CATHOLIC GUILT (You Know You Love It)

--by Irvine Welsh

Some background on Welsh, taken from http://www.centralbooking.com/author_about.shtml?author=3

Born:1961, Edinburgh.

Irvine Welsh is the foremost author of the Scottish literary renaissance of the 1990s, which also includes writers like Alan Warner and Duncan McLean. His writing is quirky, experimental and barbed, possessed of much black humor. It tends toward the grandiose, with a particular emphasis on capturing the sound of Scottish slang. Mostly concerned with his characters' interior life, Welsh utilizes a series of strategies in order to express this, including giving voice to a stomach parasite in Filth, and alternating between soccer hooligan reality and African hunter fantasy in Marabou Stork Nightmares.

Welsh first came to prominence with the publication of his short story collection The Acid House, which was quickly followed by the previously written, and even more popular, novel Trainspotting. A journey through the collective mental landscape of Scottish drug addicts, the book struck a nerve in the United Kingdom, adapted first into a play, and then into Danny Boyle's brilliant film of the same name. Often called the bad boy of British letters, Welsh's hip, edgy persona has certainly contributed to his rabid following. It hasn't exactly won him the approval of the literary establishment, many of whom consider Welsh's work highly overrated and derivative, more fashionable than substantive.

Irvine Welsh was born in Edinburgh in 1961 and grew up in the working class Muirhouse district. He left school at age 16, and moved to London in order to follow the burgeoning punk rock scene. In London, he worked a variety of jobs and also developed a drug addiction. In the late 1980s, Welsh moved back to Edinburgh and began to write while studying computer science in school. His first book, The Acid House, was published in the U.K. in 1994 and was followed later that year by his first novel Trainspotting, which had actually been written in 1993. The novel was a huge success both artistically and financially and was a finalist for the Booker Prize, the highest award in British literature.

Trainspotting attempted to take its readers through the lives and thoughts of drug addicts. Rather than opt for easy pathos, Welsh allowed us to like his characters as people we might enjoy hanging out with, giving us a look at the privileged moments of their lives. We almost envy the fellowship addicts create with each other…Trainspotting opened many eyes in Britain about those who fall between society's cracks. That Welsh managed to do so while maintaining an insider's perspective resulted in some of the highest praise of his career. The film adaptation of Trainspotting followed in 1996, a critical and box office success.

How To Read Irvine Welsh:

Book To Start With: Trainspotting

Music is a good accessory for reading Irvine Welsh. His writing style practically demands musical accompaniment, and the wrong music will definitely kill the buzz produced by his words. A recommended soundtrack to Welsh's work would include Radiohead, Blur, Spiritualized, Tricky, and Massive Attack--anything British, thorny, and articulate. Pick the right music, and eventually you will have created a trance state, where Welsh's words and the sounds on your stereo mesh perfectly. His books are concerned with the inner lives of people, so sit in some public place, and as you read, try to place faces from passersby on the characters. See how well you think you can peg certain inner thoughts on complete strangers. Also, since so much of his writing seems to be shrouded in a certain darkness, be it the darkness of night, or the haze of immorality, create a sharp opposition, and read in bright sunshine. Notice how the book's sharp edges appear in even sharper detail.

Information on Porno, the sequel to Trainspotting, can be found at http://www.randomhouse.co.uk/minisites/porno/

Irvine Welsh’s own website is http://www.irvinewelsh.net

It was a steaming, muggy day. The heat baked you slowly. My eyes were fuckin streaming from the pollutants in the air, carried around on the pollen. Nippy tears for souvenirs. Fuckin' London. I used to like the sun and the heat. Now it was taking everything, sucking oUt my vital juices. Just as well something was. The lassies in this weather, the way they dress. Fuckin' torture man, pure fuckin' torture.

I'd been helping my mate Andy Barrow knock two rooms into one at his place over in Hackney and my throat was dry from graft and plaster dust. I'd come over a bit faint, probably because I'd hammered it a bit on the piss the last couple of nights. I decided to call it a day early. By the time I'd got back to Tufnell Park and up to my second-floor flat I felt better and in the mood to go out again. Nobody was home though; Selina and Yvette, they were both out. No note, and in this case no note is really a note which says:

GIRLS' NIGHT OUT. FUCK OFF.

