Back to Paris back to Paris back to Paris …
… I met a French guy at a disco, whae I got aw horny wi, which seemed tae upset Hamish, but no enough to make him try and ride me. He’s a skinny wee bitch of a laddie (as Simon once described him), with his small girly eyes, which tear up when he reads his poetry, and he goes a sortay pinky orgasmy colour. The sort of guy who’d be sought-after in prison, n that’s pittin it mildly.
I got dead pissed off when Mark Renton and Keith Yule joined Hamish’s band, because they started hanging about the Hoochie and I suppose I’d kind ay looked on that as my scene, and didnae want loads ay Leith keelies mucking about there, lowering the tone. (Cept Simon, that is!) People fae Leith look doon oan every other part ay Edinburgh; they think that if you arenae born a Leither, then you’re nowt. I might have been brought up in Leith, but I was actually born in Marchmont, which makes me total Edinburgh. Another thing is I sortay went oot wi Mark’s brother Billy, for a bit, though I was still at school then. But I swear tae God I never let him shag me though everybody thinks I did, or assumes I did. But that’s Leith and laddies, and, I suppose, lassies tae, for ye.
Any roads, I get up the Hoochie, that wee space above Clouds where ye always hear the best sounds, and meet interesting people, and the first faces I see are Mark (boo!), shuffling around in that crafty way of his, then Simon (yum!), hair swept back, but who’s at the bar talking tae that Esther bitch, an arrogant cow who thinks she shites roses.
Please don’t be fucking her please don’t be fucking her …
I swear tae God I never get that jealous ay who Simon shags, cause we go our ain weys and dinnae make demands on each other, even though I’ve always sortay fancied him fae way back at Leithy. Well, maybe sometimes, cause there’s some hoors ye jist cannae fuckin well stick and that Esther falls intae that category. I see that Hamish’s wi Mark, they’re gaun up tae two lassies I vaguely ken. Ah think one ay them’s this bird that was meant tae have gied Colin Dugan a gam, but ah could be mistaken. Whatever, the poor cows’ve nae chance ay getting a length in that company!
As I move ower tae them, I kin hear Hamish seamlessly fib, — Wendy, Lynsey, meet my very good friend, Mark. A highly talented bassist.
Highly talented my arse: he sacked Mark fae two fuckin bands cause ay his lack ay competence on that instrument!
Mark, aw hoody-eyed n snottery-beaked, goes, — How’s your music gaun these days, H?
— Don’t do it any more, Mark. Hamish shakes his head, aw full ay pomp, as one ay the lassies, blonde bob, cool made-up eyes, looks devoured by this affay news. — All I do now is write poetry. Music is a crass, vulgar and commercial art form. It’s spiritually bankrupt.
The blonde (Lynsey, I think) bats her eyes in rough grief, while Wendy-the-possible-blow-job-specialist stays neutral. Hamish sees me standing beside him and kisses me on the cheek. — Hey … Alison. How goes?
— No bad, I smile.
Mark’s slavering away tae the lassies, the usual sortay bullshit he comes oot wi. — Myself and some friends in London are involved in this industrial art-rock project, he speed-lies, droppin me a wee wink. — It’s sort of Einstürzende Neubauten meets the early Meteors, ‘In Heaven’ rather than ‘Wreckin Crew’, but with a four-four disco beat and big ska influence, and featuring a Marianne Faithfullesque vocalist. Think of a Kraftwerk who had loads ay sex in their teens and hung around Scottish and Newcastle brewers’ chain pubs listening tae Labi Siffre and Ken Boothe on the jukebox and dreaming ay well-paid jobs in the Volkswagen factory in Hanover.
— Sounds cool! this blonde-maybe-Lynsey lassie goes. — What are you called?
— Fortification.
Cue for a slightly wrong-footed Hamish tae deftly change the subject back tae his ‘Baudelaire-, Rimbaud- and Verlaine-influenced’ poems, and for one ay the lassies tae say something aboot Marquee Moon. And for me tae elbay Mark, tae git his attention. — Fort chancer, lowerin the tone!
He looks me up n doon. Even though Mark’s wasted, he fixes me in an appreciative stare I haven’t seen from him before. — Wow, Ali. You’re lookin very gorgeous.
No the compliment I expect fae him, but it fair puts Hamish on his taes, as his heid swivels taewards us. — And you’re looking very … Mark.
He laughs at that, and gestures me to move aside, as Hamish havers oantae the girls aboot some gig he n Mark once played at the Triangle Club in Pilton. — How’s it gaun?
— Fine. You?
— No bad. The bouncers widnae lit Spud in though, jist cause he hud a sling oan his airm.
— Poor Danny!
— Aye, he hud tae head hame. But ah saw Kelly in here earlier. Wi Des.
— Right.
He lowers his voice and leans intae me. Mark’s a laddie who’s taller than he first seems. — Anything gaun oan?
— By that do you mean what I think ye mean?
— Aye, ah think so.
— Naw, I called Johnny earlier, but he wisnae in or wisnae picking up.
— Aye, me n aw, he goes. Then there’s a silence, and he asks, — How’s things wi yir ma?
— Shite, pittin it mildly, I goes, no wanting tae talk aboot it, but it’s good ay him tae ask.
— Right … sorry tae hear it. Ehm, if ye hear anything fae Johnny or Matty or that, gies a shout, he requests.
— Thanks, right, you n aw, I says.
Hamish breaks off fae Wendy and Lynsey n hands me this slim book ay poems. — Life-changing, he says emphatically, as Mark rolls his eyes.
— Right … ta … I goes, but ma attention’s oan Simon, who’s still chatting tae that horrible Esther at the bar. Lynsey’s asking Hamish aboot the book, and he starts going on aboot Charles Simic’s work. — Can you believe that at one time he couldn’t speak a word of English?
I turn tae Mark. — At one time nane ay us could speak a word ay English, n he grins back, as I nod ower tae Esther. — Do you think she’s good-looking? That platinum-blonde Simon’s chattin tae?
Mark looks across, almost drooling. — Marianne? Aye, as fit as a butcher’s dug.
— That’s no Marianne, it’s Esther.
— Aye? They look jist the same.
— Believe it: totally interchangeable. Lit’s go n say hello, I suggest, slippin Hamish’s thin book ay poems intae my bag. As soon as Simon meets my eye, he’s right ower and we throw our airms roond each other and his head’s buried in my neck. — Hey, gorgeous, he whispers, — don’t say a thing, just let me hold you.
I do, but cannae resist cracking an over-the-shoulder smile at Esther who’s been lumbered wi manky Mark! Ha! I swear tae God she looks a broken woman as Simon and me snog, and ah hear Mark rabbiting tae her, first aboot the Minds’ New Gold Dream album, then his fictitious industrial rock-n-roll project, adding some new components as he goes. As Simon’s tongue and scent fills ma heid, ah hear Esther’s fractured voice moan how it must be hard tae get aw they different elements tae work thegither. Simon and me come up for air, and watch the show. Mark’s agreeing wi her: — This is essentially the main challenge we face, but also what makes the assignment so intrinsically rewarding …
When she asks what it’s called he tells her, but under the jaw-clicking roll ay the amphetamine, he’s wasted and mumbly and it comes oot something like ‘Fornication’ and Esther thinks he’s being fuckin wide, and looks tae us in appeal! Mark just shrugs and ditches her as this cute Asian lassie, but wi a total schemie accent, comes ower n announces, — Ah’m speeding oot ay ma nut!