The Book of Dave by Will Self Read Free Book Online Page A

bellies, who came
tottering out of Paddy Power's shredding their slips and chucking them in the air so they created localized snowfalls, off-white
Christmases of loss.
    'We call this County Kilburn,' Dave said, and, when the fare looked uncomprehending, he enlarged, 'because a lot of the Irish
live here.'
    'Oh … sure … OK.'
    'Lovely people.' I wouldn't be here at all if it weren't for you, my son. No pick-ups and precious few drop-offs either. Who wants some son of the sod blowing Bushmills chunks on the upholstery while he blabs about his poor old mammy? Not me. Still, I ought to go and see my poor old mammy, she worries about Carl. It's on the way back into town, I could even look in at the Five Bells and have a drink … No, make me fuzzy with the pills … Fucking bejazus! What if the PCO pulled me in for a medical?
    Dave didn't want to see his poor old mammy anyway. Didn't want to see her sitting in the worn-out armchair by the window,
scrupulously marking her pupils' projects even though it was the start of a two-week holiday or, worse, diligently preparing
for a child-centred Christmas that the central grandchild wouldn't be attending. Folding paper serviettes decorated with prancing
reindeer, checking cracker availability, climbing up the tiny aluminium stepladder to get the box of decorations down from
the equally tiny loft. Mum never liked Michelle – hated her, more like. Funny, when I feel Mum's hatred I stop hating 'chelle. They would sit there, over mugs of instant coffee in the kitchen, listening to the old man snooze next door in front of the
racing: 'They're on the home straight now, past the last furlong marker … and it's Tenderfoot, Tenderfoot… all the
way from Little Darling …' The unspoken lay on the tablecloth between mother and son, among blue Tupperware, the Hendon Advertiser and a pile of dog-eared exercise books.
    If Dave offered his mother the opportunity, she'd vouchsafe some of her ailments – the hot flushes, the sweats, the cramps
and pains … She's in her mid sixties, but it's like she's still on the fucking blob! He deliberately framed the most disgusting thoughts – hating mummies was what he excelled at, and this – he dimly comprehended
– was because I'm such a fucking mummy's boy …
    The cab trundled under the railway bridge at Brondesbury and began to strain up Shoot Up Hill. Pile of shit, rip-off on wheels. That's the trouble with cabs – they're all fucking ringers, they're all pretending to be cabs but none of them are the real thing. Benny's old FX4 was so underpowered it could hardly make it up the ramp from the Euston rank. He told me he once had to ask some fatties to climb out and walk 'til he made it to the level. This Fairway is bearable, so why would I lay out thirty grand for a TX? For a bigger windscreen so I can see more of this bollocks? A wheelchair ramp so I can pick up spazzes? I'd be in hock to the finance company and having to work still bloody harder to keep those fat fuckers in time-share villas in fucking Marbella …
    'I must say, cabbie,' said the fare, 'the reputation of these vehicles doesn't do them justice, they are most exceptionally
comfortable.' Comfortable for who? You try getting your porky trotters down under this dash, it's like putting your legs in a coffin, mate, a vibrating bloody coffin. It fits tighter than a ridged dick in a ribbed condom. I swear, I've got out of this thing at the end of a day's work and fallen straight fucking over. 'I'm glad you're enjoying the ride, sir, we like to say that this is the finest custom-built taxi in the world. Its unique
twenty-five-foot turning circle makes it ideal for London's crowded streets, and helps to ensure that the licensed trade stays
in business.' I'd give it up tomorrow and drive a fucking Renault Espace for Addison Lee if it wasn't for the ghost of old Benny urging me on, and my own dumb pride.
    The cab growled over the brow of Shoot