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

It has therefore been decided that you will be banned for two years from all association competitions. Your return to competitive table football will be dependent on a six-month probationary period, during which your behaviour will be closely monitored. You will also, of course, forfeit the cup tie with Mr Mossman. Under the rules of the association I am obligated to inform you that you have five working days within which to lodge an appeal.

I should add that we have also received complaints about damage to Fife Council property at the venue. A noticeboard was torn from its mountings in a senseless act of vandalism. We cannot say for certain who the guilty party was, but the caretaker, Mr William Carter, and Mr Sinclair have intimated their suspicions to both the council and the association.

Fuck sakes! Ah cannae even mind ay playin thon tie! Ya hoor ye sor, fuck yir kip now, fuelled by outrage ah’m right doon the Goth n ahm showin thum aw the letter. The Neebour Watson screws ehs face up at ays n goes, — Ye no mind, ya daft drunken hoor, ye showed up wi Kravy, oot yir face. Ye broke two ay the boy’s players wi yir clumsiness. N eh kent ye wir coked up and oan thon base speed, it wis obvious!

— How the fuck wis it? ah plead.

— Chowin through yir ain bottom lip n drappin blood aw ower the pitch. Ye’d huv tested positive in a drugs test, ya cunt thit ye are!

Fuck aye, n if it wisnae aw comin back tae ays now. The leisure centre; ah hud that big half-time line fae Kravy. Ah won n aw! — That wis jist a wee tickle, tryin tae straighten masel oot, ya hoor ye. Beat the boy fair n square, two-nil.

— It wis three-two, Jason! For fuck’s sake, man, Neebour Watson goes. — Ye even ripped doon the big DAFC noticeboard in the corridor, sayin they shouldnae huv this in Cowdenbeath, thit it wis the unacceptable face ay globalisation.

Ya hoor: ah’m swallayin here like a Kelty lass. — That’s aw aboot security, a separate issue. The fact is thit ah won the game!

— Well, neebs, that’s no what the top brass say. The Neebour Watson shakes ehs heid like a dug comin oot ay the sea n Comorton’s noddin away like a toy yin in the back ay a motor.

— We’ll see aboot that, ya hoor ye. Ah stick the letter in ehs face. — It says ah kin still appeal.

— Naw, naw, naw, neebs, yuv goat it aw wrong; they jist pit that in tae cover thir erses. Tae thaim a successful appeal wid be like an admission ay defeat, the Neebour Watson contends n Reggie Comorton’s noddin like the wise auld sage. That’ll be right! That cunt, wi ehs degree in Wisdom-Eftir-The-Event, Skill ay Retrospection, University ay If-ah-hud-that-Prince-William’s-connections-up-in-St-Andrews-ah-widnae-be-sae-marginalised.

So ah state ma case, ay which ah’m certain. — What’s the point ay huvin agreed procedures, ya hoor, if yuv made up yir minds awready? Twa sides tae ony story, neebs. Ah’ll go roond tae the boy’s hoose, ya hoor sor, plead ma case. Fling masel upon the mercy ay the coort!

— Naw, naw, naw, Jase, the Neebour goes, — you’re talkin aboot how things should be, but the high heid yins, once they’ve made up yir mind, that’s you snookered wi a capital ‘S’. N the thing is, eh says, shakin ehs heid, — we cannae even gie ye a game wursels, even jist muckin aboot like, cause that’s in breach ay the association’s rules.

Ah cannae believe whit ah’m hearin here! The table-top version ay the beautiful game n ah’ve been frozen oot. — Ya hoor sor, ah tells thum, — ah’m still the best table-football player Fife’s ivir produced!

Neebour pills me taewards um, droapin ehs voice soas Comorton cannae hear um. — Everybody kens you’ve goat talent, neebs. Naebodies disputin that. But yir yer ain worst enemy. N ah’m no jist talkin aboot metters ay discipline.

