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

Neebour shakes ehs heid n pits the specs back oan. — Disnae work that wey, bit. They’d jist think thit ye wir a filthy fuckin perve whae led a sad life. Female sexuality, ya hoor: it’s different goods. It’s aw aboot ethereal forces n that; thaire fuckin frigs. Hoarses n Knights n castle towers n aw that shite. That’s how they posh burds are aw hoarsey types, eh goes, warmin tae ehs theme. Hus tae be said that the Neebour is the fanny expert here, being as eh wis once mairried. — Back at yon skill ah said tae that Irene Carmody lassie, mind ay her?

— A fit yin, as ah recall, ah nod, tryin tae conjure up an image.

Neebour’s face goes sad and doleful. — Tried tae be candid at the pleasure images in ma heid ay her in the buff n in threesomes wi me n yon Andrea McKenzie gied ays. Did ah git complimented oan ma taste n ingenuity? Like fuck. She only telt her faither n the cunt grabbed a hud ay ays outside the chippy n telt ays tae stop making lewd propositions tae his lassie! Some people, Neebour shakes ehs heid again, — think they’d nivir pilled the wire in thir puff.

As entertainin as the sexual politics ay the Central Fife male might be, ah’m fir the oaf.

— Where ye headed, Jase? the Duke asks.

— Might take a wee walk up the street, call intae muh turf accountant.

So ah heads outside intae the fresh air, and sets off doon the main drag.

The toon might huv seen better days but the high street still supports plenty a waterin holes. JJ’s and Wee Jimmie’s are the yins thit ah use, apart fae the Goth, which gits a rep as an auld boys’ pub n it is, ah suppose. N thir’s Partners Bar ower the road; might be a place tae take a burd at night, but no durin the day, no, sor.

Ladbrokes versus Corals, whae’s gaunny git ma cash? Corals is a Hun shop, but the toon’s long hud that sort ay Gers vibe in general, ever since Jim Baxter, accordin tae the auld man. Ah opts for Ladbrokes but thir’s nowt grabbin ays oan the caird. Ah realise thit ah’m starving but, so ah heads outside tae git a scran.

Ah’m huvin ma lunch in the Central Perk café, the one that they named the place in the telly series Friends eftir. Oor yin’s named eftir its proximity tae Central Perk, hame ay the Blue Brazil. Much, much aulder thin thon daft wee New York perk ay the same name.

Ah decides against the chips and peas n opts fir a fried egg and black-pudding roll n a mug ay tea. It’s empty, bar two young lassies wi a bairn in a pram. Funny March day: rainin but also surprisingly hoat. One lassie’s wearin a white anorak, n she takes it oaf n announces tae everybody, — Ah’m roastin wi sweat! The other yin’s jist goat a white cotton top oan n she protests, — What aboot me, but? Ah’m soakin wi rain!

Ah think it might be Soakin Wi Rain’s bairn, cause the waitress lassie goes tae talk tae Roastin Wi Sweat.

Ya cunt, ye couldnae sexualise they lassies wi Timmy Leary’s fuckin stash in ye. Ah only gits the horn oan whin this ridheided wifie wi front protrudin teeth comes in. It’s like some cunt’s tried tae pannel thum fae the inside . Thir’s that many dirty cunts aroond, ah’m thinking mibbe yin ay thum goat carried away wi the fistin, ya hoor sor, n somehow that made ays think aboot Big Monty n Lara.

Goat ays aw aroused n ah hud tae nip intae the bogs at the back ay the shop wi the obligatory ‘For Customers Only’ notice, soas thit ah could huv a wee chug tae masel. Hardly room tae swing a cat bit ah still manage tae bang oaf some paste intae the sink. Ya hoor, strikin a blow fir the oweraroused n undersexed everywhaire!

The heid’s birlin whin ah goes back oot, n the choppers woman’s standin thair lookin at ays, but thirs nae ming comin oot ay the bogs so ah’m awright. Fortunately maist people think thit yir jist daein drugs oan the premises.

Ah gits a T/5 bill and settles up.