But Charlie had left me a message on the machine. He was as high as a kite. -Joe, she's had it, A girl, I'm down at the Ship in Wardour Street. Be there till about six. Come down if you get this in time. And get a fucking mobile, you tight jock cunt.

Mobile my hole. I fuckin' hate mobile phones. And the cunts that use thein. The ugly intrusiveness of the strange voice: everywhere pushing their business in your face. The last time I was in Soho on a brutal come-down all those fuckin' tossers were standing in the street talking to themselves. The yuppies are now emulating the jakeys; drinking outside in the street and belthering shite to themselves, or rather, into those small, nearly-invisible microphones connected to their mobiles.

But I didnae need too much persuasion tae head down there, no with this fuckin thirst on me. I nip out sharpish, breathless in the heat after a few yards, feeling the grime and fumes of the city insinuating itself intae me. By the time I get down to the Tube station I'm sweating like the cheese on yesterday's pizza. Thankfully it's cooler doon here, at least it is until you get on that fuckin' train. There's a couple of queers sitting opposite me; the campy lisping type, their voices burrowing into my skull. I clock two sets of those dead, inhuman, Boy Scout eyes; a lot of poofters seem to have them. Bet ye these cunts have got mobile phones.

Makes me think back to a couple of months ago when Charlie and I were over at the Brewers in Clapham, in that fairy pub by the park. We went in, only because we were in the area and it was open late. It was a mistake. The poncing and flouncing around, the shrill, shrieking queer voices disgusted me. I felt a sickness build in my gut and slowly force its way into my throat, constricting it, making it hard for me to breathe normally. I grimaced at Charlie and we finished our drinks and left.

We walked over the Common in silent shame and embarrassment, the weakness of our curiosity and laziness oppressing us. Then I saw one of them coming towards us. I clocked a twist of that diseased mouth, fuck knows what that's had in it, and it was pouting at me. Those sick, semi-apologetic queer eyes seemed to look right into my soul and interfere with my essence.

That cunt, looking at me. At me!

I just fuckin' well lashed out. The pressure of my body behind the shot told me it was a good one. My knuckle ripped against queer teeth as the fag staggered back, holding his mouth. As I inspected the damage on my hand, relieved that the skin hadn't drawn blood and merged with plague-ridden essence of pansy, Charlie flew in, no questions asked, smacking the cunt a beauty on the side of his face and knocking him over. The poof fell heavily onto the concrete path.

Charlie's a good mate, you can always rely on that cunt tae provide backup, no that I needed it here, but I suppose that what ah'm sayin' is that he likes to get involved. Takes an interest. Ye appreciate that in a cunt. We stuck the boot into the decked pansy. Groaning, gurgling noises escaped from his burst faggot mouth. I wanted to obliterate the twisted puppet features of the fairy, and all I could do was boot and boot at his face until Charlie pulled me away.

Charlie's eyes were wide and wired, and his mouth was turned down. --Enough, Joe, where's yer fucking head at? he reprimanded me.

I glanced down at the battered, moaning beast on the deck. He was well done. So aye, fair enough, I'd lost it awright, but I didnae like poofs. I told Charlie that, as we headed off across the park, swiftly into the dusky night, leaving that thing lying whining back there.

-Nah, I don't see it that way, he telt us, buzzing with adrenaline, -If every other geezer was a queer, it'd be an ideal world for me. No competition: I'd 'ave me pick orf all the skirt, wouldn't I.

Glancing furtively around, I felt we'd got away undetected. Darkness was falling and the Common seemed still deserted. My heartbeat was settling down. -Look at the fairy on the ground back thaire, I thumbed behind me as the night air cooled and soothed me. -Your bird's expecting a kid. Ye want some pervert like that teaching your kid in the classroom? Ye want that faggot brainwashing him that what he does is fucking normal?

-Come on, mate, you belted the geezer so I was in with ya, but I'm a live-and-let-live type of cunt myself.

What Charlie didnae understand was the politics ay the situation; how those cunts were taking over everything. -Naw, but listen tae this, I tried to explain tae him, -Up in Scotland they want tae get rid of that Section 28 law, the only thing that stops fuckin' queers like that interfering with kids.

-That's a load of old bollocks, Charlie said, shaking his head.

