Ah’m checkin the pigeonhole in the hallway. THANK YOU GOD! There’s the giro. And there’s a letter for me n’aw. Goat me name oan it. ‘Mr Irvine Welsh.’ It’s MISTER Welsh to you son! I’m oot the door, pattin the pockit wi the giro in. Just a wee stroll from St Martin’s dosshoose tae the postoffice off the Strand, the big yin. Always a piggin queue. Be paishunt. Back oot the door holdin the foldin and roond the corner tae the Chandos. Notta bad pint and oanly £1.65. Hoo they dee that? West End n’aw? Open the note for ‘Mr Irvine Welsh’. S’frae Wee Johnny. Johnny Lizard’s gotta job for me. Me? A joab? C’moan eejit, yer talking mince man! 12.30 at a bar oan Dean Street. Shite – s’awready twenty-past. Doon the throat son. Striding north up Charing Cross and left at the Circus. Third reet and s’oan the reet, so’e sez. The French Hoose! Whatsortuva friggin name’s that forra boozer? Sure enough, s’fulla bongoed hawfwits wi their pinkies in the air. Bufters, ah knewit. “Sorry sir, oanly half pints.” What? Shite! Ye takkin the pish Jimmy? Wee Johnny Lizard struts in. He’ll hava white Reeokka. A Reeokka? A white one if you please. What the fucksthat? Jeez, surroonded by weirdos. Wave tarrar to another slice o the giro. So what’s this joab Johnny? Posing for a snap. What kinda snap? This place’s makkin me queasy. A portrait. Soonds tame enough, but thissus Soho ye ken. Then it’s up the stairs. Mind you there’s endless frigging millions of em. Goan up oan the roof are we? Sit doon. Flash. Just a couple mair. Flash, flash. That disnae look a proper camera t’me. Where’s the wee red lights oan it n’aw? Flash. Finished? Aye. Had enough o this place. Shoot the craw. Roond the corner to the Coach. See big Norman. Have a proper pint an’a £1 piece. Real boozer, cheap scran, stretch the giro. See you Johnny!