Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Ah realise that this cunt really is light years ahead ay us aw. We’re just daft wee boys. — How the fuck dae you ken aw this?

— Just through being a keen student ay the game. Experience and observation. I look and I listen, and ah’m prepared to run the gamut of emotions, he declares, throwing back his drink and swanning off. I’m thinking it must be a ‘G’ day for him, as Norrie Moyes comes up and goes on about the Currans. It seems he hates the cunts as much as me, as they’re apparently constantly up at the Housing Department, hassling him. We hatch a revenge plot and start laughing merrily at the prospect.

Then ah catch Billy, abhorrent glare in his eye, bounding ower. He’s been talkin tae the Weedgie side n seein off Margaret and Olly Curran. Norrie catches the look and sidles away.

— How goes it, bro? ah quip.

Billy’s reeking ay whisky. — You’ll be lookin for a new boyfriend now then, eh?

A controlled rage combusts inside me. Ah roll ma eyes. — Pittin yerself in frame, likes? Keep it the family!

We baith notice that Fiona and slimy Geoff fae Bonnyrigg are approaching. If that cunt’s been chattin her up …

— Ya fuckin pervy wee cunt …

— You’re fantastic, ah tell him.

— What are you sayin? Eh! he shouts.

Everybody’s heard and they gather closer. — Nothing, ah say nonchalantly. — Ah’m just saying that you’re brilliant.

— Mark … Fiona implores, grabbing my arm.

Sharon’s asking Billy, — What’s wrong, Billy, why are ye shouting at Mark? It’s Wee Davie’s funeral, Billy!

— Dunno what he’s gettin so steamed up aboot, ah protest in wide-eyed innocence.

Begbie approaches; his static magnetically tightens the slack features of drunks into temporary sobriety and reason. A reprimanding scowl silences Billy. Charlie and Dougie usher big bro away, Dougie looking back at me wi that sad, forlorn shake ay the heid. It makes me want tae laugh in his stupid coupon. Instead, winking at a tight-faced Franco (do ah love that gadge? Yes I do!), ah grab a biro fae the bar, jump up on a seat and tap the pen against my gless. — Can I have everybody’s attention, please?!

Eyes swivel in both directions, checking aggravators are onside, then fall oantae me in silence, and the flair is mine. — Wee Davie and I … ah look tae ma bemused parents and ma seething older brother, — despite his profound handicap, had a special relationship. Ah lit ma smile settle oan an incensed Billy for a couple ay beats. — My mum and dad gave him the best possible life anybody could, and they never, ever stopped loving him, caring for him and, in spite ay everything, hoping for the best for him. And he never ceased tae bring joy and laughter intae aw our lives. He’ll be so badly missed, n ah pause tae watch the sobering faces and see thick traces of shame drip fae Billy’s coupon. And ah suddenly feel dizzy up here. The peeve. So ah draw a deep breath and raise ma gless n declare, — Here’s tae Wee Davie!

The faces in the house briefly sag with sadness and drink, before galvanising for a chorus ay: — Wee Davie!

Ah’m happy tae git doon offay the chair intae Fiona’s arms, and fuck me if ah’m no battling back burgeoning tears, as the pride and love radiates through the woebegone eyes ay ma mother and faither.

UNDER THE LABOUR government of James Callaghan (1976–79), inflation and unemployment began to rise to post-war record levels.

The Conservative Party produced a zeitgeist election poster, featuring semi-dejected people waiting in a dole queue, with the slogan ‘LABOUR ISN’T WORKING.’

Following the election of Margaret Thatcher, in the spring of 1979, unemployment levels tripled from 1.2 million to 3.6 million in 1982, and would stay over the three million mark till 1986.

The same period saw an increase in the number of long-term unemployed to over one million.

It was estimated that thirty-five people were chasing one vacancy.

This interval also saw a replacement of full-time employment by part-time work and (often part-time) college courses, supposedly for ‘retraining’, to meet the requirements of the new economic order.

Over this period, government statistics became more politicised than ever before; twenty-nine changes in the way unemployment figures were calculated effectively made the real total impossible to determine. Hundreds of thousands of people were removed from the unemployment register by making it progressively harder for people to obtain benefit, then counting only those who were in receipt of benefits, rather than claimants, as genuinely unemployed.

Through all the political squabbling during this era, one factor remains incontrovertible: hundreds of thousands of young, working-class people in the UK had a lot less money in their pockets and a lot more time on their hands.

BORED OOT AY ma skull, man. Walkin they streets so long, singing the same auld song, ken every dirty crack oan the pavements ay Pilrig … Life’s been shite since gettin peyed off fae the removals, been thaire since ah left the school. Thoat it wid be Lou Macari tae be a free man, but ah miss it; the boys, the travel, gaun intae aw they big hooses wi furniture, seein aw they different lives … Now it’s aw gone.

N it wisnae fair, it wisnae right. Ah couldnae believe it when Eric Brogan sais tae us, — Sorry, Danny, wir gaunny huv tae lit ye go.

Aw ah sais wis, — Aw … aye … n ah goat ma stuff.

Ah should’ve says, how me but? Donny n Curtis huvnae been here as long as me. N ah kent it wis that Eleanor woman; her man that grassed us up. Pushed us intae the front ay the queue for the redundancies. N aw ah wanted tae dae wis tae help her n be nice, when ah saw her greetin n that. Cause she wis that sad when she telt us aboot her son. When ah came roond that big hoose in Ravelston wi the invoice fir the flit, ken?

— Sit down and have a drink with me, Danny, she said, her eyes aw full ay tears.

— Naw, Mrs Simpson, ah cannae …

— Please, she actually begged us, but; this smart, tidy, posh woman, really sortay pleaded wi me, ken? What wis ah meant tae dae? — Call me Eleanor, she goes. — Please, Danny, just one drink. I could get you a sandwich?

What could ah say? Ah’d just kent her tae say hiya tae n ah’d listened for a bit when she talked aboot things. Jist bein polite, likesay. She’d opened a boatil ay wine n thaire wis another yin awready empty, but she didnae seem drunk, jist likesay sad.

N aw wi did wis talk. Well, she talked n ah jist pure listened again. Aboot her son, takin his ain life, only seventeen, and how naebody saw it comin.

Then he came in, her man. Started shoutin at her, then at me, n she started greetin. So ah jist sais, — Ah’d better go, likes …

He looked at us and says, — Yes, I think you better had.

N ah wis too ashamed tae try n explain tae Eric. But ah pure kent the Simpson boy hud belled um, kent by the wey Eric wis taewards us eftir it. N now ah’m oot. Walkin n wanderin. Up the Walk, doon the Walk. Tae Leith Library, then right up the toon. Miles every day. Gaun intae the jobcentre, but there’s nowt thaire. Still go every day, but. Gav Temperley says he’d keep anything decent back fir us, but aw ah goat wis a computer course.

Ah sees Sick Boy, standin at the bus stop. There’s a dude whae never does a day’s George Raft but seems tae ey have poakits fill ay pretty green, ken? Bet yir life thit it aw comes ootay some chick’s purse, but. Ah follay his line ay vision ower the road tae this big poster, one ay the yins the government’s pit up tae git people tae grass each other up, like in Nazi Germany, whaire they encouraged the bairns tae gie away thair mas n faithers: