I don’t think I’ve ever been so tense at a game ay fitba. I’m waiting for Sick Boy’s declaration tae become manifest: the obligatory soft Rangers penalty. Although the ref has been great so far, he’ll be saving it for the dramatic last minute. These cunts are aw the fucking same …
Oooh … ya beauty …
I’m suddenly feeling a nice melting in ma guts and there’s a surge ay euphoria as ah look at Sick Boy, and in profile, his face contorts, as a weird, joyous ache ay a roar goes up and time freezes and JESUS FUCK ALMIGHTY, THE BAW IS IN THE RANGERS NET!! Hendo got another corner, whipped it ower, some cunt heidered it in, and the players are all over David Gray, and the crowd are going absolutely fucking mental!
Sick Boy’s eyes are tumescent. — DA-VIE-FUGH-KIN-GRAYYYY!
SHOOOOMMM!!!
A boy jumps on my back, a stranger, and another gadge kisses ma foreheid. Tears are streaming doon his face.
Ah grab Sick Boy, but he brushes me off in combative petulance. — How long?! he screams. — HOW LONG BEFORE THESE MUPPETS STEAL OUR FUCKING CUP?!
— It’s our Cup, Franco says again. — Settle doon, ya fuckin bams!
— Ah’m pure nervous n ah think they stitches might have burst … Spud wails, biting his nails.
The whistle goes, and astonishingly, the game is over. I hug Spud, whae is in tears, then Begbie, whae is jumping aroond in euphoria, eyes bulging, punching his ain chest, before forcing himself tae take deep breaths. We move towards Sick Boy, who again brushes off my lunging arm and jumps up and down and turns to us, the sinew straining in his neck, and goes, — FUCK EVERY CUNT!! I WON THIS FUCKING CUP! ME!! I AM HIBS!! He looks over tae the downcast opposition supporters, just a few rows away from us in the other half ay the North Stand. — I PUT A FUCKING HEX ON THOSE HUN BASTARDS!! And he surges doon the gangway towards the barrier, joining the multitude who trickle, then deluge, onto the pitch through the flimsy net of security personnel.
— Daft cunt, says Begbie.
— If ah die now, Mark, ah’m no really bothered cause ah’ve seen this n ah didnae think ah wid ever see the day, Spud sobs. Draped over his bony shoulders: a Hibs scarf dropped in the revelry.
— You’re no gaunny die, mate. But see if ye do, right, yir no wrong, it widnae matter a fuck!
Ah didnae quite mean it tae come oot like that, and poor Spud looks up at me in horror. — Ah want tae see the victory parade though, Mark … doon the Walk …
There are bodies everywhere on the Hibs half ay the field. A small number cross over intae the other half tae wind up Rangers fans, and a few of them come on tae meet the challenge. After some minor scuffles, the polis gets in between the small groups of would-be swedgers. On the Hibs half ay the pitch, the fans are joyously celebrating the end ay a 114-year-auld drought. The cops are trying to get the field cleared before the Cup presentation can be made. Nobody on the pitch is going anywhere fast, as goalposts and turf are torn down and ripped up as souvenirs. It takes ages, but it’s brilliant: the medley of euphoric Hibs songs, the hugging of total strangers and the bumping intae complete newcomers and auld friends. It’s hard tae distinguish between the two, every cunt is in a strange trance. Sick Boy returns with a big piece ay turf in his hand. — If I’d had this shit the other day, I’d have planted some inside you, mate, he says tae Spud, pointing at his gut.
It seems like an age, but eventually the team comes back out and David Gray lifts the Cup! We all erupt in song, and it’s ‘Sunshine on Leith’. I realise, that through all our years ay estrangement, this is the first time that Franco, Sick Boy, Spud and myself have actually sung this song together. Individually, it’s been staple fare for aw ay us at weddings and funerals for years. But here we are, aw belting it oot, and I feel fucking amazing!
As we stream outside the stadium, euphoric in the Glasgow sunshine, it’s obvious that Spud is totally fucked. We put him in the limo bound for Leith, Hibs scarf round his neck. As a departing shot, Sick Boy sais, — If ye gie yir other kidney, we might win the SPL!
I see Begbie register this, but he says nowt. We shuffle into a mobbed-out pub in Govanhill and manage tae get served. Everybody is in a dreamlike fugue. It’s like they’ve just had the best shag of their lives and are still spangled. Then we walk intae toon, hitting a few pubs in Glasgow city centre. It’s party time, aw the wey back through tae Edinburgh oan the train. Central Edinburgh is crazy, but when we get down tae Leith Walk, it’s just fucking unbelievable.
