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Ah’m thinkin aboot this, n how Second Prize hud done really well tae git things back oan track. — But the doaktirs said thit eh wisnae meant tae drink, Franco, ah runs ma finger ower ma throat n makes a chokin noise, — or it’s kaput.

— Eh came oot wi aw that fuckin shite wi me n aw; ‘the doaktir this, the doaktir that’, but ah jist telt the cunt straight, it’s the fuckin quality ay life thit counts. Better one year bein able tae fuckin go fir it, instead ay fifty as a miserable cunt. Fuck gittin like aw they auld cunts in the Port Sunshine. Telt um tae git ehsel a fuckin liver transplant. Slate wiped fuckin clean.

So ah hus tae pit up wi aw this for ages, man, and ah’m relieved when the Beggar Boy goes cause aw that violence stuff ay his kin be a bit ay a drag tae listen tae. Ye eywis worry thit yir heid’s noddin whin it should be shakin, n aw that sort ay thing. Even though ah’m buzzin oan this charlie, ah hud ma hoarses n gie the cat time tae git away, then ah head oot intae the drizzle, settin the hoof-pad controls fir the Central Library at George IV Bridge. Persevere.

Ma heid’s still flyin a bit by the time ah gits up tae the Edinburgh Rooms, n ah watch a lassie gittin that microfiche oan. — Eh . . . excuse me, could you gie’s a hand wi this? Never done it before, likes, ah goes pointin tae a free machine.

She only looks at me for a second then goes: — Sure, n shows ays how tae load it. Thing is, it wis that simple man, ah felt a total dipstick. But ah’m away! Soon ah’m readin aboot the great betrayal ay 1920 when Leith wis sucked intae Edinburgh against the people’s will. That was when aw the problems pure started, man! Four-tae-one against, man, four-tae-one against.

Whin ah head back doon the toon, towards the fair port, the weather’s changed n it’s startin tae rain really heavy. Ah’ve nae cash fir the bus fare so it’s a collar-up and big-strides job. In St James’s Centre some youthful cats are hingin aroond n muh pal Curtis is one ay them. — Awright, buddy? Ah goes, the coke rush now quite run doon.

— Awright, Sp-Sp-Spud, eh goes. The wee gadge is jist a bit nervous wi that stutter but if ye stey cool n dinnae pit um under nae presh, the boy soon gits in the right rhythm n the auld communication jist flows like a stream, man. Wi spraff away fir a bit before ah take oaf n head through John Lewis’s n oot tae Picardy Place, hittin the Walk n keepin intae the side tae try n git some shelter fae the rain.

Crossing the Pilrig border into no-sae-Sunny Leith, ah see Sick Boy in the street, and eh seems in a better mood. Ah thought eh’d blank me, but naw, man, the cat sortay apologies, or comes as close as eh gits tae apologising. — Spud. Lit’s eh . . . forget aboot the other day, man, eh says.

Eh obviously nivir grassed ays tae Franco, even though the Generalissimo’s been in ehs pub, so ah feel better aboot the gadge. — Aye, ah’m likesay sorry aboot that, Simon. Thanks for, eh, no mentioning it tae Franco, likes.

— Fuck that cunt, he says, shaking his heid. — I’m afraid I’ve far too much to think about to worry aboot the likes of him. Then he beckons ays intae the pub, the Shrub Bar. — Let’s get a beer till that fuckin rain goes off, eh says.

— Sound, but . . . eh, yi’ll huv tae sub ays though, mate, ah’m skint, ah tell um, comin clean.

Sick Boy exhales powerfully, but goes in anywey, so ah follay. The first gadge ah see in thair is that Cousin Dode cat, standing at the bar and wi sort ay gits lumbered wi him. Dode’s giein it the Weedgie-in-Edinburgh thing: better fitba teams, better transport system, pubs, clubs, cheaper taxis, warmer people, aw the usual Weedgie stuff, man. N eh’s probably right n aw, but the cat
is
in Edinburgh.

When eh goes tae the bog, Sick Boy looks aw harshly at ehs back n says: — Who the fuck is that twat?

So ah’m telling um aw aboot the Cousin Felly, and ah’m sayin that ah wished ah kent Dode’s pin number cause see if ah did, ah’d huv dipped the cunt’s poakits for ehs caird, cause he’s goat big dosh in that account. — Aye, eh keeps gaun oan aboot how ye can choose yir ain yin in that Clydesdale Bank.