-They didn't have no Section fucking nothing when I was at I school, nor me old man, nor his old man. We didn't need it. Nobody can teach you who you want to fucking well shag. It's there or it aln t.

-What d'ye mean? I asked him.

-Well, you know you don't want to shag blokes, not unless you're a bit like that in the first place, he said, looking at me for a second or two, then grinning.

-What's that meant tae mean?

-Well, you Jocks might be different cause you wear fucking skirts, he laughed. He saw ah wisnae joking so he punched me lightly on the shoulder. -C'mon, Joe, I'm only pulling your leg, you uptight, narky cunt: he said. -We was out of order but we got a fucking result. Let s move on.

I mind that I wisnae that chuffed about this. There's certain things that ye dinnae joke about, even if ye are mates. I decided it was nothing though, and that I was just being a bit paranoid in case somebody might have seen us stomp the queer. Charlie was a great mate, a good old boy; we wound each other a bit for a laugh, , but that was as far as it went. Charlie was a fuckin' sound cunt.

So we did move on; to a late nightspot that he knew. and we thought no more about it.

It all came back to me during this tube ride though. Just looking over at the nauseating pansies across fae me. Ughhh. My guts flip over as one of them gives me what seems to be a sly smile. I look away and try to control my breathing. My fingers dig into the upholstery of the seat. The two fairies get off at Covent Garden, which is ma fuckin' stop. I let them go ahead and into the lift, which will take us up to street level. It's mobbed, and just being in such close vicinity of those arse-bandits would make my skin crawl, so I elect to hold on for the next lift. As it is, I'm feeling sick enough when I get out and head for Wardour Street and the Ship.

1 move up to the bar and Charlie's talking into his mobile phone. Twat. Seems to be with this lassie, who looks a bit familiar. He hasn't seen me come in. -A little girl. Four-twenty this morning. Five pounds eleven. Both fine. Lily. . . he clocks me and breaks into a broad grin. I squeeze his shoulder and he nods over at the bird, who I instantly take to be his sister. -This is Lucy.

Lucy smiles at me, cocking her head to the side, presenting her cheek for a greeting kiss, which I'm happy to deliver. My firsr impression is that she's fuckin' fit. Her hair is long and dark brown, and she has a pair of shades pushed on top of her head. She wears blue jeans and a light-blue top. My second impression (which should be contradictory) is that she looks like Charlie.

I knew Charlie had a twin sister, but I'd neVer met her before. Now she was standing with us at the bar and it was disconcerting. The thing was that she really did look like him. I could never, ever imagine a woman looking like Charlie. But she looked like him. A much slimmer, female, infinitely prettier version, but otherwise just like Charlie.

She smiles at me and gives me a sizing-up look. I suck in my beer gut. -You're the famous Joe, I take it? Her voice is high, a wee bit nasal, but a softer version of Charlie's South London twang. Charlie's South London accent is so South London that when I first met him I thought that he just had to be a posh cunt trying it on.

-Aye. So you're Lucy then, I state in obvious approval, looking over towards Charlie, who's still blabbering into the mobby, then back to his sister.

-Is everything okay?

-Yeah, a little girl. Four-twenty this morning. Five pounds eleven.

-Is Mellissa okay?

-Yeah, she had to work pretty hard, but at least Charlie was there. He went away during the contractions and . . .

Charlie's off the wobbly and we're hugging and he's gesturing for drinks as he takes up the tale. He looks happy, exhausted and a bit bewildered. -I was there, Joe! I just went out for a coffee, then I came back up and I heard them say, 'the head's coming' so I thought I'd better get in there sharpish. Next thing I knew it was in me arms!

Lucy looks at him disapprovingly; her thick, black eyebrows are just like his. -It is a she. Lily, remember?

-Yeah, we're calling her Lily. . . Charlie's mobile rings again. He raises his eyebrows and shrugs. -Hi, Dave. . . yeah, a little girl. . . four-twenty this morning... five pounds eleven... Lily . . . Probably the Roses. . . I'll call yer in an hour. . . Cheers.

Just as he went to draw breath, the phone rang again.

-It's funny how we've never met, Lucy says, -because Charlie's always talking about you.

