— Hello … can I speak tae Conor? … Just tell him it’s Simon David Williamson, he’ll ken … Sick Boy pits his hand ower the receiver. — Fuckin wankstain. ‘Can ah ask whae’s calling …’ He roIls his eyes. — Hello! Con! … Barry! … Not bad, mate, not bad at all. And you? … Excellento! Listen, mucker, time is of the essence, so rudely, unforgivably, I’m cutting tae the chase. What’s the chances ay a couple ay buckshee tickets tae see a certain Dutch chanteuse tonight? … Sound as sterling! You, my man, are a fuckin genius!
N that’s him blagged it. Ah’m no really that chuffed, cause ah amnae diggin crowds these days, it’s a pure claustrophobia situ, likesay, ken? But El Sickerino seems that happy, n it’s pure shitey tae bring a cat doon when they’re that keen, ken? Besides it is Claudia, the Dutch singer, n she is a total legend!
Sick Boy goes ower tae one ay his bags and unzips, pillin oot a boatil ay rid vino, — Git a couple ay glesses washed Danny, it’s Chianti time! A result for the Leith laddies, cause we’re gettin backstage tae the eftir-show perty n aw! C’mon, compadre, jildy!
So ah goes through tae the kitchen but it’s likesay thaire’s jist one gless left. He kin huv that yin. Ah wash oot the Souper Hibernian bowl wi the gungy bicky for masel. We kick back wi a couple ay scoops n watch a bit ay The Wizard ay Oz. Then we hoofs it up tae the gig, stoapin en route at Joe Pearce’s for a beer. Ah’m feelin barry, n ah’m no even bothered aboot the crowd when we gits intae the Venue. The great thing aboot Sick Boy is the wey he takes ower, the dude has that sense ay … no sae much authority as mair right, it’s bein the Italian bambino n growin up wi Mama and these sisters that spoiled the gadge, that’s whit Rents sais, n he’s spot on, cause it sortay sticks oot a mile. Sound gadge though, Sick Boy. Can be a bit warlock-wicked aroond the chicks, but it seems tae work fir him. Ah often wonder if ah treated lassies worse whether they’d like me mair, but ah kin never bring masel tae dae it.
It’s mobbed in here, n the thing is tae git past they annoyin pillars. Sick Boy’s pushing through the crowd like he owns the place but, n ah’m pure in his slipstream. Thaire’s one or two tuts and blank looks, but he’s wearin that big disarming smile, n we soon hit the front. No long eftir, a four-piece band — guitar, bass, drum n keyboards — come oantae the stage n go intae this instrumental. This cool chick standin beside us is gaun: — CLAUDIA! CLAUDIA! WE LOVE YOU! and, sure enough, The Woman comes oan, dressed in gothic black, tae big cheers.
Ah ken it’s no right tae say it, but ah’m sortay disappointed, cause ah ey think ay Claudia Rosenberg as lookin like that curly-mopped, willowy, supermodel catgirl oan the cover ay Street Sirens, but ah suppose that that wis donks ago, ken? This vintage kinday looks like somebody’s ma. Well, ah suppose she is somebody’s ma, but ken, like a middle-aged Leith wifie up at the bingo. She’s aw bloated and haggard, n she chain-smokes oan the stage. The lassie beside me screams oot again, — WE LOVE YOU, CLAUDIA! n Claudia hears this, n gies the crowd a frosty, sour look n launches intae ‘They Never Stay’. Her voice is as barry and doomy as ever but, n the band’s duck’s-chuff tight, so we’re aw gaun radio rental.
Sick Boy cannae help bein a bad cat though, n he goes tae us, — Look at that ol’ Nazi turkeyneck. Tae think she was such a honey back in the day!
— She’s knockin oan but, man, n she’s no a Nazi, she’s a four-by-two, ah shouts.
— She’s Dutch, and they’re just maritime Germans, he scoffs. — Fuck North Europe, South Europe rules, he bellows, and smiles at the cute catgirl beside me.
— But she’s nae spring chicken, so ye cannae expect her tae look the same as she did in the glory days, ah persist.
