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

— Such a lovely girl. I went to see her play and then I invited her to come around. I think you’d made her a little curious about me. It took me a while to do her, we had to work very hard through the night to finish her, Barry and myself. He’s my son, you know: and such a big fan of hers. But we wanted her ready for you. This will be your little place together.

As the cold slowly starts to seep into my bones, because she’s turned it up now, all I can do is sit here in a defeated heap as my head starts to spin and I hear her voice, ol Miss Arizona, sayin, — You’ll always be together now, Raymond, we’ll all be together!

YA HOOR, SOR; the conversation in this place wid make a pornographer blush. — You ken Big Monty, it’s no as if eh isnae well hung or nowt like that. Eh’d goat a hud ay that crystal meth fae some boy in Edinbury n it wis up like two fuckin cans ay Tennent’s, yin oan toap ay the other; his words, no mine, the Duke ay Musselbury says aw sagely, liftin the pint ay Guinness tae ehs lips n takin a swallay. Thir’s a ridge ay foam, or cream as the Porter Brewery chaps in Dublin wid like ye tae think ay it, hingin fae the dirty ginger mowser oan ehs toap lip. Early Seturday n we’re the only cunts in the Goth, wur local boozer. Great place, the Goth, an awfay warm howf, wi aw thon mahogany-coloured wood everywhaire. Thir’s a big screen opposite the bar for the fitba, usually just Scottish (borin, only two teams kin win), or English (worse, only one team kin win), bit they sometimes show Le Liga or the Bundeslegia. Thir’s a big partitioned pool room at the side, surrounded by gless, makin aw the bams in thaire look like goldfish.

No thit thir’s any in the day. The hale high street’s as deid as a Tel Aviv disco flair. Means thit the Duke’s goat a captive audience ay two fir ehs tale. — Bit eh’s cowpin ewey at this piece n she’s no jist takin the fuckin loat, it’s rattlin oan the sides, man! This is yin dirty hoor, wider thin the fuckin Nile, ya cunt. Aye, dinnae talk Mississippi tae me. So eh pills oot n turns ur ower n whaps it tae ur up the fuckin chorus n it’s as tight as a drum n eh’s gittin a decent ride oot ay it at last. The Duke lits oot a wee belch n settles ehs beer oan the bar.

— Phoa, ya cunt, thit ye are, says Neebour Watson, takin oaf ehs silver-framed specs for a wee polish.

The Duke ay Musselbury’s fair shakin yon big, baldy napper ay his; ehs ginger ponytail’s whippin acroass ehs back. — Naw bit, wait till ye hear this: it’s a fuckin total miscall, man, cause this bird’s been oot oan the fuckin peeve fir a few days ehrsel n as soon as ehs fuckin knob’s in her choc-boax aw this diarrhoea’s right under ehs foreskin, like fuckin chip shoap sauce, nippin away at the cherry n that, eh.

Ah sees the Neebour Watson’s eyes starin tae water under they specs, fair cascadin away n aw: like the contents ay a hoor’s gash at the end ay a line-up.

— She’s tweakin oan the crystal n aw, the Duke explains, — gaun fuckin mental, n she sais tae um, ‘Ah’ll fuckin bend it, ah’ll fuckin brek it oaf ye,’ n she’s backin intae the cunt n it’s like yon irresistible force n yon immovable object, eh.

— What happened? the Neebour Watson asks, pickin a bit ay crust ootay a nostril. Eh examines it, rolls it, n flicks it oantae the flair ay the Goth.

The Duke’s foreheid wrinkles in distaste. — Well, this is in the hotel, yon yin in Dunfermline thit thuv booked intae. Whit’s it called… glorified knockin shoap… the Prince Malcolm, that’s the yin. So Monty’s that aroused eh batters the gless on the fire alarm panel by mistake wi that fistfil ay sovies oan ehs mitt n it aw goes crazy…

Ya cunt! Ah’m thinkin: The Prince Malcolm Hotel. That’s muh ma’s power base. Works at the reception n everything, wi yon smarmy cunt she’s shaggin, Wee Shitey Drawers Arnie.

—… fuckin polis, fire brigade… the loat. An embarrassin situ fir every cunt. The Duke picks up ehs pint n takes another gulp.

