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

— The black cunt’s still goat the anger but, son, that’s what we Scots huv loast.

— Ah widnae be sae sure, Faither, the Young Team here are a bit fuckin radge.

— Bit it’s aw chivs, son, nae shooters like the black man in the USA, eh slurs. — Yi’ll never overthrow the white man in Westminster wi chivs.

Ah kin tell thit the auld boy’s been oan the sauce awright, n ehs goat mair, as eh reaches intae the bag n cracks open yin ay the hauf-dozen Tennent’s n thir’s a wee boatil ay the Johnnie Walker n aw.

Eh nods at me, as if ah’d want tae share it, n normally ah wid, but the day ah’ve goat a better offer n ah cannae be bothered listenin tae his shite.

So ah wis right roond tae the Goth, tae meet Ally Kravitz, ma handsome big biker buddy whae absconded tae Spain aw they years ago. N eh looks good n aw. Still goat that thick black mop ay hair n the skin nice n tanned; that Romany look thit the less charitable might — and do — describe as ‘gypo’. It’s great tae see um. Mind you, thir wis eywis a wee element ay betrayal in the friendship. Whin Kravy first goat the bike, the pair ay us wir gaunny head south tae Spain, n jist leave it aw behind. Then along came Shona Cameron n it wis nae contest. She goat the Spain berth oan the back ay the boy’s bike n ah started tae git served up the Miners’Welfare follayed by the Goth.

Twelve years doon the line but, ehs back. — What happened tae the jockeying? eh asks ays.

— Nivir took oaf. What aboot Spain then?

— A spiritual land, man, says Kravy takin a big gulp ay cider, — a deeply spiritual land. Shona never got it. Every land has its own voices, they just blow in the wind. Shona never heard the voices, ya know?

— Aye.

— The wind in her hair, she looked like a dream, but she didn’t hear the voices that carried on the wind, y’know?

— Fuckin right, ya hoor.

— Knew you’d get it, Jase, kent you’d get it instantly.

Kravy had only been back once, fir eh’s step-auld boy Coco Forsyth’s funeral, ehs de facto faither, the sperm and surname donator’s ID bein shrouded in mystique apart fae the name and nationality. Apparently, eh wis a Russian that docked in Rosyth fir a day n Kravy’s ma fir a night before settin sail fir the auld USSR, n leavin a free berth fir Coco Forsyth tae push intae. It wis a hert attack thit oaffed perr Coco. No sae much ay a drink or tabs man, but would stick a block ay Lurpak oan every slice ay toast eh goat doon ehs coupon. This bein Fife, thir wis nae shortage ay thon. Ya hoor, even yin vice kin be fatal if it’s taken tae thon extreme! If yir lucky ye might git away wi a yellay caird fae the referee wi the scythe afore the end ay the official three score n ten. If yir really spawny ye might even git a wee bit stoppage time oan toap, though no much ay thon gits played in the Kingdom, but, it has tae be said.

Eh takes me ootside and shows me the latest beast ehs been riding throughoot Europa, a Thruxton 900, a premium job fae the Triumph stable. — Great feel tae it, Jase, a responsive 865cc parallel twin engine, Kravy waxes. — Comfortable fir transporting fanny long-distance as well; preload adjustable front and rear suspension. Add tae that aluminium rims, grippy tyres and floating front discs and you’ve got the goods tae make any discerning buxom young peasant wench who is fed up wi her one-hoarse toon want tae jump on the back first and think about payment-in-kind eftir!

Ah’m impressed but even mair so whin we git back inside n eh sets up a couple ay voddy n Rid Bulls tae accompany muh black gold n the cider he’s oan.

— The mother awright, Kravy? Ah nivir even heard aboot her accident.

— Aye, she took a tumble oan the icy steps whin she wis pished ootside the Welfare. It wis the indignity ay it aw; ehr skirt rode up wi it aw displayed fir the whole ay Fife tae see! Ehs voice drops menacingly: — A couple ay the young team took some revealin shots ay her wi the cameras oan thir mobile phones. Posted thum oan YouTube n a Blue Brazil website n aw!