— That’s skag-scrag, that, he points tae the stage, — it’s no normal ageing. We got off the merry-go-round at the right time, Danny boy.
— Too right, ah goes. Didnae want tae say mair, cause it’s no like ah huv goat oaf it, as such. Jist tryin no tae git a proper habit again, likesay. Ah heard that skag wis meant tae keep ye lookin younger, but ah cannae be ersed debatin it wi Sick Boy, cause ah’m well intae this gig. Ah really like that song ‘My Soul Has Died Again’. It’s aboot feelin shite, n ah kin sortay relate tae that. She goes through the best ay her back catalogue and thaire’s a barry encore wi ‘A Child to Bury’ and a totally sublime version ay ‘The Nightwatchman’s Cold Touch’.
Eftir, Sick Boy says, — Let’s get backstage. How jealous will Renton be?
Ah’m thinkin: aye, a bad yin for the Rent Boy tae miss, likesay.
Backstage it’s pretty radge, wi maist people gittin turned back by the bouncers, but Sick Boy catches a gadge’s eye, n we’re straight through intae this room wi tons ay booze n food. There’s a couple ay sweet-lookin lassies n Sick Boy’s right ower tae them. Ah pure wish thit ah hud his confidence roond the chicks; disnae happen but, man, just does not happen. Eftir a bit, the band come in, and start chattin n sittin doon, n ah suddenly realise that Claudia’s sittin right next tae me! She’s goat a plastic gless ay spirit in her hand.
Ah want tae say, ‘Barry gig,’ but ah go pure shy n jist smile aw nervous, likesay. Then she speaks tae us, pure sais, — So vot do zay call you? in that harsh, sing-songy voice. Her breath really stinks ay fags. Ah mean, everybody’s does likesay, well, no Rents, cause he doesnae smoke, or Tommy, cause he hardly does, but normal people likes. Her breath is as smoky as a certain Mr Robinson, but.
— Eh … Danny …
— I like yoooo … she says, grinning, and ye kin see that her teeth are in a bad wey, man, aw yellaw, n some ay thum broken. A bit like mine, ah suppose. — Vot do you do for a living, Dah-nee?
— Ah’m sortay on the dole, likesay unemployed.
Her elbay goes right intae ma side; man, she’s as radge as Begbie! — I know vot ze dole is. You are vun of Maggie’s millions, yes?
— That’s pure it, man. Cast oan the scrapheap by Thatcherism, likesay.
She looks aroond n bends in close tae ma ear. — I think I should take you back vis me to my hotel room, where we can drink proper brandy. She huds the plastic beaker up intae the light n screws up her face. — Real brandy. Vood you like that, Dah-nee?
— Eh, aye … barry! ah goes. — Ah’ll, eh, jist tell ma mate thit we’re headin oaf.
She pills this soor pus n looks ower tae Sick Boy, whae’s in his element wi they two birds, him n the guitarist boy fae the band. Ah see her sortay snort, n it’s barry that she’s no as impressed by him n she is by me, but! So ah goes ower tae him n pills um aside. — Eh, ah bit ay a result, catboy. Claudia wants us tae go back wi her. Ah’m no really sure what tae dae, but.
He looks ower tae her, she’s talking tae this lassie, then back tae me. — She’s a fuckin auld boiler but you’ve goat tae get in there! Jist think ay the brownie points! How jealous will Renton be! Fuck sake, Iggy’s been there! Lennon n aw. And Jagger. And Jim Morrison. You could have your cock in the same place as Iggy’s has been!
Ah nivir thought aboot it like that, but it wid be a bit ay a feather n the auld cap, likesay. — Too right, catboy. Ye pit it that wey, it’s no an opportunity tae be sneezed at, eh.
— Fuckin sure, Sick Boy says, then his expression goes aw tight n he droaps his voice. — Speaking of brownie points, a wee word ay advice: ram it right up her fuckin choc box!
— Eh?
— Fuck her up the erse. Squidgy or hard centres, get them crammed right back up that fuckin shit tube.