holly Lodge Estate, it
boasts a similar mock-Tudor facade to the dwellings there. Sick Boy, used to this district being prefixed with ‘swish’, is disappointed to find a doss pretty much like his own in Islington, albeit with one small extra bedroom.
In the tight galley kitchen, she makes some tea and a toasted sandwich. He hangs his water-dappled coat over a chair. Sits at the wobbly table. Stretching his legs out, he picks up a Guardian, pretending to read it. Feels Amanda’s eyes on him again, as she places two chipped mugs and a plate of cheesy toast in front of them. The kitchen is a mess of stacked-up unwashed dishes. Drug-free, Sick Boy can’t abide untidiness and squalor. However, he refrains from panic, as Amanda’s accent suggests that she’s come from somewhere a lot more salubrious, and figures her tolerance for slobbishness will diminish, as often happened with children of the wealthy – usually when they got someone else to undertake those domestic tasks. His assessment of her status is confirmed when Amanda guiltily informs him that her father owns this Highgate flat, though stressing that she pays him rent.
Some CD s lie on the table. One jumps out at him. He can’t believe it’s Destroy Western Democracy, by his old mate Stevie Hutchison’s band, Big Tobacco. This acclaimed debut had facilitated Stevie and his mob doing the pop staples: a contract with a major label, a TOTP appearance and an NME front page. As implausible as it was, this chipmunk-pussed wee cunt had seemed a strong bet for genuine stardom. An all-consuming fascination for his old schoolmate had quickly grown into an overpowering jealousy, with Sick Boy breathing a sigh of relief when the band imploded within the year. A crap second album saw them dropped by their label, reduced to playing shit gigs in pubs, low-billing graveyard slots at festivals and support events for the next soon-to-be-irrelevants enjoying their fifteen minutes.
— My mate’s band, he declares, feeling the serial liar’s lack of comfort in conveying this truth. It was even worse: Stevie Hutchison was the treacherous Mark Renton’s friend and former bandmate. Sick Boy had drawn comfort from the knowledge that if Stevie’s career ascendancy had induced his anxiety, the Ginger Judas Prick would have been even more disquieted. After all, Stevie – wisely – sacked him from their fledgling band. Now Renton, wherever he was, would be massively relieved.
— Yes, the singer is Scottish. Stevie H. Fuck me, wee Hutchie, the silent notebook scribbler at the back of the class, is helping me get my hole. This is bizarre!
— Great lad. An old school buddy growing up in . . . Sick Boy feels the ‘L word’ briefly burn on his lips,—Edinburgh.
— Such a good album.
— Shame about the second.
— I haven’t heard it.
— Keep it that way.
— It’s that bad?
— Stevie told me they were all coked up and making it almost broke up the band.
— Cocaine . . . it happens, Amanda says mournfully.
Maybe for posh rides and rock stars .
They exchange perfunctory details about their employment. Amanda works for the GLG (Grandchester, Lewis and Gorst) staff agency in Fitzrovia. Specialising in headhunting executives for companies, they also have offices in Manchester and Birmingham. Explains that the business owners, Vivian Grandchester, Kim Lewis and Hilary Gorst, were all student friends of her father. They shared the distinction of being named after their grandfathers, inheriting those feminine names, once an upper-class foible. This proved a bonding experience: on graduation, the friends founded the firm, which
they self-deprecatingly named the Girls Only Employment Agency. Embarrassment was occasioned when Cosmopolitan magazine mistakenly nominated them for a best new female business award. They immediately rebranded as GLG.
The story engages Sick Boy, affording more clues to Amanda’s background. Resisting the temptation to probe further, he offers his spiel about video filming and editing. He had been studying this at a college in Hackney, while working in a Soho sex shop and finding girls for his pimp Greek friend, Andreas.
— What do you film and edit?
— Weddings usually, it’s big business now. Sick Boy picks up his mug and takes a sip of Earl Grey tea (she has no camomile) before adding a sugar. Then he reaches across the table and gently grasps Amanda’s wrist. He presses it. It is the first time they have touched.
— Are you checking my pulse? She laughs in a manner suggesting she finds him both charming and ludicrous.
— Can you take off those gloves?
Amanda removes the lacy mitts. He takes her hand again, opening it out.—A strong lifeline, he smiles, delving into her eyes.
They blaze back at him. A twanging electric pulse between them.—Are we going to go to bed?
— No. He rises abruptly.—I’m leaving.
She follows his purposeful departure down the hall.—It was just . . . I thought . . . I didn’t mean to offend you . . .
Sick Boy stops and turns one sudden movement, which compels Amanda to step into him. They are right in each other’s faces.—You didn’t offend me. You flattered me, and he strokes her arm, before kissing her gently on the lips. Then he takes a step back, towards the door, still looking into her eyes.—I want more than a shag.