I have a car picking ays up at 3.30 a.m. fae my old boy’s place, tae take ays tae Newcastle for the 6.05 easyJet to Ibiza. I’m no fussed aboot leaving the party, as I have every confidence that it’ll still be on when I get back. I’ve got loads ay texts fae Carl. They chart his descent fae denial intae hostility, acceptance and finally grace, confirming the momentous nature ay the occasion.
WTF?
SPAWNY BASTARDS!
ABOUT FUCKIN TIME, YOU LEITH CUNTS!
LUCKY CUNTS, HALF OUR FUCKIN SONGBOOK DESTROYED!
FUCK IT, FAIR PLAY TO YOUSE.
I get down tae my dad’s tae gloat, but the auld Weedgie Hun bastard is in his bed pretending tae be asleep, and just in case he isnae kidding, I dinnae want tae wake him. I write ‘GGTTH’ on a bit ay paper and pin it oan the kitchen board for him tae see. I cannae sit here though; I’m back oot in Leith, and hooking up wi the boys again, starting at the Vine.
Sick Boy and I are hammering the ching, with loads ay others. As the night tumbles on uproariously, a sea ay faces slides by as if on a carousel; some long forgotten, others half remembered, more eagerly rejoiced with in an endless stream of bonhomie. Ah decide tae get Begbie while he’s in a good mood and gie it one last shot, before ah pit Sick Boy’s plan intae action. — That money, Frank, just let ays gie it tae ye. Ah need tae.
— We’ve discussed this, he sais, and his eyes are fucking glacial, cutting through my intoxication. I’d thought he’d forgotten how tae dae that stare. And I certainly neglected to recall how it freezes ma soul. — The answer is always gaunny be the same. I dinnae want tae hear about it again. Ever. Right?
— Fair enough, I say, thinking: well, I gave the cunt his chance. Now I’m gaunny have tae look at him, Sick Boy and Spud, as well as myself, every fucking day, because those Leith Heads will be mine. — The next words you’ll hear from me are, and I stand up and burst into song: — WE’VE GOT McGINN, SUPER JOHN McGINN, I DINNAE FUCKIN THINK YOU UNDERSTAND …
Franco smiles indulgently, but doesnae join in. He seldom did fitba songs. But Sick Boy duets with gusto, and we share an emotional embrace, as the ditty is taken up for the millionth time around the bar. — Everything you’ve ever done that’s fucked me over, I forgive you, he contends, wired tae fuck. — I wouldnae have missed these moments for anything. We are lucky, he turns tae Franco, — lucky tae be fae Leith, the greatest fucking place in the world!
Franco responds tae a speech he would have been euphoric tae hear fae Sick Boy’s lips years ago (but which would never have been made) wi only a minimal shrug. Life is so fucking bizarre. The ways we stay the same, the ways we change. Fuck me: it’s been a roller coaster couple of weeks. Seeing Spud in a makeshift operating theatre with his insides hingin oot, having one ay his kidneys removed by Sick Boy and Mikey Forrester, was crazy, but naewhere near as mind-blowing and unexpected as watching Hibs win the Scottish Cup at Hampden. We head to Junction Street, and the Fit ay the Walk, moving back up towards toon. We must have hit every bar in Leith. Begbie, without either punching a soul or necking a drink, lasts until nearly 2 a.m. before he jumps a cab tae his sister’s place.
We carry on, then I call the car tae pick ays up at the Fit ay the Walk, which is mair mobbed than ah’ve ever seen it, and the atmosphere is incredible. It’s way past just a Cup win; it feels like some magical catharsis for a whole community that’s been carrying an invisible injury. I cannae believe the enormous psychological burden that’s been lifted offay me, as I didnae think I’d gied much ay a fuck aboot Hibs or fitba for ye
ars. Ah suppose it’s aboot who you are and where ye come fae, and once you’ve made that emotional investment, it might lie dormant, but it never goes and it impacts on the rest of your life. I feel beyond fucking brilliant and spiritually connected to every Hibby, including this car-hire driver whom I’ve never set eyes on in ma puff before the day. But I really need tae kip cause the drugs are running doon and exhaustion is banging at the door ay this incredible high, and he’s droning on about the game, euphorically slapping the roof ay the cab and tooting his horn intae the empty night, as we storm doon the deserted A1.