I think about this. -Y eah, he'd asked me to be best man at the wedding but my old man was pretty ill at the time and ah had tae go back up the road. Ah think it was better though, one of eh's mates fae the Manor daein it, somebody that knew the family 'n that.

The old man pulled through okay. No that he was keen to see me in any case. He never forgave me for no going to our Angela's communion. Couldnae tell him but, couldnae tell him it was because of that priest cunt. No now. Too much water under the bridge. But that cunt'll get his one day.

-I dunno, might have been nice to have seen you in a kilt, she giggles. Laughter makes her face dance. 1 realize that she's a little drunk and emotional but she's actively flirting with me. Her resemblance to Charlie, they really are Yin and Yang, makes this unnerving, but strangely exciting. The thing is, I mind that cunt casting aspersions, just after we'd battered that poof on the Common. I'm now wondering how he'd feel if his sister and me got it on.

As Lucy and I chat to each other, I can sense Charlie picking up the vibe. He's still talking on the phone, but it's charged with urgency now; he's trying to end the conversations ASAP so he can work out what's going with us. I'll show that cunt. Casting aspersions. English bastard.

-Nigel.. . you heard. Good news travels fast. Four-thirty this morning. A little girl. . . Five eleven... . Both doing well. . . Lily. . . The Roses. . . Probably nine but I'll phone you in an hour. Bye, Nige.

I catch the barman's attention and signal for three Beck's and three Smirnoff Mules. Charlie raises a brow, -Steady on, Joe, it's going to be a long night. We're going down the Roses tonight, to wet the baby's head.

--'-Sound by me.

Lucy pulls on my arm and says, -Me 'n Joe's started already.

I'm thinking that Charlie's done a good PR job on me cause I've as good as pulled his sister without saying a fuckin word. By the look on the poor cunt's face he thinks so as well; thinks he's done too good a job. -Yeah, well, I got to get back, he whines, get some things sorted out for Mel and the baby coming home tomorrow. I'll see you two later on down the Roses. Try not to get too sozzled.

-Awright, Dad, I say in a deadpan manner, and Lucy laughs, maybe a bit too loudly. Charlie smiles and says, -Tell ya wot, Joe, I could tell she was Millwall. She came out kicking!

I think about this for a second. -Call her Milly instead of Lily. Charlie pushes down his bottom lip, raises his brow and rubs his jaw as if he's actively considering this. Lucy pushes him in his chest, -Don't you dare! Then she turns to me and says, -You're, as bad as he is, you are, encouraging him! She's quite loud for a quiet pub and a few people turn around, but nobody's bothered, they know we're just enjoying a harmless high. I'm right into her now. I fancy her. I like the way she moved that one extra wee step forward into my space. I like the way she leans into you when she talks, the way her eyes dart about, how her hands move when she gets excited. OK, it is an emotional time, but she's a banger, game as fuck, you can tell. I'm liking her more and more, and seeing less and less of Charlie in her 'as the drink takes effect. I like that mole

on her chin; it's no a mole, it's a fuckin' beauty spot, and her long, luxuriant dark brown hair. Aye, she'll dae awright.

-See ya, Charlie goes. He gives me a bear hug, then breaks it and kisses and hugs Lucy. As he departs, the mobile goes off. - Mark! Hello!... A little girl. . . Four-twenty. . . Sorry, Mark, you're breaking up a bit mate, wait till I get outside. . .

Lucy and I leisurely finish our drinks before deciding to move on. We're off down Old Comptofi Street and, as usual, the place is teeming with arse-bandits. Everywhere you look. I'm disgusted, but I say nowt to her. It's almost obligatory for a bird in London to have a fag mate these days. A loyal accessory for when the real man in her life fucks off. Cheaper than a dog and you don't have to feed it or take it for walks. Mind you, you don't have to listen to an Alsatian lisping and bleating doon the phone that it's border collie partner sucked off a strange Rottweiller in the local park.

Dirty fuckin' . . .

I get up off the stool and have to sit down again for a bit 'cause I feel faint. My heartbeat's racing and there's a pain in my chest. I'll have to take things easier, drinking heavily in this heat always fucks 'me.

-You okay, Joe? Lucy asks.