— What do you mean . . . ? Amanda’s eyes screw up in quizzical excitement, and she pushes back her hair.
He kisses her again. This time with passion. Squeezes her tight. Slowly works in some tongue. Enjoys her response as a fully-fledged snog erupts. When they pull apart, he feels her shaking. Doesn’t put too much stock in this: if she’s in recovery from drug addiction, her senses might still be jangly. But her demeanour and lit-up eyes provide stronger evidence that he’s made an impact.—Oh God . . . what . . .
In order to facilitate the misting up of his eyes, Sick Boy recounts episodes of injustices against him, settling on the bullying he suffered at school. He has the gift of being able to summon pathos at will. This had proven an effective life skill with his mother, sisters, female schoolteachers and lovers. He whispers into her ear,— Sono dipendente dei tuoi baci . . .
— Sono . . . what . . . what does that mean?
— It means that I’m addicted to your kisses. And like all good junkies, I will be back for more.
— Well, I’m quite partial to yours too!
Under a wall-mounted phone, he spies an old notepad. Picks it up and hands it to her.—I want you to write your name here, along with your phone number of course, but your full name. I want to see it in your handwriting.
— Like Simon David Williamson?
— Exactly.
— I’m not mad keen on that part of my name . . . it’s a little embarrassing.
— Go for it. I won’t judge. She scrawls it down.
He examines the moniker in Amanda’s flowery-but-precise handwriting. Points a finger at her.—Seriously?
— Sadly, yes.
— Later, Amanda Genevieve Coningsby, he winks, and departs.
Sick Boy’s first-date philosophy generally inhabits the chivalrous realm of: I’d like us to get to know each other a little first. But it is strategically deployed to leave the other party as confused as possible. The less they could figure you out, the more they were inclined to try. Life was essentially transactional, involving negotiation, and one likely guarantee of meeting your objectives was to control the other party’s level of uncertainty.
Decides to dispense with the tube; walks back to Islington through the grand and scabby warren of north London backstreets. Trees prolifically shed in deference to summer’s full retreat into autumn. Toxic traffic fumes enhance the burgeoning despair, despite the defiant music still leaking from the open windows of some houses and passing vehicles. But for Sick Boy, it feels like a second spring.
Reaching his own dwelling in Offord Road, he lies on the bed and masturbates dreamily, speculating Amanda will be doing the same. With full-force libido restored following the heroin detox, Simon David Williamson is delighted to have resisted temptation, especially with Amanda Genevieve Coningsby – her full name written on that sheet of paper in a script he imagined belonging to Jane Austen or Emily Brontë, offering it to him like that. But just seeing her as shagging material was a disease of amateurs. If you regard the other party that way, they invariably reciprocate, and two weeks of an endorphin smash leaves both parties the daunting task of chiselling a working relationship from between those sweaty bedcovers. To lead with sex, but not be defined by it. To control your own lust, that was the challenge. For Sick Boy had known almost instantly, on seeing Amanda slip into that community centre, that he was now hunting bigger game.
Ya fuckin beauty . . . this is not one for my swarthy grebo
colleague Andreas . . . not that high-class wee ride . . . Amanda Genevieve Coningsby . . .
But such projects deserved seed corn, and bile slowly rises in Sick Boy’s gut when he thinks of a ginger-headed former cohort of his.
Renton.
He feels his erection crumbling in his hand.
NOSEBAGS IN AMSTERDAM
You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.
– William Blake
I struggle tae describe this hotel as anything but pish. A city whaire ye eywis pey for at least some kind ay love n ah’ve twelve grand burning a come-hither hole through ma poakit right intae ma baws. Ah’ve never paid for sex, and it now intrigues me that I actually could. Miraculously, ah’d managed tae open a bank account thanks tae a sympathetic clerk whae helped ays hack through a maddening jumble ay forms in Dutch. The poppy’s aw thaire fir a better doss – the Golden Tulip, the Doelen, the American, or even the Amstel Hotel – but that’s ma stake, no ma living money. It’s useless if it’s no used for something. For what, fuck knows. And a twitching, sniffing junky in withdrawal would stand oot in one ay they posh gaffs like a fanny in a barrel full ay pricks. Ah came here for anonymity: the last thing ah want is heat. There are grassin fuckin nosebags everywhere: Edinburgh, London and even Amsterdam.
A diary entry:
It dawns on me that doing the dirty on the boys means I’ve burned my boats and trashed everything. My parents. Family.
Friends. Home town. I can no longer significantly be in their orbit. Confronting what I’ve lost makes me feel scabbier than ever. Sometimes, it hurts like fuck. But very, very rarely do I think it wasn’t absolutely essential. All I was doing back home was sprinting towards fully-fledged casualty status. If I could have taken the others along I would. But that just wasn’t an option.