Then the Neebour turns tae ays n goes: — Your ma no work thaire, Jase?

— Aye… ah goes. Wind-up bar steward kens full well what the situ is thaire.

But the Duke ay Musselbury inadvertently spares muh blushes as ehs no wantin the tale tae run away fae him. — So eh’s giein ur the message, the dirty wee hoor. N ken whae it wis? That hoarsey lassie n aw; the doctor’s daughter, her thit steys oot oan the road oot tae Lochgelly. That Lara Grant, eh sais, ehs chin juttin oot. Then ehs tongue lashes oot like a lizard’s, lickin the foam oaf ehs tash like the snaw oafay a car windscreen. My spine goes a bit stiff at this news, but the Duke jist looks slyly at ehs n sais, — Aye, you used tae sniff aroond eftir thon, eh, Kingy?

— Still stalks it, Neebour laughs.

— Jist tae keep muh haund in, ya hoor, ah explains, but it’s like aw yon fuckin oxygen in the Goth Tavern jist burns up cause thirs nane gittin intae ma fuckin lungs any roads. The object ay ma desire n that big ugly cunt Monty… and in muh ma n Wee Shitey Drawers’s fuckin hotel n aw!

This big-moothed baldy ponytailed ginger Duke ay Musselbury cunt wi the yellay teeth n the tash… disnae like bein the bearer ay bad news or nowt like that. — Aye, ah thoat that wis your wee floozy, eh goes tae me.

Well, ah kin feel muh haund tightenin oan yon gless n this cunt is gaunny git it fir spreadin lies, bit ah think, stoap, Jason, stoap n think… it isnae the wey, ye dinnae shoot the messenger.

But no Lara, fir fuck sakes, muh first girlfriend. Well, ah suppose Canadian Alison wis the real first, if wir talking ridin.

— Aye, wir you no knockin her oaf years ago whin ye wir daein the jockeyin? the Neebour enquires, sweetie-wife that eh is. Kin see thon cunt wi a heidsquare oan, up the street at the Premier Bingo, ya hoor sor.

Ah jist nods, — Aye, she’s right intae the showjumpin, so thir wis a mutual interest in the clop-clops, ken?

— Ye cowp it back then? the Duke asks.

— Wi went oot for a bit but she wis jist a wee lassie at the time, ah sais, outraged. Some company’s ye find yirsel in, yir better asking whae shouldnae be oan the register.

— No a wee lassie now but, eh. Pits it aboot big time by aw accoonts.

— Aye, pub accoonts, ah goes.

— Ah dinnae hud wi this virgin-hoor way eh classifyin lassies, Neebour goes, — fundamentally flawed, if ye ask me.

The Duke shakes ehs heid. — At least wi cannae git accused ay that in Fife. Thir aw fuckin hoors, n thir husbands, faithers, boyfriends, brothers n sons n aw!

N wi raise wur glesses in toast. The Kingdom: non-sexist as fuck.

Then the Duke says, — That Lara, but; hings aroond wi Tam Cahill’s lassie.

— Aye, ya cunt, ah goes, — Wee Jenni.

— Ye might no huv rode them but yuv been sniffin aroond enough, the Neebour says. — Hud yir forty wanks oot ay thaime, eh, Jase?

— Mair thin jist forty, ya hoor sor, ah’m in five figures. Hud mair pleasure oot ay they lassies thin any big lyin cunt like Monty, ah goes, drinkin up.

That leads the Neebour oantay some speculation. Eh takes ehs glesses oaf n polishes them n rubs at whaire thuv been indentin intae the side ay ehs neb. — Gits me wonderin whit lassies wid think if they kent thit we spent that much time wankin aboot thum? Aw that effort ay thought and willpower gaun intae creating they carefully constructed scenarios? Aw they fuckin Hollywood porn blockbusters that play in yir heid every other night, wi some dozy wee hoor that works in Greg’s cast as lead lady!

Ah looks at um as ah finishes muh pint. — Ye pit it that wey, ya hoor, thir bound tae be flattered! Fuck sake, ah wid be if ah found oot thit somebody ah barely kent existed wis spending aw that time n effort oan ays! Ah’d shag the cunts oot ay pity!