-Never better, I smile, composing myself... But I'm thinking about how I had to sit down for a bit earlier today, over at Andy's. I picked up the sledgehammer and was itching to let fly at his wall. Then I felt this kind of spasm in my chest and I honestly thought I was going to pass out. I sat down for a bit and I was fine. Just: been caning it a bit lately. That's what being single again does for you.

I get up and I'm a bit edgy in the next pub, but I concentrate on Lucy, blacking out all the queer goings-on around us. We have another couple of beers, then decide to go for a pizza at Pizza Express to soak up some of the booze. -It's weird that we haven't met before, you being one of Charlie's closest mates. . . Lucy considers.

--and you being his twin, I interject.. -Tell ye what though, you're a lot better looking than him.

--So are you, she says, with a cool evaluating stare. We look at each other across the table, for a couple of seconds. Lucy's quite a skinny lassie, but she's got a bust on her. That never fails to impress, that one: substantial tits on a skinny bird. Never ceases to cause me to take a deep breath of admiration. She takes her shades from her head and sweeps her hair back out of her eyes in that Sloaney gesture which, for all its camp, let's face it, never fails to get the hormones racing. No that she's a posh bird or nowt like that, she's just a salt of the earth type, like her brother..

Charlie's sister.

-I think that's what's called an awkward silence, I smile.

-I don't want to go to Lewisham, lucy says to me with a toothy grin, as she stoops forward in the chair. She's sitting on her hands, to stop them flying about, I think. She's quite expressive that way, they were fairly swooping around in that last pub.

But aye, fuck South London the now. -Nah, I'm no that bothered either. I'm enjoying it with just the pair of us, to be honest.

Then she says to me, -You don't say very much but when you do it's really sweet.

I think of the smashed poof in the park and clench my teeth in a smile. Sweet talk. -You're sweet, I tell her.

Sweet talk.

-Where do you stay? she quizzes, raising her eyebrows.

-Tufnell Park, I tell her. I should say more, but there isnae any point. She's doing fine for the both of us, and I sense that I can only talk myself out of a shag right now and I'm no about tae dae that. Not with the way my sex life's been lately.

It's a bummer sharing a gaff with two fit birds and no going oot wi anybody. Everybody says, lucky, bastard, but it's sheer torture. But I find that the more you say that you're not shagging either of them, the less inclined people are to believe you. I feel like that Man About the House cunt.

Aye, ah could dae wi a ride.

So could she, by the sound ay things. --Let's get a cab, Lucy urges.

In the taxi I kiss her on the lips. In my celibate paranoia I'm expecting them to be cold and tight, like I've misread the signs, but they're open, warm and lush and before I know it we're eating each other's faces. The snatches of conversation when we come up for air reveal that we're both in the process of getting over other people. We urgently rap out those monologues, both knowing that if we weren't so close to Charlie we wouldn't have bothered, but in the circumstances it seems only mannered to be up to speed with each other's recent history. But whether we're really over our exes or not, it's nae bother: rebound rides are better than okay if celibacy is the only alternative.

I remember with satisfaction and relief that I recently visited the launderette and washed a new duvet, which I've got on my bed. So when we get back to mines I'm delighted that Selina and Yvette are both still out and I don't have to go through tiresome introductions. We shoot straight through to the bedroom and I'm fucking one of my best mates' twin sister. I'm on top of her and she's chewing her bottom lip, like. . . like Charlie when we were in lbiza last year: We'd pulled these two lassies from York and we were riding them back in the room, and I looked over and saw Charlie biting his lower lip in concentration. Her eyes, her brows, so like his.

It was putting me off, I could feel myself going a bit soft. I pulled out and gasped, -From behind now.

She turned over, but she didn't get on her knees, just lying flat and smiling wickedly. I wondered for a second whether or not she wanted it up her arse. I wasn't into that. She looked good though, and I rock-hard again, the troubling Charlie associations all gone nom my nut. All I could see was that long hair, that slender body and that peach of an arse, spread out before me. I struggled to push in to her fanny, trying to keep some of my weight on my arms as I thrust into her.

It was going in though and soon we were fucking away again for all we were worth. Lucy gave the odd appreciative groan, without making a big fuss. I liked that. I was looking at a spot on the headboard to avoid getting too turned on and blowing early, it had been a while and I . . .

. . . I was feeling. . .