You need to choose cash in order to choose life.
No, I can’t go back, even if sitting in this dreary hotel overlooking the grey Singel gets me down. I’m now bored with keeping up this diary, perhaps an indicator I’m getting better. And I’m out more, traversing cafes and bars, hoping to make eye contact with appealing strangers. Of course, they invariably look away, probably thinking: creep. I’ve been shorn of company for long enough to be paranoid about this state of affairs, knowing full well that I’m giving off that weirdo-loser stink.
Aye, the streets in any city after dark are nae place for the still fragile. Yet ah find masel headin oot past this suspiciouslooking desk clerk, a pencil-thin gadge in a starchy white shirt with haunted, sunken eyes. Ah walk intae the red-light district, past the windaes full ay hookers, mindin ay the time Sick Boy dragged me intae see one. Ah couldnae bring masel tae have sex wi this woman for money. It just seemed wrong. Ah paid her for her time and we chatted. It was awkward at first, but then we talked about Dresden, where she came from, then the war, and the rise ay fascism in Europe. She said I was a nice boy and kissed me on the cheek. When I met Sick Boy at the hotel, he slapped me on the back and dragged me into the bar. Later on in the night, he said,—I admire the way you don’t kiss and tell, Renton, even with a hoor. Shows class in a gadge.
I’m happy to move away from these streets, to the shuffling dealers and hustlers ay Dam Square, crossing intae the Jordaan, and the spot where ah ken ah’ll drown in sweaty bodies. I shuffle into the club, a self-conscious loner. The dance floor is half full as people make the best of the tired disco music on offer. Thankfully, another DJ takes to the box, swiftly evolving intae this mair interesting high-energy electronica, artists like Divine providing the big beats that rise up through the soles ay ma trainers, as the floor steadily fills. Soon the small premises are rammed, and the dry ice creates a Scottish haar, heavy and bronchitic in ma scrawny lungs. Ah sense ma nostrils are like the barrels ay a shotgun. If ah sneeze ah’ll cover the club and its occupants in green snot. Removing masel, ah fight ma way tae the bar. Ah git a lager and stand in a corner looking out at the revellers. Ah must cut an aberrant, awkward figure positioned there, sipping a beer. Loneliness is indeed a packed dance floor. Then ah hear a voice in ma ear.—Any speed, mate?
A Manchester accent: ah eywis associate that toon wi barry vibes and sound people. Ah dinnae have any blues or sulph or these E’s that every cunt’s getting intae, but strike up a convo with this boy Gareth and his mate Teddy, around the staples ay music and fitba. Teddy chats tae some lassies, good looks and easy confidence marking him as a shagger. He disappears for a bit, returning wi some dexies and ecstasy pills. Within half an hour we’re aw cunted and having the time ay our lives. The pills are smooth and mellow, not too visual but very dancey. There are quite a few girls here and me and the Manc lads pound it oan the flair with some ay them: we break off the dance occasionally to shout pish that nane ay us can hear, while retaining cheesy cartoon grins.
Life is fuckin great. Amsterdam is fuckin great. People are fuckin great.
Euphoria is as infectious as paranoia is repulsive. Entranced by our vibe, a wee posse gathers around us, ending up back at this party in a house on the nearby Prinsengracht Canal. It’s the home ay this Dutch guy, Arjan, whom I’ve chatted wi a couple of times in the club. Three girls he knows tag along with us: Antonia, Serena and Callie. Maybe it’s the E, but they all seem to be one awe-inspiring gorgeous mass of beauty and grace; eyes, teeth, hair and skin glowing with collective goddess energy.
This Arjan cunt has arrogance by the bucketload. When I point out this gaping big hole in his ceiling, he tells ays that he could get it fixed ‘like that’, snapping his fingers in my pus for effect, but doesnae want ‘the landlord in his shit’. The fact that he has an incongruously expensive-looking leather sofa and recliner chair means he might no be bullshitting. Otherwise, the place is stacked wi boaxes. Obviously, I’m intrigued tae learn what’s inside them, a vibe he’s picked up oan, as ah feel the fucker’s lamps scorch ays.
He’s making a conspicuous play for Serena, who is mair intae handsome Manc Teddy. I think he fancies her n aw, but doesnae make a deal ay it as we’re enjoying our host’s munificence. As the pill buzz runs down, Arjan brings oot some cocaine, which ah’ve only had a couple times and thought was shite, but it was nothing like this. My face numbs, ma hert thuds in ma chist, ah sweat like a hoor oan the backshift, n ah’m thinkin aboot invading Poland. This stuff is quality! It at least partly explains Arjan’s hubris. He spraffs at a hundred miles an hour, in perfect Dutch-English, telling us about a place called Zandfort, which is close tae here.—A nude beach . . . man, the pussy . . . Sorry, girls. He turns tae the lassies.—There are nice dicks there for you also to enjoy . . .
