Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Saturday Lunchtime

THE RADIO’S BLARING away as me, Dave Mitch, Les and Young Bobby the YT chant along wi Nik Kershaw at the top ay oor voices: — WOO — DINT IT BE GOOOOD TO BE IN YOUR SHOES, EE-VIN IF IT WAS FOR JUST ONE DAHY … as Ralphy Gillsland, drawing the plane along a stretch ay wid, screws his face up.

Ah’ve been a bit jittery after a few peeves too many in Leith last night and ma posture’s that awkward wi this fucked-up back, ah vernear took the top ay ma finger oaf trying tae chisel the lock fitting intae this door. Thought the blood widnae stoap, but ah staunched it wi a bandage ay cotton wool n gauze.

Fuck, ye can taste the weekend, cause it’s Saturday morning and we’re excluded, but no for long! Apart fae this OT, which is good cause we’re in the toon, oot ay the workshop, refitting this gutted boozer in Tollcross, it’s been a decent enough week. Ah missed the shitein competition on Monday through being at the Yorkshire picket, so Sandy Turner, the driver, has deposed me with a fifteen incher, which Les pointed out tae us twice aleady this week, lying on top ay a soggy Daily Record , oan the flat roof ay the garage at the back ay the factory. The minging gulls have drawn some attention though. The van hire boys in the unit ower the road can witness their squawking rooftop feeding frenzy, and in the hot weather the smell rises n wafts back up intae the shithoose. It’s jist a matter ay time before the gaffer tipples.

Mind you, Ralphy’s far fae chuffed anywey, cause he wants us tae work late oan these bar units. As much as ah’m enjoying daein proper custom joinery again, it’s Saturday lunchtime so it isnae gaunny happen.

Ralphy hus mibbe the maist grotesquely unfortunate coupon in the universe. He sports these huge jowls that look like vagina flaps, and this aquiline hooter Les describes as ‘an outsized clit’. Tae make things worse his mooth runs north — south instead ay east — west. Les once dubbed him ‘that fanny-faced cunt’. It’s true; that’s how he looks! And he goes rid tae, as if he’s just had a fair auld pummelling, the image completed wi his thinnin hair cut badly oan top like it’s a Brazilian. He’s whingeing like fuck through that clit neb and aw ah can think aboot is the impending Northern Soul all-nighter at Blackpool. — Ye have tae finish cutting they skirtings, Mark, they need tae be done the night soas Terry and Ken can pit them in the morn’s morning. That’s a cert.

Aye, right .

Ah’m only a fucking temp here, but Ralphy’s pittin everything on me. As if ah fuckin well care aboot what he deems ‘a cert’. The ‘cert’ is that he’s a moaning-faced straightpeg, the kind ay small businessman Thatcher loves; a grasping, spiritually dead, scab-minded cunt whae continually trumpets on aboot ‘how hard he works for his family’. The inference is that we’re all meant tae stand aside and be contendedly shat upon for this greater good. What the cunt forgets is that you’ve met his family: the fat, money-grubbing, chasm-souled, muck-bucket ay a wife, and their charmless, mutant offspring. So we’re thinking: fuck your family, ya fud-faced bag ay Barry White; your family are fuckin vermin who should be exterminated before they can cairry oan your work n make this world an even mair intolerably boring n evil place than it already fuckin well is. So git the fuck oot ay here wi that garbage, ya greedy bastard.

Ah intend tae fully exploit the charmed position ah’m in wi this summer job at my former employer, before swanning back tae academia. — Ah’m knocking off now, Ralphy.

— Me n aw, Davie Mitchell says, following up. — Goat stuff tae dae, eh.

Well, that sets oaf a fair auld wobble in these facial folds. Ralphy’s eyes light up in pain. It’s like he’s just seen us swipe the McCain’s oven chips offay the plate ay his sausage-fingered kinder .

— Entitled tae a peeve on a Seturday, says Les helpfully. Les is a fat cunt ay aroond ma faither’s age, wi thinnin fair hair n a ruddy, boozy complexion. He’s constantly ripping the pish oot ay everything. — Even young Boab here’s goat a date movie lined up, eh, Boab?

