PORNO
Irvine Welsh
PORNO
Irvine Welsh is the author of six previous works of fiction, most recently Glue. He lives in London.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
FICTION
Trainspotting
The Acid House
Marabou Stork Nightmares
Ecstasy
Filth
Glue
DRAMA
Youll Have Had Your Hole
SCREENPLAY
The Acid House
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Epub ISBN: 9781407019901
Version 1.0
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Published by Jonathan Cape 2002
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Copyright Irvine Welsh 2002
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First published in Great Britain in 2002 by Jonathan Cape
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For:
Johny Brown
Janet Hay
Stan Keiltyka
John McCartney
Helen McCartney
Paul Reekie
Rosie Savin
Franck Sauzee
And remembering:
John Boyle
Table of Contents
Contents
Without cruelty there is no festival...
Nietzsche
Genealogy of Morals, Essay 2, Section 6
Stag
Porno
Exhibition
Scam # 18,732
C roxy, sweating from exertion rather than from drug abuse for once in his life, struggles up the stairs with the last box of records as I collapse on the bed, gaping through a numb depression at the cream woodchip walls. This is my new home. One poky room, fourteen foot by twelve, with an attached hallway, kitchen and bathroom. The room contains a built-in wardrobe with no doors, my bed, and just about space for two chairs and a table. I couldnt sit in here: prison would be better. Id fucking well go back up to Edinburgh and swap Frank Begbie his cell for this frozen hovel.
In this confined space the stench of old fags from Croxy is suffocating. Ive gone three weeks without a cigarette, but Ive passive-smoked about thirty a day just from being in his proximity. Thirsty work, eh, Simon? You coming down the Pepys for one? he asks, his enthusiasm seeming like a gloat, a calculated sneer at one Simon David Williamsons reduced circumstances.
On one level it would be sheer fucking folly to go down Mare Street, to the Pepys, so that they can all snicker, Back in Hackney, Simon? but, aye, company is whats wanted. Ears must be bent. Steam has to be let off. Also, Croxy needs an airing. Trying to give up fags in his company is like trying to come off gear in a squat full of junkies.
Youre lucky to get this place, Croxy tells me, as he helps me unload the boxes. Lucky my fuckin arse. I lie down on the bed and the whole joint shakes as the express train to Liverpool Street hurtles through Hackney Downs station, which is about one foot outside the kitchen window.
Staying put in my state of mind is even less of an option than going out, so were cagily descending the threadbare stairs, the carpet so worn that its as hazardous as the side of a glacier. Outside, sleet falls and theres a dull aura of festive hangover everywhere, as we make our way towards Mare Street and the town hall. Croxy, with absolutely no sense of irony, is telling me that Hackneys a better manor than Islington, any roads. Islingtons been facked for years.
You can be a crustie for too long. He should be designing websites in Clerkenwell or Soho, rather than organising squats and parties in Hackney. I put the cunt wise to the ways of the world, not because itll do him any good, but simply to stop nonsense like that filtering into the culture unchallenged. No, its a step backwards, I say, blowing on my hands, my fingers as pink as uncooked pork sausages. For a twenty-five-year-old crustie, Hackneys fine. For an upwardly mobile thirty-six-year-old entrepreneur, I point at myself, it has to be Izzy. How can you give a class bit of fanny in a Soho bar an E8 address? What do you say when she asks, Wheres the nearest Tube?
The overlands orlroight, he says, pointing up to the railway bridge beneath the turgid sky. A 38 bus chugs past, spewing its toxic carbon. These fucking London Transport cunts, they whinge on in their expensive pamphlets about the damage the car causes to the environment as they blooter in your respiratory system at will.
Its no fucking awright, I snap, its shite. This placell be the last part of north London ever to get the Tube. Even fuckin Bermondseys got it now, for fuck sake. They can build it out tae that stupid fuckin circus tent, which nae cunt wants tae go tae, and they cannae do it here, thats well fucked.
Croxys narrow face twitches in a sort of smile and he looks at me through those big, hollowed-out eyes. Youre throwing a right farkin moody today, aintcha, he tells me.
And its true. So I do what I always do, drown my sorrows in drink, tell them all in the pub Bernie, Mona, Billy, Candy, Stevie and Dee that Hackney is just a temporary switch, dont expect to see me back on this manor full-time. No siree. Bigger plans, matey. And yes, Im visiting the toilet frequently, but its invariably to ingest rather than excrete.
Even as Im shovelling it up my hooter, I realise the sad truth. Coke bores me, it bores us all. Were jaded cunts, in a scene we hate, a city we hate, pretending that were at the centre of the universe, trashing ourselves with crap drugs to stave off the feeling that real life is happening somewhere else, aware that all were doing is feeding that paranoia and disenchantment, yet somehow were too apathetic to stop. Cause, sadly, theres nothing else of interest to stop for. On that note, rumours abound that Breenys got a shitload of ching and a fair bit seems to be flying around already.
Suddenly its tomorrow and were in a flat somewhere hitting the pipe and Stevies going on about how much it cost to purchase this load hes washing up and grudging crumpled notes come out as the stink of ammonia fills the air. Whenever that horrible pipe hits and blisters my lips, I feel sick and defeated until the toke sends me into another corner of the room: cold, iced, content, full of myself, talking shite, hatching plans to rule the world.
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