Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh Page B

rebels; the salt of the earth. Despite this, he even loved the Jambos. They were good people; just supporting their team. He’d first-foot a lot of them this year, irrespective of the result. Stevie would enjoy taking Stella around the city to various parties. It would be brilliant. Football divisions were a stupid and irrelevant nonsense, acting against the interests of working-class unity, ensuring that the bourgeoisie’s hegemony went unchallenged. Stevie had it all worked out.
    He went straight into the room and put The Proclaimers’ Sunshine On Leith on the turntable. He wanted to celebrate the fact that wherever he went, this was his home, these were his people. After a few grumbles, it struck a chord. The catcalls at the previous record’s removal were muted at the sight of Stevie’s exuberance. He slapped Tommy, Rents and Beggar around vigorously, sang loudly, and waltzed with Kelly, caring nothing about people’s impressions of the obviousness of his transformation.
    — Nice ay ye tae join us, Gav said to him.
    He was still high throughout the match, whereas for the others it went drastically wrong. Again he became distanced from his friends. First he couldn’t share their happiness, now he couldn’t relate to their despair. Hibs were losing to Hearts. Both teams were carving out ridiculous numbers of chances; it was schoolboy stuff, but Hearts were putting at least some of theirs away. Sick Boy’s head was in his hands. Franco glared malevolently over towards the dancing Hearts supporters at the other end of the ground. Rents shouted for the manager’s resignation. Tommy and Shaun were arguing about defensive shortcomings, trying to apportion blame for the goal. Gav cursed the referee’s masonic leanings, while Dawsy was still lamenting Hibs’ earlier misses. Spud (drugs) and Second Prize (alcohol) were bombed out of their boxes, still at the flat, their match tickets good for nothing except future roach material. None of this mattered for the moment, as far as Stevie was concerned. He was in love.
    After the match, he left the rest of them to head to the station and meet Stella. The bulk of the Hearts support were also headed up that way. Stevie was oblivious to the heavy vibes. One guy shouted in his face. The cunts won four-one, he thought. What the fuck did they want? Blood? Obviously.
    Stevie survived some unimaginative taunting on the way up to the station. Surely, he thought, they could do better than ‘Hibby bastard’ or ‘fenian cunt’. One hero tried to trip him from behind, egged on by baying friends. He should have taken his scarf off. Who the fuck was to know? He was a London boy now, what did all this shite have to do with his life at the moment? He didn’t even want to try and answer his own questions.
    On the station concourse, a group marched over to him. — Hibby bastard! a youth shouted.
    — You’ve goat it wrong boys. Ah’m a Borussia Munchengladbach man.
    He felt a blow on the side of his mouth and tasted blood. Some kicks were aimed at him, as the group walked away from him.
    — Happy New Year boys! Love and peace, Jambo brothers! he laughed at them, and sucked his sour, split lip.
    — Cunt’s a fuckin heidcase, one guy said. He thought they were going to come back for him, but they turned their attention to abusing an Asian woman and her two small children.
    — Fuckin Paki slag!
    — Fuck off back tae yir ain country.
    They made a chorus of ape noises and gestures as they left the station.
    — What charming, sensitive young men, Stevie said to the woman, who looked at him like a rabbit looks at a weasel. She saw another white youth with slurred speech, bleeding and smelling of alcohol. Above all, she saw another football scarf, like the one worn by the youths who abused her. There was no colour difference as far as she was concerned, and she was right, Stevie realised with a grim sadness. It was probably just as likely to be guys in green who hassled her. Every