Antonia and Serena studiously ignore this while Callie looks unimpressed.
— Oi, there’s nice ones in ere, Gareth says. It’s a clumsy pitch and, as Arjan coughs, you sense all three lassies mentally reaching for their coats.
Teddy looks disdainfully at his mate, then me.—Gak form, that, not E form, and he saves the day by putting on a mixed tape of Manchester bands: Roses, Mondays, New Order, Cairpits, ACR, 808 State.
— Manchester! Antonia screams.—I would love to go there.
— Invited any time. Teddy looks around them with a big smile.—Awl ah yer.
As the lassies thaw a wee bit, Arjan bends ma ear aboot how his mate owns a letting agency in toon and he can get ays a flat ‘just like that’. Sounds coke bullshit: accommo is hard as fuck tae get in Amsterdam. It takes a while but the perty winds doon wi the drugs, and we aw wander off out intae the morning light, heading our separate zombie brain and body weys.
Ah get back tae the hotel but ah cannae kip. Huvnae seen that sexy Monique roond here in an age. Must have moved on. Ah sit up reading Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, digging the Olde English. Yuv goat tae read it oot loud tae git it; we’re just no used tae seeing words oan a page like thon. Ah hear the familiar clatter fae below, indicating breakfast is being set up. Ah tiptoe doon n force doon two black coffees, a croissant n half a cheese roll. Then ah go oot for a walk roond the horseshoe canals. Ah crash oot for a bit in Vondelpark, the weak sun oan my face. Waking up a few hours later, it feels like some cunt’s shat in my mooth.
On ma return tae the hotel, ah’m astonished tae find a message left for me at reception signed by Arjan, telling ays tae phone a guy called Miz.
Later on, ah hooks up wi Gareth and Teddy in the Pink
Floyd coffee shop on Haarlemmerweg. We get fucked up on hash and spacecake. Ah’m no a potheid, never have been, it usually makes ays sleepy and the company boring, but it feels pretty good here tae get slowly melted. It helps wi the junk heebie-jeebies, which stick around, or maybe they’ve become the E or coke heebie-jeebies. Who knows?
But ah need tae sack aw this shit. Ah’ll eywis fanny aboot, make the occasional cunt of it. That’s a given. That’s just play. But now ah’m feelin the need tae pit in some solid graft tae earn my fun, tae make it real tae me.
Gareth and Teddy head tae Centraal Station tae get the airport train. Ah’m sorry to see them go; the pills, powders and the clubbing and party experience have accelerated the friendship in that wey it tends tae, as we depart like old comrades. I’ll probably go and see them, and some other people, over in Manchester. Always liked that toon. Ah’m followed aw the wey back tae the hotel by a dark cloud, haunted wi the smile ay Frank Begbie, my old mate, who I realise will make it his life’s mission to track me down and kill me. Not so much a Jeykll and Hyde personality as a Hyde squared one. It dares me to look up, to steal one more glance. When I do, it compresses further, then leaves a thunderous rumble in ma ears.
THE SUBVERSIVE MAGIC OF LOVE
I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story –An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary.
– Samuel Taylor Coleridge
On this grey morning, I spend an inordinate amount of time deliberating between my trusty Lambretta or the irregular but free North London Line – nae cunt checks your ticket – to my poxy course in film production at Hackney College. As clouds of doom are gathering, I opt for the latter. I’m looking forward to exhibiting the piece I shot of Mona and Candy, two dippit stoner lassies from the Pepys boozer, whom I convinced, in the name of art, to get it on together.
The college building is a soulless rat trap, but I bounce in with a spring in my step, eagerly anticipating displaying my work for our editing class, graciously part-funded by the government through the Manpower Services Commission.
My upbeat mood doesn’t last long. As my film rolls, the groans from the screen are soon augmented by fresh ones and some tuts and giggles. My classmates and tutor, Mervyn Douglas, shuffle awkwardly in their seats. This makes me want to leave, not just the room, but this stagnant borough
that the Treacherous Ginger Bastard and I once called home, and return immediately to upwardly mobile Islington. This lasts for several moments, followed by some disdainful comments before Pervin Mervyn rises and clicks off the VCR, ejecting my tape, to boos from a few of the other eight in the class, including Lissa, this feminist bird I rode. She swings both ways and is strongly anti-censorship. Mervyn is not happy.—It’s, well . . . nicely edited, Simon, but we can’t show it as coursework. I mean, it was shot on college equipment, he protests, chinless neck bulging beneath violated eyes and bathbrush hair.—I mean, it’s far too explicit. It’s pornography!