WHOOSH...

PHOAH . . .

OH...

OOOOHHH...

No.. .

I thought I'd blown it there for a bit, the room seemed to darken and spin, but I came to my senses and we were still at it.

The strange thing was that I was suddenly aware that her dimensions seemed to have changed. Her body was like it was rounder and fuller. And she was quiet now, it was as if she had passed out.

And. . . there was somebody in the bed next to us! It was Mellissa! Charlie's wife, and she was asleep. I looked at Lucy, but it wasn't Lucy. It was Charlie: I was. . . I was. . . I was fucking Charlie up his arse . . .

I WAS FUCK . . .

A spasm of horror shot through me, the rigidness going from my erection to my body. My cock instantly went limp, as God's my witness, and I pulled out, sweating and trembling.

I realized to my further shock that I wasn't home anymore. I was in Charlie's flat.

WHAT THE FUCK WAS THIS. . . I slid out off the bed. I looked around. Charlie and Mellissa seemed to be in a deep sleep. There was no sign of Lucy. I couldn't find my clothes, all my gear had gone. Where the ruck was this? How the ruck did I get here?

I grabbed a smelly old Millwall top with South London Press on it and a pair of jogging trousers that lay in a heap on a laundry basket. Charlie liked to run, he was a fitness fanatic. I looked at him back there, still dozing, out for the count.

I pulled on the clothes and went through to the front room. This was Charlie and Mellissa's place alright. I couldn't think straight, but I knew I had to get out of there fast. I promptly left the flat and I ran like ruck through the streets of Bermondsey until I got to London Bridge. I headed to the Tube station but I realized that I had no money. So I trotted over London Bridge towards the city.

My head was buzzing with the obvious questions. What the ruck had happened? How did I get to South London? To Charlie's bed? To Char. . . it was obvious that my drink had been spiked in some way, but who the fuck had set me up? I can't remember!

I CANNAE FUCKIN' REMEMBER! I'M NO AN ARSE-BANDIT!

That fuckin' Lucy. She was weirdo. But no her brother, surely no. Me and Charlie. .. I couldn't believe it.

I couldn’t . . .

But the strangest thing was that just when I ought to have been fuckin' suicidal, I was, in spite of myself, settling into this weird calmness. I felt tranquil, but strangely ethereal; somehow disassociated from the rest of the city. Although I was still at a loss to work out what had happened, it all seemed secondary, because I was cocooned in this floaty bubble of bliss. I must have been day-dreaming, as I crossed the road at the Bishopsgate, because I didn't see a cyclist come careering into me . . .

FUCKIN' . . .

WHOOSH...

Then there was a flash and a ringing in my ears and miraculously I was standing at Camden Lock. There was absolutely no sense of any impact having taken place with the boy on the bike. Something was up here, but I wasn't bothered. That was the thing. I felt fine, I didn't care. I headed up Kentish Town Road, towards Tufnell Park.

The door of my flat was locked and I had no keys. The girls might be in. I went to rap at the door, and bang. . . a whoosh of air in my ears and I was standing inside the living room. Yvette was ironing, while watching the television. Selina was sitting on the couch, skinning up a joint.

-I could handle some of that, I said -You're no gaunny believe the night I’ve had. . . .

They ignored me. I spoke again. No reaction. I walked in front of them. No recognition.

They couldn't see or hear me!

I went to touch Selina, to see if I could elicit some response, but then I pulled my hand away. It might break the spell. There was something exciting, something empowering, about this invisibility.

But there was something wrong with the pair of them. They seemed in as much shock as i was. It must have been some night they had as well. Aye, girls: we pay for our fun.

-I still can't believe it, Yvette said. -A bad heart. Nobody knew he had a bad heart. How can something like that not be picked up?

-Nobody knew he had any heart, Selina snorted. Then she shrugged, as if in guilt. -That's not fair. - . but. . .

Yvette looked sharply at her. -You fucking cold cow, she hissed in anger.

-Sorry, I. . . Selina started, before slapping her forehead in confusion, - . . .. oh fuck, I’m going to take a shower, she suddenly decided and left the room.

1 opted to follow her into the bathroom, to watch her take her clothes off. Yes. I'm going to enjoy this invisibility lark. Just as she started to undress. . .