Ah’m comatose as I get on the plane, and despite the revelry ay the package-holiday mobs around ays, a deep torpor descends on me. Three hours later I’m rolling off, crusty-eyed, beak both runny and blocked, Carl meeting ays at the magic island’s airport, having jumped off the Gatwick flight an hour earlier.
— Where’s the car? I groggily ask.
— Fuck the car: I’ve drinks set up for us in the bar.
— I’ve been up aw night, mate, ah need tae git some fuckin kip. Ah went intae this coma oan the flight and –
— Fuck your kip. Ye just won the Cup, ya daft cunt. One hundred and fourteen years! Carl is caught between an abject despair and a phantom elation that he cannae quite figure oot. But he tries. — I hate you bastards and it’s the strangest day ay ma life, but even ah want tae mark it. The stick ah’ve gied you, wi the 5–1, ye deserve it.
Ah think aboot the 7–0 stuff ah gied ma brother Billy, and Keezbo, ma poor auld buddy fae the Fort. Ah realise that it probably never means as much tae them as it does tae you. It just worries me tae think that they thought ah wis just some kind ay dull, retarded simpleton, like ah thought ay Carl. Still, the auld man is fucking getting it tight later!
We head tae the bar. It takes ays two beers and a couple ay lines ay ching, but ah dinnae feel fatigued any mair.
— Thanks for this, mate, ah tell him. — It was what I needed, and it’ll keep me awake long enough tae get through your gig – you’re going to kill it, just like you did in Berlin.
— Aw down tae you, Mark, he says with glassy-eyed emotion, squeezing ma shoodir, — you believed in me when I had stopped believing in myself.
— Conrad might need some therapy though!
— A slap across the chops will be good for the arrogant wanker. Now here, one for the car, he says, ordering up two half-pint glesses ay neat vodka.
— Ah cannae drink this … ah protest, knowin that’s exactly what ah will dae.
— Fuck off, ya Hobo lightweight. One hundred and fourteen years!
We stagger oot tae the motor, the sun blinding. The boy isn’t too happy about being kept waiting, telling us he’s another job on, obviously setting us up for the bung I’ll gie him. Carl is peeving the neat voddy effortlessly. This is suicide drinking, there’s fuck all whatsoever social about it. — Mate, the gig’s in a bit. Maybe you want to ease up.
— It’s been eight fucking years since I was last in Ibiza. I used tae be here every summer. And I’m drowning my sorrows. The Hobos won the cup. This changes ma fucking life as much as it does yours. He shakes his head in despair. — When ah wis young, even though ah wis surrounded by Jambos, aw my mates were Hibbies; the Birrells, Juice Terry … now my manager. What the fuck is going on here?
— I’ll turn you yet, mate. Leave the dark side, Luke.
— Fuck off, not a chance …
It’s blinding in the sun and I’m stuck with that albino Jambo vampire cunt, each shaft ay light seeming tae go through him as if he’s translucent. I can practically see all the veins and arteries in his face and neck. It’s a forty-minute trip and I’m wired for every fuckin second ay it. By the time we get tae the hotel, I want tae crash. – I need tae sleep.
Carl produces the bag ay coke. — You just need another wee livener is aw.
So we go up tae the hotel’s rooftop bar. It’s a predictably beautiful day. Cloudless and hot, but fresh. No sooner is the gak fighting through a plug of mucous tae get up ma Vespa, when the phone rings and Emily pops onto caller ID. In my gut: an ominous bolt of something wrong as I pick up. — Sweetheart!
— I’ll give ya fucking sweetheart, a male cockney voice grates back at ays. Mickey. Her dad. — My little gel was left waiting at the airport. You call that fucking management? Cos I don’t call that fucking management!
Shit.
— Mickey … you’re in Ibiza?
— I jumped on a flight from the Canaries to surprise her. Just as farking well I did, innit?
— Yes, mate, I’ll sort it out. Can you put her on?
Some grumbling and then the voice changes. — Well then?
— Em … alright, babe?
— Don’t fucking babe me, Mark! There was no pickup!
Fuck … — So sorry. That car firm, I’m no using these wankers again. I’ll get right onto them now. Fucking outrageous. Doesnae help you, ah know, but let’s get you billeted then we’ll get some lunch, I coo, managing to pacify her and end the call. Fuck, forgot to email Muchteld in the office. Again. Like in Berlin wi Carl’s decks. The coke is blasting more holes in a brain already like a Swiss cheese. But Hibs won the Cup, for fuck sake, so fuck everything!
Carl looks at me in quizzical evaluation. — You rode her? Young Emily? The Night Rider, he laughs.
