Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Ah realise that ah’ve nae chance ay getting the job, so ah’m only half-heartedly responding tae their bullshit questions, when Benson says, — Well, as you’ve done a bit of short-order cooking, we’ll probably start you off in the kitchens. Just general portering duties, then see how things progress.

Ah’m totally fuckin astonished! There’s about six million cunts on the dole, and they’ve not only gied us the job, but there’s already the implicit offer ay a promotion! Ah briefly feel good aboot masel, until ah get oot n realise that every single fucker that trawled thair scabby erses along tae the interview has been signed up. It seems this fiasco wis merely a screening process tae weed oot any total bams previously sacked and daft enough tae reapply under a different name. Fuck knows how Marriott continually slithers through the net. Ah’m asking masel: what kind ay a fuckin job is this? The other punters were beyond real. No bein wide, but some ay they cunts looked as if they couldnae huv filled in the fuckin form on thair ain.

We’re asked tae stall while aw the individual interviews are finished. It’s only aboot half an hour but it seems an eternity. At one stage ah jist want tae tear through they plasterboard waws. Then Benson comes in tae address us, his lamps still scanning us all, lookin fir a wee exposure ay damaged soul. It’s like the Rolodex in his heid tumbles in rhythm: junkies, dealers n poofs … junkies, dealers n poofs … Me n Nicksy are trying tae queen it up a bit, like we’re an item, a genuine homosexual couple rather than frivolous fun-boys whose indiscriminate brown bombing might reduce the rust tub tae a hive ay infection.

We suspected that even here junkies were no-go, jist completely fucking persona non grata . Poor Nicksy: kent how he felt, ah wanted tae go n get sorted soon. A horrible fuckin itch was comin on.

Focusing on the windae behind Benson, ah could see The Freedom of Choice docked in the quay, a roll-on, roll-off, or ‘roro vessel’, as Benson refers tae it. His real mission, however, is tae gie us the party line: — It goes without saying that anyone found under the influence of, or in possession of, controlled drugs, will not only receive instant dismissal, but also be liable to prosecution.

Ah admire the affronted expression on Sick Boy. He’s flogged it tae Benson as the genuine article, squeezing oot some back-pedalling penance.

— Not that I’m casting aspersions on you ladies and gentlemen. It’s just that Amsterdam is not far from the Hook of Holland and … well, where people go when they’re off duty is their own concern, as long as it does not affect either the safety or the quality of service provided on this vessel …

He waffles on n ah’m tryin tae tune oot the rest ay his shite by focusing oan the erse ay that wee lassie wi the big sortay Robert Plant hair. Sick Boy’s eyes, predictably, are nailed tae the same spot, while Nicksy looks gaga, staring off intae space. Ah hear Benson saying, — Congratulations. You are now officially part of the Sealink family. I shall see you all early next year!

So we were in work. Three, four or six million unemployed, nae cunt kent cause the calculation methods changed wi the frequency ay keks, and the most motley crew yuv ever seen, a combo ay junkies, poofs and fuck knows what else, are engaged in gainful employment for the start ay the spring season at Sealink. Can’t wait to convey tae Mater and Pater the uplifting news that the ginger middle offspring has finally made good!

We take the train back tae London in a celebratory mood, crackin open some cans, as Marriott fills us in on the scam, aw businesslike and Mr Swinging Big Baws. We’re tae go tae the Dam, buy shit fae this gadge there, n take it back oan the boat. — That geezer on the desk, the one I pointed out, Marriott explains, though ah noticed fuck all, — Frankie, he’s the man. He drinks up in the Globe pub in Dovercourt. When we start I’ll take you lads in there to buy him the odd beer, so he gets to know yer faces. Just keep that fucker sweet and you’ll go through on the nod every time. He leaks me the rota details, cause it’s farking crucial to know which of those Customs and Excise cunts are on duty, particularly if a bastard called Ron Curtis is doing the supervisory round. Nobody can get to that cunt. If he rumbles anything we just go ta ground and suck up the pain, even if we’re as sick as hounds.

Ah’m finding it hard tae listen tae the cunt, so are the others. This speed is the business; I’ve done two fat lines up the hooter, and every time that steel wheel sparks on the points, the jolt goes right through the train n up ma spine.

Yee-hah! Roll along covered wagon, roll along …

The festive vibe intensifies tenfold when a group ay pished lassies in Santa hats get oan at Shenfield. This blonde bird produces some Christmas crackers, and Sick Boy’s right in there, pullin one wi her, then pittin the purple crêpe party hat oan. — I know the Christmas cracker I’d like to pull, he teases lecherously, and as her mates cheer, he ducks in and whispers something in her ear. She jokingly punches his airm, but within a minute they’re snogging each other’s faces off.

Ah’m well sparked up n fill ay mischief, so ah cannae resist pillin oot ma lighter n settin Sick Boy’s hat ablaze.

One lassie puts her hand tae her mooth as the flames shoot up, spreadin instantly tae his hair wi a cracklin, burnin sound. The blonde lassie he’s snoggin wi pushes him away n screams.

— What the fuck — he shouts, feverishly pattin at his heid, as burnt bits ay the hat flake off n flutter ower the carriage.

— Fi-uh … deh-reh-reh … ah take it you’ll burn … ah sings.

— WHAT YE FUCKIN WELL DAEIN?! PSYCHO CUNT! FUCKIN STUPID BASTARD! FUCK! He lunges ower n punches us in the baws. — THAT WAS FUCKIN DANGEROUS, YA DAFT CUNT!

Ah folds like a razor bein snapped shut, laughin through ma sick pain. — Bastard … Crazy World ay Arthur Broo-ooh-oohn … ah protests.

— You’ll fuckin well pey tae git ma hair cut n styled! Stupid fuckin … Sick Boy mumps, preening himself in the reflection ay the gless windae, but he’s soon back tae the lassie, waving a dismissive back hand at me. — Keep over there. Fucking child.

— I farking despair, Marriott mumbles under his breath. Then one ay the Shenfield lassies, eyes wide and deranged, opens her gob and shouts, — I EHM THE GOD ORF ’ELL FI-AH AND I BRING YOU …

Nicksy n me take up her cue tae burst intae song: — FI-UH … DEH-REH-REH, I take it you’ll burn …

Sick Boy’s still glancin daggers at me but the blonde bird’s gittin the maist ay his attention. Ah’m chattin tae the singin lassie. She’s pished, but as cool as fuck. — Owzit them two get ta ave all the fun then, eh?

— They’re amateurs, ah tell her. — Ah’m gaunny snog your face off!

— Whatcha waitin on then?

Ah wisnae waitin, n no bothered at aw aboot ma cracked lips n snottery beak, ma tongue’s right doon her throat. Ah see, though, that Sick Boy’s one step ahead, as per usual; the cunt’s up and leadin the blonde piece through tae the bogs. When we come up for air, Marriott’s hacked off aboot being ignored, but Nicksy’s tellin him we got plenty ay time tae iron oot the details. The cunt kens it n aw; he’s just showboating. We start up another chorus ay ‘Fire’, but argue aboot the words in the verses, as our tins scud oan the tables n the peeves fly back. So we prepare tae hit the West End wi the Shenfield lassies, n Christmas has jist fuckin well started, big time!

AH TURN FAE the pish-yellay pages ay ma paperback novel, then deek oot the bus windae at the shimmering half-moon behind the pylons, cutting clean shadows oantae the concrete motorway sidings. It’s the dregs ay December and cauld enough tae freeze the dribbles in yir piss-tube, but the heating’s finally kicked in oan the bus and there’s sweat and condensation rivulets running doon the windae where ma heid’s been resting.