WHOOSH...

I wasn't in the bathroom anymore. I was pumping away. . . yes. . .. ye-es .. . . I'm fucking somebody. . . they're starting to come into focus . . .

It must be Lucy, it was all some fuckin' daft hallucination, some acid flashback or the like, it was all . . .

. . . but no . . .

NO! I was on top of my mate Ian Calder, shagging him up his arse. He was unconscious, and I was giving him one. I could see we were on the couch in his house back in Leith. I was back up in Scotland, shagging one of my oldest pals up his fuckin' hole, like I was some kind of queer rapist!

OHNO, MY GOD. ..NO INFUCKIN' SCOTLAND... I felt as if I was going to throw up all over him. I withdrew, as Ian started to make those delirious sounds, like he was having a bad dream. There was blood on my cock. I pulled up the bottoms on my tracksuit and ran out the house into the street.

I was in Edinburgh, but nobody could see me. I was going mad as I ran screaming, up Leith Walk, down Princes Street, trying to avoid people. But as I picked up speed on the corner of Castle Street I collided with this old woman and a zimmer frame. . .

Then...

WHOOSH...

I was in a prison cell, but I was fuckin' well shagging this guy up his arse. He lay unconscious on the bed underneath me.

OH FOR FUCK SAKE . . .

It was my old buddy Murdo. He was inside for dealing coke. YUK...

I pulled out and jumped down from the top bunk. I was sick, but in dry, racking coughs, holding myself upright against the cell wall. Nothing would come up. I looked around as Murdo came to, his fauce twisted in pain and confusion. He turned round, touched his arse, saw the blood on his fingers and started screaming. He jumped down, and I started to shout, crippled with fear, -I can explain, mate. . . its no what it seems. . .

But Murdo ignored me and moved over to his sleeping cell- mate in the lower bunk, launching into a savage attack on the poor cunt. His fist thrashed into the startled jailbird's face. -You. Ah ken you! You did something tae me! Ah ken you! Ya dirty fuckin' sick buftie bastard! Ya fuckin' beast!

-Aagghh! Its hoosebrekin' ah'm in fir. . . the boy protests through his shock.

WHOOSHHH . . . the guy's screams faded as I was . . . I was standing in a chapel of rest, at the back of the hall. The crematorium- Warriston, or Monktonhall, or the Eastern. I didnae ken, but they were all there; my ma 'n' dad, my brother Alan and my wee sister Angela. In front of the coffin. And I knew, straight-away, just who was inside that coffin.

I was at my ain fuckin' funeral.

I'm screaming at them; what is this, whats happening to me? But again, nobody can hear me. No, thats no quite right.

There's one fucker who seems to be able to; this fat old boy with white hair, who's wearing a dark-blue suit. He gives me the thumbs-up. The old cunt seems to have a glow about him, with shards of incandescent light emanating from him.

I move across to him, completely invisible to the rest of the congregation, just as he seems to be. -You. . . you can hear me. You ken the Hampden Roar here. What the fuck is this?

The old guy just smiles and points at the coffin at the front of the mourners. -Nearly late for yir ain fuckin' funeral thaire, mate, he laughs.

-But how? What happened tae me? -Aye, ye died when you were on the job with your mate's sister. Congenital heart problem you didn't even know about.

Fuck me. I wis mair ill than I. thought. -But: . . . who are you? -Well, the old boy grins, -I'm what you'd call an angel. I'm here to assist you in your passage over to the other side, he coughs, raising his hand to his face, stifling a laugh. -Pardon the pun, he chuckles. -I've had all sorts of names in different cultures. It might help you tae think of me as one of the ones I'm least fond of: St. Peter.

The confirmation ay my death induced in me a bizarre elation, and no small relief. -So I'm deid! Thank fuck for that! It means I never shagged my mates up the arse. Ye hud me worried for a bit there!

The old angel cunt shakes his heid slowly and grimly. -No, because you're not over to the other side yet.

-What d'ye mean?

-You're a restless spirit, wandering the earth.

-How come?

-Punishment. This is your penance.

I wasnae having this. -Punishment? Me? What the fuck have ah done wrong? I ask the bastard.