— Of course not, she’s a client. It would be unprofessional, I say pompously. — And she’s too young for me. I feel the roar ay the coke, thinking ay Edinburgh. A terrible error ay judgement fae us both. Especially me. But fuck it; it was great n aw. And it was just sex. And there were condoms. Nobody was hurt in that particular shag. — I’m no like you, Ewart.
— What’s that meant tae mean?
— Ye cannae bang every young lassie that looks like Helena, thinking that’s gaunny bring back that romance, I say, tipping some ching into my pina colada.
— What the fuck –
— Accept that we fuck up in relationships. It’s what human beings do. Then we hopefully learn that our selfish, narcissistic behaviour bugs the fuck oot ay the other party. So we stop it. I stir the drink with the plastic straw and sip.
He looks at me, a fucking milk bottle with eyes. — So this is you stopping it then, gadge?
— Well, I’m trying to … trying to provide … I burst oot laughing and he does n aw, — a professional management service tae ma exciting client base … we’re sniggering and then laughing so much that we can hardly breathe, — … but you fuck it up and enable ma bad behaviour, ya Jambo cunt …
— Some fucking management …
— I’ve made you three hundred fucking grand this year! After you bombing out your film scores and no DJing for eight years, just sittin oan a fuckin couch smoking dope! Three hundred grand, for playing fucking records in nightclubs.
— It’s no enough, Carl says, and he’s deadly serious.
— What? What the fuck is enough?
— I’ll tell you when you bring it to me, he smiles, and he isnae joking. — Fancy daein some DMT?
— What?
— You’ve never done DMT?
I’m embarrassed, as it’s the only drug I huvnae done. It never appealed. Hallucinogenics are a young cunt’s drug. — Naw … Is it a good high …?
— DMT isnae a social drug, Mark, he contends. — It’s an education.
— I’m a bit long in the tooth for drug experiments, Carl. So are you, mate.
Thirty-eight minutes later, we’re in his hotel room and a punctured plastic litre bottle is filling wi smoke fae the drug he’s burning on aluminium foil on the nozzle, displacing the water that leaks fae the boatil intae a basin. When it’s done, Carl takes the burning foil off its neck, and ma mouth is round it. The acrid shit razes my lungs worse than crack. — As Terence McKenna says, you have tae take the third toke, he urges, but I feel fucking overwhelmed already. There’s an almighty rush in my heid and the sense that I’m physically leaving the room, even though I’m still here. What keeps me persisting, t
hough, is the utter lack ay danger and loss ay control you normally feel when ye dae a new drug, especially one that takes hud ay ye tae this extent. I keep forcing it back intae ma lungs.
I slide back in the chair, resting my heid, wi my eyes shut. Brightly coloured geometric shapes appear, and dance in front ay me.
I open my eyes and Carl looks at me in an intense awe. Everything in the world, from him to the mundane objects in the room, is heightened. — You have the 4-D vision, he says to me. — Don’t worry, it’ll adjust to normal after about fifteen to twenty minutes.
— Can I no just keep it? I’ve never had such fucking depth perception, I grin at him, then start to haver. — I was happy just tae be, man. That strange contentment, the bizarre sense that it was familiar, that I’d seen it before. It stopped ays fae freaking oot at the weird things I saw.
— It is mental. Did you see the wee Lego dwarfs? Like sort of acid-house garden techno gnomes?
— Aye, they wee people; they seemed tae alternate between a physical presence, clear and real, almost digital, and a spectral form. They were genuinely happy tae see ays, without being all frivolous and fussy about it.
— Were you happy tae see them?
— Aye, those wee cunts are brand new. And you ken the strangest thing? Nae comedown. I feel in my body and mind like I’ve never taken anything. I could go for a run or to the gym right now. How long was I under for? It must have been at least twenty minutes, maybe forty?
— Less than two, Carl smiles.
So we sit for hours, engaging in discussion. Most of all, the conclusion is that visiting that place answers everything about the great dilemmas we ask ourselves, about human society, the individual and the collective. It tells ye that it’s both that are sovereign, and that our politics of trying to resolve the two are utterly futile. That we are aw connected to a greater force, yet retain our unique singularity. Ye can be as much or as little ay one or the other as ye like. They are so integrated that even the question, which has haunted philosophy, politics and religion for all time ceases tae exist. Yet at the same time, I never cease being aware that I am Mark Renton, a breathing, human organism, sitting oan a couch in a hotel suite in Ibiza town, and my friend Carl is in the room, and I just need tae open ma eyes to join him.