Free Skagboys by Irvine Welsh

Platini, a man-of-destiny glint in his eye, is giving it the big one as Keezbo’s ample frame swaggers jauntily into the pub. Tommy, Spud and Renton all share a solitary, unacknowledged thought:
Maybe that fat Jambo bastard can sit beside Begbie and take the pummelling
. In the sparsely populated boozer Keezbo instantly registers his friends at the bar, then Lesley the barmaid, who has emerged from the office to commence her shift. Forget Platini, she’s the obvious attraction here, with her ratty good looks, collar-length blonde hair and substantial cleavage, although it’s the tight jeans and exposed midriff that catches the sly eye of Mark Renton.
    Keezbo takes in a more generic sweep of the barmaid before asking, — How’s the light ay ma life?
    Lesley returns his evaluating look, though limits her scope to Keezbo’s strangely stirring pale blue eyes, framed by his black specs. Trying to ascertain where he is on the joking/flirting matrix, she keeps her tone pleasantly neutral. — No bad, Keith. Yirsel?
    — In the pink, now thit ah’m feastin on your beauty, Miss Lesley.
    Lesley’s smile contains that genuine flash of coyness that Keezbo often manages to kindle, even in the most seasoned girls about town.
    — Sack it, ya fat cunt, Begbie says, — she’s mine but, eh, Lesley?
    — In yir dreams, son, Lesley tells him, her buoyancy and swagger rallying after Keezbo’s wrong-footing.
    — And wet as fuck they ur n aw, Begbie laughs, close-shorn head looking as hard as a crane’s wrecking ball.
    Keezbo orders up a round of lagers. For a better view of the screen, they take seats near the corner, in a crescent-shaped booth of slashed leather seating, which spills its foamy guts around a Formica table. Renton has found an old wrap of speed in his jeans pocket and passes it round; each of them, except Begbie, whose eyes are still trained on Lesley, taking a dab. — She’s no shy, he observes on behalf of the company. There’s a big grin on Keezbo’s face as he comes over with the pints on a tray, his beaming expression conveying the eager glee of a man with an obsession to share. Setting the drinks down on the table, he takes his dab of amphetamine, moistened by fraternal gob. Wincing under the salty tang, he washes it down with a mouthful of beer. — Mr Mark, Mr Frank, Mr Tommy, Mr Danny, what about this yin: Leo Sayer versus Gilbert O’Sullivan?
    Begbie looks to Renton in anticipation; in the relocation they’ve somehow ended up next-door neighbours. Renton goes to say something, then thinks better of it. Instead, he looks to Tommy, as he takes a sip of lager made even more rancid by the dregs of sulphate powder clinging to the back of his throat.
    — It’s a good yin, Tommy concedes. Keezbo habitually invents imaginary square-go scenarios between unlikely participants. This time they seem well matched.
    — Gilbert O’Sullivan wrote that fuckin nonce song aboot beastin bairns, Begbie suddenly snaps, — that cunt deserves tae fuckin die. Mind ay that? That fuckin video?
    — Eh, ‘Claire’, aye, but ah didnae see it that wey, Franco, Spud ventures, — it wis jist a song aboot babysittin a wee lassie he kens, likesay.
    Begbie dispenses him a trademark paint-stripping stare. Spud instantly withers. — So you’re the big fuckin music critic now, eh? Is it fuckin natural for a grown man tae write a fuckin song aboot a wee lassie that isnae even his ain? Eh? Answer us that if ye fuckin well kin!
    Renton has learned over the years that the worst thing you can do is to make Frank Begbie feel isolated, so he feels it politic to join in on his side. — You’ve goat tae admit, Spud, that it is a wee bit fuckin suspect.
    Spud looks crestfallen but Renton can detect the phantom gratitude in his eyes for the out he’s just given him. — Come tae think ay it, ah suppose so …
    — Too fuckin right, Begbie sneers, — listen tae this rid-heided cunt. He points at Renton. — Cunt kens mair aboot music thin