N now eh stands away fae ays n looks at Comorton. Ah shot the hoor a look ay betrayal. Yir men Strachan and McLeish might say thit auld Jock Stein wid huv taken yir Auld Firm intae the English Premiership if eh’d goat the chance, but everybody kens thit the Big Man wis a true Scot n cut fae different cloth thin the modern-day money-mad charlatans wi thir ego n ambition. Ah’m bein punished cause ahm a purist, an idealist oot ay time! Ah look at Comorton, the moneyman, whae clawed ehs wey tae Kirkcaldy call centre supervisory level n now spouts the doctrine ay wur ain Adam Smith as corrupted by yon Nazi Hayek cunt n that English Thatcher hoor; a man whae wid destroy the table-top version ay the beautiful game…

— We’re also talkin aboot yir resolutely dogmatic adherence tae the Fife style ay play, the quisling hoor says. — Everybody in the modern game gits a wee bit ay purchase, a wee bit ay slide oan the baw. Aw aye, ye kin beat aw ay us easy enough, but at the highest level the boy thit kin dae a disguised slide hus a competitive advantage. End of.

So ah drank up, sure ah did, sor. Suddenly, ah didnae like the company nae mair. In the big picture bit, it wis a guid thing ah vacated the premises cause ah heads doon the street n ahm thinkin thit ah might chap oan Kravy’s door, see if ehs ma’s oot ay the hoaspital yit. Then ah catches sight ay the two ay thum, up oan thir hoarses, trottin doon yon lane: Lara Grant n Jenni Cahill. So ah crotches doon behind the bus shelter tae lit them go past soas ah kin mibbe git masel a wee deek at they tight jodhpur-covered erses but it’s a walk, no even a trot, far less a gallop, n thir’s nae sign ah yon mawkit jakits ridin up tae expose the peaches below. Ah huv a sneaky wee rummage in the doonstairs department, n couldnae even git the heid ay it up! Ya hoor ye; perr source material!

So ah follays them, keepin in at the big stane waw wi the overhinging foliage, blendin in like that big Predator cunt, thon crab-couponed Rastafarian hoor fae space. Ah’m thinkin aboot how drugs’ve ruined ma sportin career, ah’m no gaunny git any serious copy in the Central Fife Times and Advertiser now; naw, thill only be the wee blurb Jason King dsql v J. Mossman, ya hoor sor. Aye, right next tae they equestrian notices tellin us aw aboot yon Lara n Jenni’s ‘mare’ substantial achievements.

A bit ay jiggery-pokery wid dae but, aw aye sor. Nivir mind the edge ay sexuality thit sportin success brings, ah’ll cut tae the chase n git the wee felly sucked dry right noo in anticipation ay greatness tae come, if it’s aw the same tae youse!

Ya hoor sor.

Ah could fair dae wi a wash n a chenge ay clathes eftir fuck knows how many days oan the black gold, ching, base and takeaways, but ah elect tae keep up muh pursuit ay ma intendit. Mind you, it’s poor stalkin terrain; soon we’re oot ay toon n ah’m exposed, walkin behind thum doon the country road. Ah thinks, thill huv left that dykey La Rue’s ridin skill n be headin for yon big house, the auld ferm thit the Cahills boat years ago. New money thon; the haulage business. Scab lorries fae the strike back in 1984 some say, well, ma auld boy tae be specific. Aye, ya hoor ye. Mind you, any cunt wi money’s bad money tae the auld boy.

Funny, but wee Jenni’s the snootiest yin oot ay the twa, bit they eywis say that aboot new dosh. Bit it’s an awfay state tae git intae. Ah’m waitin fir thaime tae go intae yon Clark Gables wi the horses n mibbe git a peek at thum, yon Lara n Jenni huvin that dirty fun thit ye ken aw lassies secretly want tae huv. Mibbe wi the hoarses gittin involved n aw! Aye, yon Scarlet Jester n yon Midnight.

Gittin between thir legs but, ya hoor sor!

So ah’m walkin doon the side ay the barn on ma tiptoes, making sure thir’s nae light in the kitchen ay the Cahill hoose, a bad bastard yon auld Tam, whin the big door swings open n thaire they are staundin thair, watchin ays! Rumbled, ya cunt! That Lara gies ays a wee smile n looks at ays while Jenni goes that snooty wey, — What do you want?