When Dode came back we gits another one in and sits doon. But then something pure radge happens! The gadge takes ehs jayket off, n Sick Boy and me jist look at each other. It’s pure thaire, man, right in front ay us! Ye could see Dode’s lion tattoo wi ‘Aye Ready’ on one airm, and his King Billy oan the hoarse oan the other. Aye, n jist below the hoarse oan a scroll wis that PIN number, tattooed so thit eh wid never forget it: 1690.

31

‘. . . one buttock cut off . . .’

I
t’s quite a little factory, our Tollcross flat. Joints of hash and cups of coffee are constantly on the go. Rab and I are up working on the script. Dianne’s close by us, into her dissertation notes, enjoying our giggles as we batter away side by side on the word processor. Taking the occasional glance at the screen, she proffers purrs of approval and the odd worthy suggestion. In the corner, Lauren, also working on an assignment, is trying to shame us into joining her in the coursework. Obviously intrigued, she, however, refuses to look at our script. Rab and I keep winding her up by whispering things like ‘blow job’ and ‘up the arse’ and giggling, while Lauren’s tinting red, muttering ‘Fellini’ or ‘Powell and Pressburger’. Dianne eventually gives up and gathers her stuff. — I’m off, I can’t stand it, she says.

Lauren looks over at us testily. — Are they disturbing you as well?

— No, Dianne says ruefully, — it’s just that every time I take a peek I get all horny. If you hear motor sounds and gasping noises coming from my room you’ll know what I’m doing.

Lauren pouts miserably, chewing on her bottom lip. If it’s bothering her that much why doesn’t she go to
her
room too? By the time we’ve finished a rough draft of about sixty pages and printed it out, her curiosity has got the better of her and she comes over. She looks at the title then pushes the page-down button, reading in mounting disbelief and distaste. — This is horrible . . . it’s disgusting . . . it’s obscene . . . and not even in a cool way. There’s no merit in it at all. It’s trash! I can’t believe you could write such degrading, exploitative filth . . . she bubbles. — And you’re planning to do these things with people, strangers, you’re going to let them do these things to you!

I almost feel obliged to tell her, everything except anal, but instead I come over all haughty, retorting with a quote I’ve memorised for such an occasion. — I would be glad to know which is worst: to be ravished a hundred times by pirates, to have one buttock cut off, to run the gauntlet among the Bulgarians, to be whipped and hanged at an auto-da-fé, to be dissected, to be chained to an oar in a galley; and in short, to experience all the miseries through which every one of us hath passed, I look at Rab and he joins in concert, — or to remain here doing nothing?

Lauren’s shaking her head. — What rubbish are you talking now?

Rab chips in. — That’s Voltaire, oot ay
Candide
, he explains. — Surprised you didnae ken that, Lauren, he says to our girl, who shakes nervously and lights up a cigarette. — What was it Candide said back? Rab raises one finger at me and again we declare together: — This is a grand question!

Lauren’s still writhing in the seat, looking angry, as if we’re wilfully taking the piss out of her, but we’re just vibing on the script.

— Nice flooirs, Rab says, as if trying to lighten the mood, looking over at my roses. — I saw another set of fresh ones in the bucket. He smiles cheekily. — What’s the story there?

Lauren shoots him a look, but I sense the innocuousness of the remark, which immediately makes me think that it
was
Sick . . . Simon. We can certainly eliminate Rab from our line of enquiry.

We sit up until the shops open, going over the draft, making amendments. If Rab and I were tired and nervous about taking it down to Leith and showing it to the others, we left the flat highly encouraged by Lauren’s remarks. We went to a printer’s and got several copies xeroxed off and bound. As we settle into a café for breakfast, it only really hit me, through our elation at finishing and our fatigue, just how upset Lauren was. In a sudden surge of guilt, I ask: — Do you think we should go back up and see how she is?

— Naw, it’ll just make things worse. Gie her some time, Rab considers.

And that suits me; I certainly don’t want to go back. Because I’m enjoying myself here with Rab. Enjoying the strong black coffees, the orange juice, the bagels, enjoying the fact that we’re sitting here with a script on the table. A film script
we’ve done
, rejoicing that we’ve achieved
something
, Rab and I, we just sat down and did it. And I feel a great intimacy with him, and I think that I maybe want us to have more moments like this. But now it isn’t just a sex thing, like my mounting obsession with Simon, in fact it feels strangely asexual in a way. Not just fucking, but moments like this. It makes me think though. — Do you think your girlfriend would approve if she knew you’d been up all night writing porno with another woman?

Rab sees it for what it is. He emotionally stands back from me, shrugging off the question and pouring more coffee from the cafetière. There’s a silence for a bit, then he goes to say something, thinks better of it, and we square up and leave the café and jump on a Leith-bound bus.

