Free Filth by Irvine Welsh

somewhat empowering and I enquire crisply of Rossi: – What’s brought this on?
    Rossi’s climbing down a bit. His tone’s less haughty now. After all, it’s just two professional men chatting together in a diagnostic mode. Identify problem and suggest possible solutions. – Well, you may be allergic to a certain foodstuff. It may be part of the stress and anxiety-related condition you’ve been experiencing.
    Stress. That figures. The fuckin job. Toal’s caused this! He’s fucked Busby and he thinks he’ll fuck me. Wrong!
    I take Rossi’s creams and head away hame. Home is not a good place for me, it never was. I prefer to work all the overtime I can. People like Gus, they lap up the OT. They get in the habit during the summer so that they can accrue as much time to get on the gowf during the day when the links are clear. Me, I can only sleep during the day. I like to keep busy at night. I head home and have a quiet evening in wanking to some of Hector The Farmer’s videos. I take a glance at the Evening News . There’s an article by a spastic who’s their so-called ‘Chief Crime Reporter’ which seems to just offer a sounding board for any bitter coon lover to criticise the service. Then I head out to Jammy Joe’s disco: a chance to combine business with pleasure. It’s a bugger to get parked in the town and I shouldn’t have taken the motor. Still, I’m going to stay quite sober, I just want to fire into some game tart and take her hame and fuck her until I feel tired enough to get some zeds in.
    That Mark Wilson boy is on the door, and the smart cunt’s nervously checking me out. Yes, I’m almost positive that cunt used to run with the CCS back in his day. If that’s the case, he’s bound
    again. If last night was about emptying the bag, tonight, thank fuck, is Lodge night. The masons is the only place that you can go to meet cunts that arenae polis. It’s different up here tae down in England. There are, of course, some fat cats and professional types, like down south, but in the Lodges up here it’s mainly tradesmen. It’s like the gowf: in Scotland you have schemie gowf clubs like Silverknowes. Just you try bein a fuckin tradesman and joinin a golf club in England though.
    I personally think that aprons are for silly wee lassies to wear in the kitchen and no for grown men on a night out. The ritualism of the Lodge has its uses however; it’s made me far more sexually inventive. This helps with the games.
    I make myself some toast on the grill, but I burn the first lot and have to try again. I open the back door to let out the smell. Outside in the back garden I see that Stacey’s bike hasnae been put intae the shed. It’ll rust tae fuck. I stick it inside and then go to the bottom of the garden on the pretext of pottering, but I want to get a good nose into Stronach’s hoose. He’ll be at training today, and I could do with a sketch of his bird, see what that wee cow’s up tae. She doesnae seem tae be at hame though and it’s nippy out here.
    The second batch of toast is fine. It’s midday and I fill in my overtime from last night at Jammy Joe’s on the OTA 1–7 form and head up to HQ in the Volvo accompanied by a tape of Iron Maiden’s self-titled debut album, the offering where Paul Di Anno rather than Bruce Dickinson is at the mic.
    The recent snows have frozen over. Of course, this means chaos on the roads with the highway cunts unable to cope. As if they werenae used to bad weather. There’s a bottleneck stretching from Colinton to fuckin Aberdeen or the likes. THIS HAPPENS EVERY FUCKIN YEAR. I feel like getting out of the car and choking the living shit out of any spastic whose face offends me, which in this case is just about every cunt. Fuckin police force here . . .

Fuckin emergency services

Cunts
    I’ll fuckin
    I park the car outside the shops before Napier College. It’s a so-called university now, but every cunt knows it still as Napier College. The punters know a