A fucking buearucratic cunt who doesn’t appreciate art. This whole endeavour feels more like a futile waste of my time than ever. Philistinism abounds in those drab corridors and sterile rooms. This ham shanker never shot a film in his life that wasn’t student pish. What can you say to such an unenlightened collegiate prick who fails to understand the difference between tasteful erotica and crass pornography? I actually work in the industry.
My loss of interest in this course – which started when I’d rode the only two shaggable fillies involved – has now reached critical mass. One of them, Caitlyn, looks daggers at me, wary since I gave her the ‘It’s probably even more essential for men to be feminists, given the sway the patriarchy has on all our lives’ line to get her into bed. Suspicion in my motives now abounds. Time to fight back. I look Mervyn in the eye.—This is an editing class, correct?
— Yes, but –
— Therefore, the content shot is of secondary consideration to the fact that it needs to be assembled in a consistent narrative structure, yes? It’s the editing of film that we are being assessed on, yes?
— Look, I really don’t think –
But I’m not done.—You did say shoot something that interests you, yes? There it is, I point to the blank screen,—female sexuality.
— I’m going to have to ask you to remove this from the college.
— This is censorship! It’s a fucking outrage!
— Hackney College is funded by the Inner London Education Authority, which operates an anti-sexist policy, and we –
I pound my fist on the desk, once, twice, to silence him.— Exactly! Sexual and sexist are different constructs! It’s against the college equal opportunites policy to discriminate on the grounds of sexual orientation. Here we have two gay women making love!
Pervin Mervyn shakes his head in exasperation.—This is just male-gaze porn. You aren’t a lesbian, Simon.
— If I was born with a fanny instead of a cock I would have been.
Lissa sniggers, as does Croxy, a jittery mohawked punk and the solitary male at the college I can tolerate, due to his gift of silence. I don’t care about the others in the slightest. Renton has soured me from man friendships. I will never get so close to another one again. They waste my time: fucking ugly, dumb, vain, selfish cunts, their stupid voices, harshly rambling arrogant pish.
After this utter travesty, we opt to adjourn to the Pepys for beers. The pub is full of squatters on pound courses pretending to be students, or poor bastards turfed off the dole onto some Manpower Services Commission slave labour programme. From the bar, two loose-lipped middle-aged alcoholic predators, rendered too sloppy in tongue and bowel by booze to have any chance of success, even with such wonky prey, scowl and leer across to our table. Caitlyn has thawed a bit
and is now suggesting that I try to think less about porn. Then, after another drink, she asks,—Is there any money in it?
— There’s money in anything you’re passionate about, I say reflexively, not believing a word of it. She wants to do commercials. Not a bad call.
Lissa, who wants to make agitprop, cuts in,—What a waste of fucking time.
In the impasse that follows, Croxy passes a wrap of salty base crumbles around. He likes to get fucked up on occasion. I respectfully decline. I will never permit drugs – of any kind – to interfere with business again.
I therefore spurn the offer of a second beer, bidding them farewell. Outside, some sort of protest is going on in front of the town hall. Fuck that pish: I’m heading west to Soho. Hackney often feels, with its lack of tube facilities, like a slab of south London carelessly deposited this side of the river. One might have to start east – and my first London domicile was in Forest Gate in Newham – but one must always go west. It takes an age before I’m winding down the rainy streets of the real London, towards the shop. Its books are barely visible through blacked-out windows so filthy they didn’t really need that treatment. I step under the tatty sign that declares: SOHO ADULT CINEMA
AND LITERATURE SALON .
Apart from a bespectacled student, thumbing nervously through a minging copy of The Story of O, the ground floor is empty. I wonder who is working in the basement, but instead I head to the back of the shop, mounting the narrow, spiralling, almost stepladder stairs to the two-windowed office above.
The reek of cigarettes is overpowering. The thickset form of Tony Mockridge stands in the window, looking out at that square mile of sleaze with trademark belligerent pus. Chainsmoking, he’s talking horses, to himself,— . . . should have gone wif that cahnt in the 2.30 at Sandown . . . ain’t like I
weren’t properly advoised. By the bleedin Squirrel himself. Decent form . . .
Shifty Lincoln Liam also sucks on a tab as he sits on the desk, messing around with the Rolodex. You literally could plant a substantial crop of his home county’s tatties in the dirt under his nicotine-stained tortoiseshell fingernails. Mocksey nods on seeing me, but I’m ignored by Liam, a morose, huffy cunt habitually smelling of damp basements. I detect a residual tension in the room: obviously some sort of argument has taken place.