— That’s gantin, so it is, ya hoor, ah says, making a mental note tae check oot they sites oan the Net facilities up the library. They banned ays a few months back fir lookin at porn but they cannae git ontay ays fir a Blue Brazil yin. Ye might only git a few hundred along tae Central Perk tae see the boys play, but it sometimes seems thit jist aboot every single peyin customer hus ehs ain website. Once ah git money ah’ll be gittin ma ain computer then thi’ll be nae stoappin ays! Ah look ower tae Neebour and the Duke, in the goldfish bowl next door, oan the pool table, then droap my voice: — She wis wearin knickers, but, right?

Kravy pouts and shakes ehs heid. — Fuck sakes, Jason, it was a Seturday night up the Welfare n she’s a single woman!

That Blue Brazil site is gitting fuckin well checked!

— That fuckin Young Team need tae be taught no tae cross the bastard line, Kravy sais, then eh thinks aboot it n hus a wee laugh. — Fuckin Fife but, what ye gaunnae dae, man? Listen, gie’s five minutes tae drop the bike oaf back roond at the auld mare’s, then we paint this toon, nay, this coonty, a deep shade ay rid!

— Menstruatin gash rid, wi the commensurate touch ay darkness, ah venture.

The boy laughs. — You’re a bam, Jason, but you’re the only cunt in this place oan my wavelength, he smiles, slapping ma shoodir.

— Ah’m in thaire, bro, ah grin, watchin um depart. Soon ye kin hear the big metal beast striking up a roar outside n turbo-fartin its wey across toon.

Wi a jaunty spring in ma step, ah steal ower tae the pub noticeboard where ah find a new page fae the Central Fife Times and Advertiser stuck up oan it:

The competitors lined out once again in Necarne Castle’s picturesque walled garden for the final class of the Fermanagh Council Championship on the Sunday afternoon. There was an international flavour to this year’s festival with visiting pony teams from England and Scotland. The Scots also sent junior, young rider and senior teams to compete against their Irish hosts. Lara Grant, a member of the Fife Bavarian Warmblood team, won the prestigious Mourne Rosettes Medium Championship with Scarlet Jester.

Aye did she no, ya hoor ye! 68.25% oan advanced test 106. Nae elementary, novice or intermediate crap for that lassie! Oan the back ay thon Scarlet Jester n aw!

The Neebour Watson comes ower. — Neevor mind the fuckin chuggin away tae posh lassies in jodhpurs that widnae gie ye the shite offay thir bits. Ah’m no wantin that table-football hand weakened fir the morn.

— Ya hoor sor, ah goes back tae the cunt, — it’s no like that at aw. It gie’s the hand fuckin strength.

Neebour looks at ehs gless in ehs haund. — Ah’ll tell ye what’ll gie yir haund strength sor, is diggin intae yir pockits n setting up another pint fir yir neebs here.

Ya hoor ye, n thaire ah wis wanting tae keep the last fiver fir a fish supper n a boatil ay Irn-Bru doon at Marco’s. Best-laid schemes, ya hoor sor. But Kravy sais thit eh wis wedged up. Aw the better fir yon Jocky Mossman laddie when eh goes tae the table. Fill yir nostrils wi that guff, ya hoor thit ye are!

Kravy comes back in, nods tae the Duke and Neebour, whae’s gone back tae join um at the table. Then eh drums ehs fingers oan the bar. — No that struck oan it here, Jase, eh sais in a low voice, — Fancy comin back tae mine? Fridgeful ay beer and a gram ay coke, n eh’s still lookin ower tae the pool room, —… which ey splits better two weys thin fower, man.

Ah kin hear the Fife slippin back intae Kravy’s accent, sneaky as a hoor oaf a shift intae a morning oafice cleanin job. — Bring it oan, big baws, ah goes, suppin up ma black gold. N wi head oot wi some wee waves tae the soor-faced cunts ower at the pool table. Good tae see yis, dinnae want tae be yis!