I see him in my mind’s eye on the way down to Leith, then we get to the pub and he’s there. Simon Williamson. The others are arriving, shuffling in. Ursula, in a tracksuit which would look horrible on a British girl but is somehow cool on her. Craig and Ronnie, the Siamese twins, and my face lights up as I see Gina for the first time since she helped me. I go over and put my hand on her shoulder. — Thanks so much for helping me that time, I croon.

— Ye goat sick oan ma toap, she says gruffly, and I’m briefly startled but her aggression is superficial and she smiles. — Jist a wee whitey. Happens tae us aw.

Then Melanie’s in, all open and friendly, hugging me like we’re long-lost pals. My spirits rise as we present them each with a copy. — Remember, I explain, — this is just a very rough draft. All feedback gratefully received.

At least the title gets them. They all snigger when they read on the title page:

I quickly explain the plot. — The story is roughly this: seven lads are on an oil rig. One of them, Joe, has a bet with another, Tommy, which states that each one of the seven ‘brothers’ needs to get laid while on weekend shore leave. But not only do they have to get fucked, they have to have satisfied their own well-known sexual predilections. Unfortunately, there are two of them who want to do other things, of a cultural and sporting nature, and a third is a hopeless virgin. So the odds are stacked in Tommy’s favour. But Joe has allies; Melinda and Suzy, who run a high-class brothel, and who contrive to find the seven rides who’ll sort out those pesky brothers once and for all.

Simon nods enthusiastically, slapping his hand against his thigh. — This sounds good. This sounds very fucking good indeed.

While the others read, Rab and I elect to go downstairs and have a drink in the locked, empty pub. We have a half-hour of small talk about the script and the university before we head back up. When we open the door, they’re sitting in stunned silence. I think, oh no, but then realise that they’re looking in awe at us.

Suddenly Melanie’s big laugh sucks the air out the room. She throws the manuscript on the desk, unable to control herself. — This is jist too fuckin mad, she smirks at me, her hand going to her mouth. — Youse are radge.

Then Terry cuts in, looking at Rab. — Aye, it’s awright, but listen, Birrell, this isnae a fuckin college project. Yuv goat tae be able tae stroke yir fuckin knob n come, no yir fuckin chin n come. This is the real world, mate.

Rab looks impatiently back at him. — Read the fuckin thing, Lawson. It’s seven brothers oan the rigs, fir fuck sakes, they come oaf thir shift n need tae meet they seven birds.

Simon looks at Terry in a hostile manner, then he turns to us glassy-eyed and seems genuinely emotional. — This is a work of fuckin genius, folks, he says, standing up and grabbing Rab’s shoulder and then kissing my cheek before leaning across the bar and filling up some huge JD’s from the optics. — You’ve got the fuckin lot here. I loved the bondage and spanking scenes. So fruity!

— Yeah, I explain, totally elated, but trying to maintain some sort of cool in the face of his comments as the grimy tiredness of our all-nighter kicks in, — British market, y’know. It’s a very British fetish? Its cultural origins are, like, in the public-school and nanny-state culture?

Rab nods enthusiastically. — It also shows our soft-porn heritage and the repressive nature of our censorship culture, he says, our pretension now suddenly growing. — How Lauren could say there was no art in it really just beggars belief.

— Nivir mind the art, Birrell, ah liked the bit aboot the boy thit wis obsessed wi blow jobs, Terry winks, letting his bottom lip caress his top one.

Simon’s nodding slowly, and in grim content, with an executioner’s enthusiasm says: — Now we’ve got tae cast this.

— Ah want tae play aw the brothers, Terry says. — Ye kin dae that wi effects n editing now. Jist a couple ay different wigs, some costumes, like glesses n that . . .

We all laugh, but it has an incredulous edge as we know that Terry’s deadly serious. Simon shakes his head. — Naw, we all need to get parts in this – or any boy whae kin find wid on camera can, that is.

— There’ll be nae problems here, Terry says patting his crotch satisfyingly. Then he turns to Rab. — Notice you’re keepin quiet, Birrell! No fancy a wee part, wee bein the operative word?

— Fuck off, Terry, Rab says with a mannered smile, — it’s big enough, although half a dozen twelve-inchers would still rattle in your fuckin gob.

— You can dream, Birrell, Terry scoffs.

— Children, please, Simon says grandly. — It might have escaped your attention, but there’s ladies present. Just because we’re making a pornogra . . . eh, adult-entertainment film, it doesn’t mean that we personally need to be coarse. Keep the gutter in your head, not round this table.