Confirming my suspicion,—Lincoln, Mocksey looks at me, then Liam,—went there once. Ain’t saying it was shut: don’t reckon it was ever open.
I smile, a gesture that doesn’t go unnoticed by Liam, embarrassed by his nickname. Originating from a small market town doesn’t confer much credibility in the villainous circles he moves in. Of course, knowing this is his weak spot, the chaps bring it up relentlessly. In deference to Mocksey’s menacing chuckle, Liam focuses intently on the Roly.
Tony Mockridge has a half-egg-shaped pus with black hair curling down in a bizarre fringe, the tip of which almost meets his bushy brows. The brick-rouge coupon is broken only by eyes implausibly blue and teeth brilliantly white, which literally dazzle. I’ve not long started working part-time for him, after being recommended to him by Andreas, my pimp-slashhotelier chum from Finsbury Park. Mocksey had gotten into the porn game ‘back doors’, as he put it. By some nefarious means he’d taken over a semi-respectable bookstore in Soho. Immediately testing the market, he initially set up a section of scud in the basement, while bombing out the literature except for airport thrillers and ‘tasteful’ works like 120 Days of Sodom and The Story of O. Then he rebranded fully, blacking out the shop windows, moving the smut upstairs and stacking
the lower deck with adult videos and sex toys. A new sign, announcing the premises as SOHO ADULT CINEMA AND LITERATURE SALON from its previously mundane SOHO BOOKS designation completed the makeover.
Tony’s somewhat venomous stare remains trained on the top of the busying Liam’s head, before he turns to crack a smile at me.—Ya awroit then, sahn?
— For sure, chaps, and I feel it politic to include the surly Liam,—ready for action. I issue a curt salute.
Liam doesn’t look up, and Tony’s gaze is back on him.
Disinclined to inhale such a toxic vibe, I head all the way down to the basement, where I usually work, selling the videos, dildos, vibrators and blow-up dolls to a mixed bag of a clientele. The main customer base is made up of obvious inadequate wankers, reluctantly celibate students, holidaying browsers, closet-case businessmen and nervy suburbanites whose missuses long stopped receiving cocks – or at any rate the ones attached to them. And you’ll get the odd mob of loud and giggly drunken office girls coming in for party wares.
My personal fascintation, however, is the small but increasingly popular gay section. For I’ve decided that this is going to provide me the material to generously send to an old friend back home. Now that he’s once more a guest of Her Majesty, for a stupid and trivial pub assault, and literally surrounded by cock, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, he’ll be able to benefit from the imaginative sexual scenarios on display. The basement is empty, bar a lone pervert working up the courage to purchase a boxed deflated doll with a shocked expression looking as sexy as a foetal Worzel Gummidge, as I stuff some selected titles into a padded manila envelope, to be sent north.
Just as I do, Tony Mocks comes in with his associate, Lawrence Croft, whose beady eyes catch my gay-porn browsing.
Stalling for a second, he ushers Tony into a corner. The hushed tones they converse in are obviously not intended for other ears, so I keep out of range. A glance at Tony’s visiblefrom-the-moon glower tells me this is the right decision and I head to the back-shop kitchen and stick on the kettle, making myself a cup of Mellow Bird’s granules.
Suddenly, Croft is standing in the doorway, staring at me. He’s a handsome old chappie, around forty, bubble-cut haystack blond hair (which I suspect is enhanced by perming lotion and curling tongs), with tinted glasses hanging off a prominent nose, and stylishly togged in a brown leather jacket and silky yellow shirt. I know that he’s involved in making scud films. Hoping for a taste of that action, I’ve shown Tony my college efforts, and he’s obviously spilled. Then I hear Mocksey’s heavy feet climbing the stairs above, as Lawrence sidles over to me.—I hear you’re interested in fuck movies, ducky.
Underneath his camp, slightly theatrical affectations and an aroma seemingly garnished from smearing the entire contents of John Lewis’s ground floor over his body, Croft is proper south-east London. A Rotherhithe boy, stevedore hands that could choke a Rottweiler, he’s never more menacing than when he deploys the term ‘ducky’.—Yes. I’m on a course in video production and editing at Hackney College, and I’ve made –
— Don’t need no showreel, he cuts in abruptly. Looks at me with a burning eye.—Mocksey reckons you’re a grafter with a steady camera hand and a good eye for skirt. Could be right up my street. He pulls a small notepad from his inside pocket. Places it on the counter.—Write your name, address and phone numbah on ere.
It seems a good idea to comply.
As I scribe my details, words slip out slowly from between
Lawrence’s tight lips, which open only minimally in that snide face.—So, we’re working with the Greek up in Finsbury Park, are we, ducky, keeping skagged-up little ores in line?
