A Decent Ride: A Novel
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Irvine Welsh returns to Edinburgh, the home of Trainspotting and so many of his novels since, with a new novel featuring one of his most iconic and beloved characters—'Juice' Terry Lawson—that's thick on the Scottish brogue, heavy on the filth and masterful in its comedic timing.
A Decent Ride sees Irvine Welsh back in Edinburgh, this time with one of his most compelling and popular characters front and center: the rampaging force of nature that is 'Juice' Terry Lawson, first seen in Glue.
Juice is a man who contains multitudes: he's a top shagger, drug-dealing, gonzo pornstar and taxi driver. As we ride along in Juice's cab through the depraved streets of Edinburgh, Juice encounters a series of charmingly filthy characters, each of whom present their own, uh, unique challenges. Has he finally met his match in Hurricane 'Bawbag'? Can he discover the fate of the missing beauty, Jinty Magdalen, and keep her idiot-savant lover, the man-child Wee Jonty, out of prison? Will he find out the real motives of unscrupulous American businessman and reality-TV star, Ronald Checker? And, crucially, will Juice be able to negotiate life after a terrible event robs him of his sexual virility, and can a new fascination for the game of golf help him to live without . . . a decent ride? (The meaning of the title is starting to sink in now, huh?). So buckle your seatbelts and prepare for one unforgettable ride.
boy’s flies on ehs troosers! —What ur ye daein, Terry? ah sais, sortay through the mask, but eh kin hear ays. —It’s awright, buddy, eh sais, ehs eyes aw blazin ower the toap ay the mask, n eh unbuckles the belt…aw the smell, even through the mask. Ah tries tae turn away, ah does that, sur, but it aw comes up, the frozen pizza Karen made, pushin the mask aside, aw ower ays. —Jonty, watch, ya dirty wee cunt, yir gittin it oan ehs suit, Terry shouts at ays. —Respect fir the fuckin deid but, mate!
Alec’s larvae. Would the fish do to his body what the land creatures had done to his father’s, to his great friend’s? As he contemplates letting his cold hands go, the phone rings. He sees Donna on the caller ID. He answers it, pressing the earpiece to his head, to counter the noise from the swirling wind. He can still barely hear her. —Ma nana’s in the hoaspital. She’s hud a faw doon the stairs. —Right, Terry says. He visualises Alice, rendered careless and clumsy by the rage their row
thaire in the kip, n wi order a boatil ay rid wino n a sanny oan the room service. Shouldnae be drinkin n drivin, but ah’ve goat a wee livener in ma tail tae sort ays oot. Sal’s talkin aboot leavin London, n gettin a place back up here. —I’ve had it there, she says, fixin me in a kind ay look that ah’m no that sure aboot. Ah mean, ah cannae say nowt, it’s doon tae hur whaire she lives. Ah feel like tellin her: dinnae fuckin think aboot movin on account ay me! Ah’m no that gadge, ay. Mental burds;
poakit goes oaf. It’s usually Jinty’s, wi one ay her mates; ah jist huv her yin oan vibrate now, n ah ignore it. But this time it’s ma phone, so ah picks it up n it’s Hank. Eh tells ays that Malky, ma cousin, hus goat him n me intae the hoaspitality suite at Tynecastle fir the midweek game. Ah’m aw excited aboot that! Me! In the hoaspitality! By the time ah git back tae the flat, even though ah feel awfay tired, ah cannae sleep. Jinty isnae gaunny wake, so ah watches they auld fullums oan Fullum
Hank. Ah carries oan. —Then ah goat hame n the dug hud goat pit doon. Somethin in ehs throat. Mind, Ma n that, ah goes tae Hank, whae’s still lookin away acroass the room, —they sais tae ays, Ma n real faither Henry, “Clint the dug wis taken ill, n eh couldnae swallay right.” So they hud um pit doon. —Fascinating, this posh Donald boy goes, then asks, —And your point here is? —Everybody sais, “Whaire’s this puppy, this Clint the dug?” But whin ah telt thum what hud happened, they jist goes,