Bobby has a smile on his custard-spotted coupon, and his dark, girlish eyes burn wi mischief, when ye can see them under that big fringe. — Too right. Ah’m giein this burd the stinky pinky, he laughs, a powerful, shoodir-shakin, hee-haw, which never fails tae get the rest ay us going and leave Ralphy utterly dismayed. Ye can see him checkin oot Bobby’s filthy nails, imaginin them rippin through his teenage daughter’s hymen in the back row ay some fleapit.

— Aw, c’mon, lads, he wails, aw high and conciliatory over that taut, beautifully final sound ay tools being downed. — Youse can at least stey another hour!

We’re aw lookin at the flair as we pack away oor gear. Les is singing, Sinatra-style, — … to walk away from some-one who, means ev-ray-thing in life to you …

Ralphy stands wi his hands oan his hips. — Mark, he appeals, — you usually never lit me doon, pal …

Ah always let the cunt doon, though my absence at Aberdeen for a year has made the hert grow fonder. But his pathetic, transparently manipulative appeal fails miserably. He forgets thit when ah telt him ah wis taking Monday off tae join the picket, he said: ‘That’s typical ay you. Go away tae support layabouts whae dinnae want tae work when there’s plenty work here needin done.’

Well, fuck you, fanny-flaps, ah’ve made up ma ooirs n ah’m off. — No go, ah tell him sadly, then protrude my choppers, go bug-eyed and pit oan a George Formby singing voice, — Ah ave ter be in luv-er-lee lit-tle Lan-ca-sheeeerrrr …

Les n Bobby join in oan the air ukuleles, and we enjoy a brief jam, but dae we fuck stay another hour. Gleefuly abandoning the whingeing cunt, we hit the boozer at Port Hamilton. Just a quick couple for me then it was hame tae git changed n meet the boys.

So Tommy, Keezbo, Second Prize and me are heading doon tae the all-nighter at Blackpool in Tam’s motor. Ah’ve made up a tape, n Otis Blackwell is giein it loads wi ‘It’s All Over Me’. Ye cannae beat a bit ay Northern, and the Wigan Casino ay our teen years is sorely missed. This should be a good night though, it’s being pit oan by some ay the original Blackpool Mecca boys. Tam’s at the wheel aw the wey, wi that outrageous seventies fitba guy’s haircut; ah’m at the back wi Keezbo, sittin funny, cause ay this fuckin back, tryin tae keep the weight oan ma left erse-cheek. It’s no exactly the maist sought-eftir locale as that fat cunt takes up aw the room, his hands spread across his gut, like a ginger-heided Buddha. Second Prize, heid shorn in a number-one cut which makes him look harder than he is, by bringing oot his tight features and the sharp angles ay his skull, is riding shotgun. Him n Keezbo ur drinking, him heavily, n ah’m pretending tae but keeping my tongue in the bottle ay voddy as it comes roond. Ah umnae mad keen oan voddy neat, n ah want tae stay straight tae enjoy the dancing n the buzz ay the Lou Reed.

Keezbo’s fat, doughy neck, spotted wi freckles, seems tae swell oot ower his shoodirs like Darth Vader’s helmet. He’s goat barry ginger hair but, the bathbrush-thick variety, that’ll never thin or recede, no wispy like mine. He’s wearing those chinos wi the big high waistband, no a great idea for anybody, but disastrous on a fat cunt. Tommy’s already made a wee comment aboot ‘Gorgie fashion’. Predictably Keezbo wants tae stop fir chips, when we’re barely ootside Edinburgh. — Ah’m starvin, Mr Tommy …

— No way, no till Blackpool. Want tae catch the fitba oan telly.

Keezbo grabs two folds ay fat in his hands. — Ah’m wastin away tae nothing here. Tell them, Mr Mark, he pleads, ginger brows rising ower the top ay the thick, black frames ay his specs.