— Andreas, yes. I remain composed, finish my scribbling, tearing a page from the pad and handing it to him.
— Mocksey says you’re staunch. Discreet n all, e reckons. This is welcome news. I genuinely did not know Anthony Mockridge cared a single fuck. Therefore, my correct response here is even more important.—Well, I never stick my nose into other people’s business unless they invite me to. I appreciate a wee tickle and I’m loyal to those who offer me one.
He doesn’t even seem to hear my spiel. Instead, his eyes narrow in scrutiny on the paper.—Norf one, eh? He folds it neatly and sticks it into his wallet.—I’m going to pay you a little visit. Discuss your future, and his unsettling lavish wink sets off a burn in my gut, like a ton of acid spunk has been deposited there, as he turns, heads out and up the stairs.
I’m aware that my heartbeat has increased; could be a fraught enterprise ahead, but I’m buzzing under the sweet scent of opportunity in my nostrils. I had sensed that the real porn money is going to be in video production, thus the Hackney College course. I watch scud videos compulsively, and not just to find out the quality of the pornography. In fact, I invariably fast-forward through that tacky shit to the credits, finding out who the actors, producers and distributors are, building up knowledge of the main players in the industry.
I do four shifts a week at Mocksey’s shop in Soho. Another couple at the hotel with Andreas, who says I have a way with women. I know this to be true: being indulged by an Italian mother and two sisters, you learn from an early age how best to manipulate them. I grew up with the expectation that they can generally be induced to willingly cooperate. Once you find
out what pushes their particular buttons, you let the oestrogen do the heavy lifting. And obviously, the socially and psychologically impaired ones are the easiest.
I discerned, through both internalising my own experiences and observing people like Andreas, how a damaged woman will be drawn to the same type of man again and again. You had to be that gadge: superficially charming, yet utterly ruthless. Whilst any woman can have the misfortune to fall for this sort once, most of them learn from this mistake, and once is enough. The impaired are different; they can’t fight a terrible magnetism to that same sort. They are true believers; convinced, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, that they can change this one. That this time the outcome will be different. You had to become an expert in identifying such girls, in locating that reservoir of need, so often hidden under harsh exteriors. A few well-chosen words and gestures, followed by some well-placed pokes, and the dam generally crumbles. Ultimately, those women are just recovery cases, mistakenly viewing a man as the higher power they want to surrender to. You had to exert that force: any vulnerability shown, they would destroy you. Sono vigliacchi o prepotenti.
Such girls aren’t hard to find. I’m seldom so crass as to hang around King’s Cross or Victoria Bus Station or even Soho’s changing night streets, looking for waifs and strays. That’s an amateur’s game, and one that invites the attentions of the Old Bill or rival predators. Instead, I head tae drug rehab groups and NA meetings. Experience teaches you that substance abuse is generally a sound indicator of fucked-upness. At such groups I befriend girls, listen to them, acting the charming inamorato, before reintroducing them to bad habits, and, then, Andreas. It’s not that difficult, but you need the gift of patience. However, I have learned that I’m not cut out to
be a pimp. For one thing it’s too much hassle, and, once the thrill of the hunt has gone, soul-destroying having to listen to variations of the same sordid story. The generic blood- or stepdad or big brother who had cooked that dish the subsequent scummy boyfriends were only keeping on the boil.
I very rarely feel any compassion for those girls. They are generally too tiresome to empathise with; already lost, they will eventually fall into the clutches of persons much worse than Andreas or myself. The damage has been done; somebody will cash in one way or another. We’re not doing them any good, for sure, but we’re very rarely their ultimate demise, just stepping stones en route to it.
Therefore, I attend those meetings for work, usually in poorer neighbourhoods. In the wealthier parts of town, the story is different: rich kids acting up. I saw this in Amanda. It’s harder to pimp out such chicks as their family are more likely to give a shit what they are up to, and underneath it all, they generally possess a stronger sense of self. Yes, they might be a little lost, but this was usually just a detour and they’ll eventually find their wey hame.
Amanda. Amanda Gen-a-fucking-vieve. Maybe she can take me home with her. Take me where I should be. Where I, Simon David Williamson, ultimately belong.
On the way home after my shift, I pick up the new NME . Alas, that rag is long since past its best, but old habits . . . There’s a blocked drain outside the house with a river of shit swelling over the road which I have to step around to avoid, as a pungent whiff rises in my nostrils. Relieved to get inside, I’m not long back, crashing out on my bed, in this grotty hovel, but grotty Islington hovel, reading about Whitney Houston, when the bell rings.—It’s me, says a tired, bullying voice on the intercom.
I know who it is, and I buzz the door and hear surprisingly light feet at work on the stairs.