Struttin doon yon high street oan a Seturday; creditors tae be avoided, debtors tae be pursued, n how thir nivir the same. Aye, ye find oot yir standin in the food chain in a place like this. The laddie King: constantly flirtin wi relegation, but somewhat above the likes ay Richey the Assaultee, whae ah see headin up the slope tae the station, nae doot huvin jist come oot the New Goth.

Cannae beat this toon though, chips n mushy peas for £ 1.90, keep ye gaun aw day. Mixed wi a couple ay black golds n even yon Gillian McKeith burd wid be cautious aboot cuttin intae yin ay they logs! Wid she no, but!

But ma egg and black-puddin rolls wi the mug ay tea set ays back £ 3.05, seriously eatin intae black gold funds. So ah heads ower tae the jobcentre tae check what’s up oan the computer, but thir aw minimum-wage jobs n thir aw nationwide. Thir’s only one thit’s local (if ye count Dunfermline as such which ah dinnae):

LABOURERS IN DUNFERMLINE, £5 PER HOUR, 40-HOUR WEEK.

It’s 8–5 Monday–Friday wi nae weekend work, temporary fir six weeks. That’s two hundred quid a week before deductions ay tax, national insurance, which leaves 170, which is nae wage at aw. If ah dinnae gie the auld man rent n cut doon oan the black gold n avoid ma creditors (and new debtors) that means ah could save five hundred in six weeks. Ma hairy hole. They say experience no essential as trainin will be given but thill nivir huv a runt like me workin oan a site.

Ah comes out intae a surprisin sun glintin in ma eyes, n the first person ah sees sittin oan the waw is oor disgraced exminister, Jack ‘Jakey’ Anstruther, whae’s indulgin in a fortified wine ay some dubious vintage.

— Jason King! eh shouts at ays. — Any luck in the employment market?

— Naw, Jack, it’s jist no happenin, buddy. Nae vacancies for commie ex-jockeys.

Jakey laughs n the wey that probably causes another few blood vessels in ehs swollen rid coupon tae rupture. That hair’s still stickin up, like yon Don King boxin promoter hoor. Along wi the doolally eyes, it gies um a permanent air ay shock, like a bairn whaes fingers uv located they three wee holes in the waw. The auld coat’s seen better days; mair ripe thin the fruit oan sale at Central Perk merkit. — Funny, son, it’s the same fir commie ex-Church ay Scotland Ministers, eh laughs, hudin the boatil oot tae me.

— Eh, naw, yir awright, Jack, no ma tipple, ah tell um. Dinnae like tae refuse a drink, but ye are what ye peeve n despite ma financial worries ma position as a champion ay the black gold pits ays a guid few notches above the El-D and Buckie boys.

Ah leave the auld man ay the cloth tae ehs fun. Ah clocks wee Jenni leavin the leisure centre, the pride and joy ay the Beath, but like Lara, skilled in snobby St Andrews. Thaire’s a wee yin whae isnae half shaping up, ya hoor! Possibly been daein that Pilates class. That’s at the very same venue whaire ma grudge Scottish Cup tie wi the hoor Mossman will take place. Ya cunt, ah git a check ay thon rounded erse ay hers as it slides intae the front seat ay thon motor. Makes ays gled ay jist emptied the tank or ah’d be tempted tae fire yin oaf in broad daylight!

Instead, ah head back up the street. Ah wince every time ah pass thon Spider’s Web Tattoo Parlour. Saved up like fuck tae git the big hert wi ALISON oan it, jist afore the hoor kicked ays intae touch. The Canada boy, a Lochgelly cunt, hud sponsorship tae the colonial lands, n better prospects wi yon pipe fitter’s papers under ehs belt. Wisnae aw the cunt hud under ehs belt accordin tae her, a contention made in aggression whin oor parting goat a bit heated.

The Clansman’s ower the road, wi thir Crazy Vimto cocktail, or £ 2.50 fir a WKD Blue wi a shot ay port, n ahm fair tempted, bit that Big Monty jist might be in thaire. Instead ah head intae the bookies n look at the form, hopin tae crack the code tae untold riches.