Irvine Welsh - If You Liked School, You'll Love Work

Vince and I are winding Bertie up. — You mean to say that you’ve never had a homosexual experience in your life before? I ask him.

— Course I haven’t, Bertie says, all offended.

I’m shaking my head, looking at the dross I’ve got in my hand. — How old are you, you’ve got to bleedin thirty-seven and you’ve never had a gay experience?

He looks to Vince who smiles and shrugs, which freaks old Bert right out. — Of course not… you’re bleedin tapped, he goes, then he turns to Vince again. — Have you?

Vince looks at him with his big hooded eyes. — Of course I have, he says in that Manc voice, — I mean, you got to try everything once, aven’t ya?

Poor Bertie almost chokes on his beer. He puts the glass onto the table, looking at Vince all sorta weird. — But… I can’t believe I’m hearing this… he says and turns to me. — What about you?

— I’m thirty-nine for fuck sakes, I tell him, — I mean, we ain’t all led sheltered lives.

— I ain’t led no sheltered life… he protests, his voice going all high.

— Yeah, sure, Vince shakes his head.

— Well, no, he starts, all hesitant, — cause there was once…

And we’re all ears as he only goes and describes this encounter with a bentshot at some bleedin queer bar down in Clapham. Well, Vince and I just let him finish and then shout together: — WE’RE ONLY FARKING JOKING, YOU FARKING GREAT BIG POOF!

Outed! Always knew he was bleedin suspect. I point at him and shout, — File under arse behnnndit!

Bertie begs Vince and I to say nothing, insisting that he was just a bit freaked at our so-called disclosures and making it all up so as to fit in, which knowing Bert is quite possibly true. We’re having none of it though, the dirty bleedin arse bandit. But the geezer’s pretty distressed so the only thing to do is tell him we’ll keep shtum about the whole thing.

Of course, it’s only all around the bar the next night, innit. Somebody obviously kissed and told but mum’s the word on that one.

Thing is, it fair sets old Bertie off on the warpath with Vince and I as main suspects. Marcia’s only gone and heard all about it and kicked off about Aids, putting poor old Bert on an indefinite no nooky ban. Not that she gave him that much in the first place, by all accounts, or rather by Rodj’s account. Now Bertie’s gathering evidence for his appeal. But this one ain’t going to go to Stewards, not if I can help it.

After closing time he only goes and comes round to mine with a bit of attitude on him. — One of you two has been blabbing about the other night! It’s all round the bar, Marcia’s heard all about it!

— Bollocks. I ain’t said nothing to Marcia. Who told her then?

— One of the geezers at the bar, Bertie says, open-gobbed.

— Who?

— I dunno, do I? he whines. — She won’t say.

— Well, that covers a multitude, don’t it? I shake my head. — Why won’t she say? I ask. Thing is, with geezers like Bertie, it don’t really matter how pissed off they are, you just keep asking the questions and you soon draw their sting.

— I dunno, do I? he repeats like a flaming parrot, all flustered.

I shake my head. — Sounds suspect to me, mate.

— What? What sounds suspect?

I feel like saying, ‘You, you fucking dodgy little arse bandit, you sound farking suspect,’ but I explain it to him. Bertie, God love him, he ain’t the sharpest needle in your old mum’s embroidery kit. — If my missus had told me that she’d heard that I was an iron, I’d want to know who’d told her. I wouldn’t be happy hearing that it was just pub talk. I’d be asking myself: who stands to gain from her thinking that you’re bottled beer?

You could quite literally see the coin drop. — Was Marce on with Rodj the other day? he gasps.

— I believe that to be the case.

Then he headed off, eyeballs bulging out like a Jack Russell’s bollocks. As if he was planning to do some serious damage. Not that he’s the sort, really, but there’s no telling what some geezers will do over skirt. Crimes of passion n ah’ll. Think ancient Rome; Caesar, Mark Antony and Cleopatra. And it ain’t just big empires what’s been brought to their knees by minge; some tidy little businesses in the licensing trade have gone right down the flaming Swanee when the guvnor and or his missus have been caught on the wrong side of the duvet. See, I’d mentioned Bert’s little secret to Rodj earlier, knowing full well that, in turn, he’d be compelled to tell Marcia. So my hope now is that Rodj does a runner and Bert’s sine die , leaving the field clear for yours truly to fire into Marce.

I’m sitting back feeling pleased with meself, when me mobile sings out, signalling a text coming in. It’s Trees-the-ex. Her message reads:

Bell me on the landline

between 4 and 6. Urgent.

Tight-arsed cow. I have a shower, make myself a sandwich of cheese, tomato, lettuce and mayo, then pick up the blower and dial, getting a funny farking tone. Forgot to knock off the zero on her number after 0044. I try again and get her voicemail. — Neither Teresa nor Emily are in at the moment. Please leave your number and we’ll try to get back to you.

I leave a message. — Trees, it’s Mickey. You wanted me to call between 4 and 6, from your text. You said it was urgent, so I called right away. Do you want to get back—

— Michael, she says and you know that the cow was sitting there all the time letting me farking rabbit on like that. — How are you?

— Busy, I tell her. — What’s up? Is Em okay?

— Oh, well, I ain’t gonna be popular, am I. Thing is, Em’s been playing up so I’m sending her over to you for a bit.

It might be hot here but ain’t nobody told my blood that right now. The farking cow. — What do you mean? You said some orf the holidays. I got a flaming bar to run, I can’t—

— You can’t make time for your own daughter. Fine. I’ll tell her.

She’s loving all this, the farking cow. I take a deep breath. — You say she’s coming for a bit. What is a bit?

— Dunno. She’s flying out tomorrow on the 8.15 from Gatwick, gets in at 12.30.

— You can’t do this without bleedin well sortin it with me, that is bang out of order. I got things to do!

— N I ain’t?

That bleedin cow is in her farking element. She knows that I can’t knock Em back. — You know what I mean… I need notice, you can’t just hit me with a fait accompli like that. C’mon, Trees, give us a break—

— Nah, you give me a break, Mickey, she whines, that adenoidal tone squeaking down the blower, like a proper Hardwick. Forgot just how much it does your crust in. Patience of a saint I must have, putting up with that all them years. — She wants to see ya. She’s been a proper narky little cow and I ain’t havin her sitting around talkin the hump with me and Richie…

Surprise, surprise. — So this is what all this is abaht, you and some farking trouser—

— I’ve said my piece, she says, all cool, but she can’t keep the smugness out of her voice. — Be there at the airport to meet your daughter.

— Trees… I’m pleading now, — Terry…

Then she only goes and puts the farking blower down on me!

I dial her number again but it’s only the flamin voicemail, — Neither Teresa nor Emily…

— Farking cow, I spit and head downstairs to the bar. Knockout blow to Hardwick, Baker left KO’d on the canvas. It don’t bare thinking about. I pour myself a double Scotch. Cynth’s in and she’s watching me. — Bit early, isn’t it?

— Been a funny old morning, I tell her, heading down to the cellar, leaving her standing there, hands on hips like a big, shapely vase. It’s always nice and cool down here, just the place to go when you wanna charge the old calmness and serenity batteries. Suddenly, I hear a rustling sound and I see a big furry rat; long-haired cunt, marching across the floor. He vanishes behind a stack of beer on pallets. I pick up the brush. Then I hear the tinkle on the mobile: another flaming text message coming in. Bleedin hell, it’s only from Seph, this farking hairy little Greek gel I was nailing last summer. Telling me that she’s only here on Friday for two weeks. How farking complicated can life get?