Lawrence walks in, now sporting a lilac shirt and checked Rupert the Bear flannels, looking like a man who has been as choked by the stench of the blocked sewers outside as the drains themselves. I make him a cup of tea in a Hibs mug, which he looks at curiously, in what seems mild approval, as I stick it on the coffee table. We sit down on the settee in my cramped front room, and he explains to me what I already know through Mocksey. Lawrence shoots scud in different locations – a flat in Haringey, an office in Mayfair, a lockup in Walthamstow – and generally uses the same stable of actors. He raises the mug to his lips, takes a sip, then runs his hand through those greying brown locks. A rash rises up his neck from under the collar of the lilac shirt.—Branding works. The punters got their favourites, but piss and sniff bloat don’t look good after eighteen months; we need a turnover of fresh meat. I’m always on at your mate Andreas to scout for potential talent, but his heart ain’t in it, he shrugs,—and, fair dos, why should it be? He’s coining it in from them scrubbers.
— Right . . . My response is cagey. I’m tight with Andreas and don’t want to alienate the Greek bastard.
— Wot I want from you is to convince the sweetah-looking ones that they ave a future at British Steel. Bettah prospects. Less degrading for a woman than prostitution, Lawrence declares, as he pulls out a plastic bag and starts cutting out big lines of fine powder on my coffee table.
— Speed?
His face sneers in disdain.—Gaw blimey, do me a favour, ducky. Never touch that low-rent shit. This is off-the-rock charlie!
I hesitate only for a second as Lawrence offers me a rolledup twenty-quid note.
BANG . YA FUCKER !
We start yabbering at a hundred miles an hour. Like me, Lawrence is excited about video opportunities in porn. He’s not entirely convinced by my ideas of higher production values and proper scripted storylines, but he loves my enthusiasm.
I can feel us bond. I’m embarrassed to have no alcohol to offer up, but he produces a pewter flask full of brandy and I find two reasonable glasses.
This coke has a roaring engine of impulsive, ego-stoking madness, and it soon becomes evident that Lawrence is highly misogynistic, displaying an utter contempt for women. This goes beyond him wanting me to both procure and film talent for the porn flick business he and Tony are setting up.— Control them dickless cunts. Can ya do that?
— Yes, I tell him, without hesitation.—Skag is good for doing the manual labour there.
— Skag, but with this stuff, Lawrence says, nodding to the table, where another two fat lines have miraculously appeared.
— Aye, Andreas likes them to move, I say, looking at the distaste etched on his contorted face.—The clients prefer it.
— Filthy Greek cahnt. Lawrence suddenly belly-laughs, displaying a set of capped horsey choppers. With his crumbling good looks, I read him as an ex-male porn actor or pimp gone to seed. I’m thinking of him as a big-brother figure, but feel my blood freeze as he suddenly grapples my thigh close to my crotch, looking straight at me.—You need fucked, he rasps cruelly, a torturer’s glint in his eye.
I stay calm through the violation and racing coke rush, but am urgently compelled to put my cards on the table. I was thrown by the misogyny: I haven’t met a gay man in London who hated women.—Lawrence, you wishing to fuck me or have me suck your knob just wastes both our time. I won’t get
anything out of it. It’s not you, just men in general; I find them such an ugly, repulsive turn-off.
Violence rips from his gaze.—Saw yer messing around in the lads’ section. Cock curious, are we?
I explain the situation, and why I needed the brown hatter porn. He grinds his teeth viciously as he weighs up every word.—I mean, I wish I were different, for one it would increase my shagging opportunities by fifty per cent!
Tombstone eyes glare back. Not a trace of a smile.
— I’m only saying this because you’re a well-respected geezer and you strike me as having lot of dignity; if you fucked me under my sufferance, it would be patronising towards you and I’m loath to treat you in that manner. What I’m saying is that I respect you as a mentor, a man who is taking an interest in my career.
Lawrence’s gaze burns but I feel the grip on my thigh loosen. Then the hand flies away. He looks at me, utterly gobsmacked. Goes to speak. Can’t.
So, I do.—You’re the man. Everybody in London knows that, I say with utter conviction, aware that Lawrence is relatively two-bob, but therefore at the perfect level to respond to such ego stroking.—I’m kind of flattered, I say, semibashful,—I just wish I had that in my sexual repertoire.
— Alright . . . alright . . . he raises his hands,—I get the farking message . . .
He certainly does. Scanning the crotch of his checked flannels, I witness the subsidence of his passion. However, the last thing I want to do is humiliate the rancid old queer, as he’s obviously someone it’s unwise to make an enemy of. Besides, I need his largesse and contacts.—I’m sure plenty young gay men would love to reciprocate your attentions.
A deep rage again sparks in Lawrence’s eyes. A bolt of fear