Welsh the real deal
By Angus Fontaine
I first crossed swords with the author of Trainspotting in 1998, in the afterglow of a morning reading at The Wharf in which he had mortified a crowd of Festival patrons with a bellowed extract from his soon-to-be-released novel Filth. After roaring out a chapter in which a flaccid lord mayor loses his potency-giving robes in a whorehouse only to get buggered by the gay mafia, Welsh launched into a vivid account of a porn photographer having his leg humped by a copiously ejaculating border collie. Several hyperventilating elderly were assisted from the auditorium prior to the pup's climax.
Afterward, while Welsh spattered books with his own signature, I suggested a beer and volunteered a car and company. Nine minutes later we were at the Courthouse slurping Bloody Marys and rolling spliffs, despite the sun being a full hour shy of the yardarm. We then moved to vodka shots with beer at their heels, a mix which fuelled Welsh's fervour for regaling all we met with tales of his exploits amid the glitterati.
"So ah'm havin a pint wi Keith Richards n lovin every fuckin minute ay it I can tell ye, n Keith's saying tae me, ‘Y'know Irvine, ah love my family, ma wife and bairns n all but man, sometimes ah jist wan tae snort a poond o' Charlie n have a supermodel sit on mae face... Then thirs Cameron Diaz - fuckin toap lassie. Ah wisnae in good shape this night, hud a wee bit too much bevvy but ah'm oantay this stoary about snoggin and Cameron sais, ‘Wha's snoggin?' I sais, ‘Want me tae show ye?' She sais, ‘Aye!', n sae in a jiff ah'm oantay her, stickin ma tongue right doon her throat her throot. Now everytime she sais ma she's goan: ‘Irvine, gis a snog! Fuckin A, ken?!"
After nine hours of this we are batshit blind... and 30 minutes from Irvine's scheduled reading at the Sydney Town Hall. Yet when we arrive, it's a lock-out. We jimmy a door ajar and shoulder charge it together, bursting in to ignite a cacophony of alarms. While security scamper we sneak indoors and take the grand stage to belt out a Bond film medley. Welsh is holding the last shattering note of Goldfinger when the crowd walk in, led by Welsh's publishing reps at Random House.
Their faces drain white and their lips mouth, ‘Black coffee.. and fast!' It's obvious I'm being held responsible. I slink out for more booze but am banned from any further interaction with the fiery but fading fast charge. Welsh went on to give the most offensive performance yet witnessed at this hallowed venue, slurring, spitting, shambling through a reading where every second word is fuck and every fifth word cunt. When it came to question time, he mumbled and mocked. When the other invited authors read, he snored loudly in his chair.
Finally the appalled chairwoman called an end to proceedings. "Irvine Welsh's bladder is about to give out," she announced.
Photo by Mariusz Kubik