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.
yin! —Terry, cool yir fuckin jets, Billy shouts, as Sick Boy’s eyes bulge. Ah loosen ma grip, and Billy stares at ays, before gaun back tae chattin tae Rab. —Jesus Christ, okay…okay…Sick Boy says, smoothin doon his jaykit. —It’s not like you to be so uptight. I never thought I’d say this, Terry, but you need tae get laid! —Aye, well, you just back off wi her. Right? —Point taken. But you have to tell her this, and eh cocks a finger n points at ays. —I’m not denting the lassie’s self-esteem by
ah turns away n pits ma fingers in ma ears n ah’m lookin up at the big woods, but thinkin aboot Jinty, ma perr wee Jinty in that pillar, muh ma explodin, perr Alec, Terry’s real faither, n ehs maggoty boaby, n Maurice wi ehs big eyes in they glesses…thir aw deid, aw gone, thi’ll aw be waitin on me above they trees, in that blue sky. N ah hears a funny ghost voice in the distance… —JONTY! Then ah turns tae see Terry’s mooth open. Ah takes ma fingers oot ma ears, n eh’s shoutin ays ower! Ah goes
trysts, how she (perversely now) preferred him to the sweet and successful Carl Ewart, who had such a hopeless crush on her. But Terry had possessed that bombastic confidence, which obviously hadn’t changed. And, it has to be said, from his cocky bearing, perched at the bar on a stool, that he looks well. He is obviously taking care of himself and still, implausibly, has those force-of-nature corkscrew curls. They seem not to have thinned or receded at all, though she suspects he runs Grecian
who, along with his brother Craig, pursued a campaign of systematic, unremitting viciousness that pushed The Poof into the frenzied, psychotic bloodletting that instantly caused the world, and Victor Syme himself, to redefine his street status. Evan Barksdale, like a scheme Dr. Frankenstein, had unwittingly created a monster substantially more dangerous than he, or his brother, could ever hope to be. Of course, The Poof had met with some pain and grief along his violence-strewn personal road to
in ays! As eh should. But it’s that cunt whae needs tae make me, Juice Terry, believe in him. —I want them all, he’s fuckin haverin, —and that asshole has me over a barrel. I’m even betting he’s in on the disappearance of bottle number two, perhaps with Mortimer… —Ah’m game, Ronnie, but ah’ll really need practice time. —I’ll get you that! We’ll be out every day, Terry, and when I leave town, I’ll have you working with that golf pro asshole! Cause ah’m fuckin well thinkin: it jist might fuckin