The auld guy smiles like a double-glazing salesman who's about tae tell me there's nowt they can dae aboot their crappy installation. -Well, Joe, the truth is that you're not a bad guy, but you have been a bit misogynistic and homophobic. So your punishment is to make you walk the earth as a homosexual ghost buggering your old mates and acquaintances.

-No way! No way ah'm ah gaunny dae that! You cannae fuckin' well make me . . . I said, lamely tailing off as I realized that the sick old bastard had been doing exactly just that.

-Aye, this is your punishment for being a queer-basher, the angel gadge smiles again. -f m going to watch and laugh at you being crippled with guilt. Not only am I going to make you do it, joe, I'm going to make you keep doing it until you enjoy it.

-No way. You must be fuckin' joking. I’ll never enjoy that, I point at myself. -Never! You cunt. . . I sprang at the bastard, ready to throttle him, but in another swish of sound and Hash of light he was gone.

r sat at a vacant seat at the back of the chapel, my head in my bands. I. looked around at the congregation. Lucy had come up for it, she was sitting quite close to me. That was nice of her. Must've been a fuckin shock for her. One minute you've a stiffer inside ye, tbe next it's just a stiff. Charlie was there too, he was with Ian and Murdo at the back of the hall.

They were all standing up.

Then I saw him. That dirty old cunt of a priest.

Father Brannigan. Him, putting me to rest! That filthy, evil auld cunt!

I'm looking over at my parents, screaming silently at them for this appalling betrayal. I mind of me saying to them, I dinnae want tae be an altar boy any mair, Ma, and my mother being so disappointed. My old man never gave a fuck. Let the laddie dae what eh wants, he said. But when I didnae come tae our Angela's communion and I couldnae tell them why. . . Aw fuck . . . that dirty old cunt touching me, and worse, making me do things to him. . .

I never would, never could say. Never. Never even thought about it. I always vowed he'd fuckin' well get it one day. Now he's here, he's sending me off, his pious lies ringing throughout this chapel.

-Joseph Hutchinson was a kind, sensitive, young Christian man, taken untimely from us. But through our grief and loss, we should not fail to remember that God has a plan, no matter how obscure this may seem to we mortals. Joseph, who once served at the altar of this very house of the lord, would have understood this divine truth more than most of us. . . .

I want to roar the truth at them all, to tell them what that dirty old cunt did tae me. . .. .

WHOOSHHHH . . .

-Then I'm on auld Brannigan and he's screaming under my weight; his old, skinny, smelly bones, crushed under my bulk. I'm giving it to the dirty old cunt; pummeling him right up his arse and he's screaming. I'm snarling in demented rage: . . .You cannae tell anybody, or God will punish you for being a sinner, and I'm fucking him and fucking him harder and harder. He's screeching beyond agony and bang. . . his heart stops, I feel it stop as his last I breath escapes him. Brannigan's body judders underneath me and his eyes roll towards heaven. I feel his essence rIse up through his body and through mine, planting a thought into my psyche that says you cunt as he floats away, a soundless cry coming from his spirit like a balloon farts out air as it flies into space.

I'm sobbing and crying to myself, saying over and over again in my self-disgust -When will it be over? When will this nightmare end?

WHOOSH...

And then I'm with by best mate Andy Sweeney. we grew up together, did almost everything together. He was always more popular than me; better looking, brighter, good job, but he was my best mate. As I said, we did everything together-- well, almost everything. But now I'm on top of him and I'm shagging the arse off him. . . and it's horrible. -WHEN, I'm screaming, -WHEN WILL THIS FUCKIN' NIGHTMARE END?

And he's in the room with us, the auld St. Peter boy from the funeral. He's just sitting in the armchair watching us in a studied, detached manner. -When you start to enjoy it, when you cease to feel the guilt, he tells me coldly.

So there I was shagging my best mate up his arse. God, was I feeling disgusted and crippled with revulsion, loathing and guilt. . .

. . . feeling sick and ugly, in constant torture as I was compelled to pump away like a rancid fuck machine from hell, feeling like my soul was being ripped apart . . . going to a place beyond fear, humiliation and torture, and hating it, loathing it, detesting it so fuckin' much. . . a pain so great and pervasive that I'd never, ever grow to feel anything other than this sheer horror. . .

. . . or so I kept telling that daft cunt of an angel.