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

Ah’m well flustered here but ah tough it oot. — Eh, saw yis gaun doon the road n ah came by tae offer muh congratulations, aboot yir win ower in Ireland, ah sais tae Lara. Might be nowt ay her, bit what thir is hus gone tae the right places. Aye, she’s filled oot yon jodhpurs n that blouse since her n me hung aboot the gither, ah’ll tell ye!

— Thanks, Lara goes. N ah’m sure that wee yin must be a bit guilty oan hudin oot oan ehs in the minge stakes aw they years ago. As an apprentice jockey ah wis the local hero; could’ve split every fuckin gash in the Kingdom back then, ya hoor sor. Bit no me; goat aw worried aboot the size ay the wee felly here, n it took a dirty big auld hoor fae Ballingry tae pop ma cherry! Said tae ays it wis best sex she ivir hud in her puff n aw! Even allowin fir hoor’s licence, it wis fair balm tae the auld ego, ah kin tell ye that! So if ah’m gaunny talk masel intae a threesome now, ah’d better git the auld gab gaun. — Aye, ah read aboot it in the paper. 68.25% oan advanced test 106! Oan Scarlet Jester thaire, ah nods ower at the hoarse.

The Lara lassie looks at her Jenni mate wi a wee smile, then back at me.

N ah’m jist staundin thair, ya hoor ye, cannae think ay nowt else tae say. — Did you go ower tae Ireland as well then, Jenni? ah asks in mountin desperation.

She looks at ays n sweeps her dyed black hair back fae her face. Liked that wee yin better whin shi wis a blonde. The burden ay bein a gentleman, ah suppose. Mind you, she’s fair shaping up n thon fat’s no hauf been trimmed back. — I wasn’t competing, she says like shi’s upset aboot that. — My horse was lame.

Felt like tellin her ah’ve hud ma share ay lame rides n aw, but thir’s Goth talk n thir’s posh fanny, and yuv goat tae keep that wee bit sophistication gaun. Ah feel a bit sorry fir Jenni bein Lara’s mate: that yin isnae hauf ‘filly’ hersel.

Ah notices thir’s one ay they wee studs in Jenni’s nose. Aw aye, ah bet that wee yin could yaze thon ridin crock, ya hoor ye. — Ah hud a guid wee win at the table-top beautiful game, ah tell thum, — Aye.

— That’s good, that Lara goes.

— Aye. Thing is, they might be takin it oaffay ehs. Thir wis a bit ay difficulty wi the discipline, ah telt thum, n ah cannae take muh eyes oaffay that ridin crock yon wee Jenni’s hudin.

Ah’m wastin ma time thaire, ah’ll never be popular wi thon family. Thir wis a time when her faither came intae the Goth wi a couple ay fellys, one ay them fae the cooncil. One ay the boys wis sayin something aboot Kelty n of course ah couldnae keep ma big mooth shut. Ah goes, ‘Ya hoor ye, only hoors n miners come fae Kelty.’ So big Tom Cahill, this Jenni lassie’s faither, he looks at me aw hard n goes, ‘Ma wife comes fae Kelty.’

Weel, sor, ah jist says tae um, what pit does she work in?

Thoat the big cunt wis gaunny banjo ays right thaire n then in the Goth but everybody starts laughin so eh hud tae climb doon n join in. But Lara’s faither, the doaktir, he never hud a high opinion ay ays either. Whin ah wis workin at the warehoose, the hoor wid peer at ays ower the specs n go, ‘Surely not more back problems, Mr King.’

Now that Jenni’s lookin at ays aw that impatient wey, the yin the successful ay the toon tend tae display in thir dealins wi the undercless. — So is there anything else, eh…

— Jason.

— Anything else we can help you with? she says again, n now that Lara’s starin right at ays, waitin oan a response, ya hoor sor.

— Eh, naw… ah’ll be oan ma wey up the street. Jist wanted tae say well done.

— Thank you, Jason, Lara sais, then turns tae Jenni quickly and goes, — I hope you manage to sort out that little discipline problem, and they baith huv a wee snigger tae each other.

Well, ah turns oan ma heel n ah’m doon that road aw hoat n bothered. If ah wis a sortay James Bond type ah’d uv went: ‘Well, there is a little something you could help me with, but I think we should all retire to the barn to discuss it, ya hoor sor.’

Oan the road back intae toon, it’s stertin tae pish doon. Thir’s some craws pickin ower a deid rabbit thit’s been blootered oaf by a passin car, so ah sooks doon a snottery gob n lits it fly n it slaps one craw oan the back ay the heid. They reckon (or at least the Neebour Watson does) thit it makes the other yins tear the cunt tae bits, bit the hoors’ve goat too much meat tae be bothered wi that the now so that particular hypothesis remains not proven. Disnae matter but, it wis a result, speed and accuracy, ya hoor, n ah sing in celebration: — Thir wis a wee cooper wha lived in Fife… nickity knackety noo the noo, eh goat ehsel a durty big hoor ay wife…

But then ah sees this van comin towards me n it’s slowin doon. It’s thon Tam Cahill, n the big cunt pills up n gits oot. — Aye, aye, eh goes.

Ah wanted tae say tae the boy that ah wisnae stalkin ehs lassie, it wis hur mate, ya hoor, strictly speakin it wis ma auld paramour Lara, but ah dinnae think eh’s the type whae worries about hair-splittin.

— You’re Jason, eh?

— Aye.

Eh nods n looks ays up n doon. — You trained as a jockey, eh.

— Long time ago now, neebs, ah tell um.

— What ye up tae work-wise these days?

— No much.

Eh does that slow nod again, but eh’s lookin at ays right in the eye. — How dae ye fancy daein some casual work for me? Nothin too taxin: jist some stable work, muckin oot, feedin n general stuff. Gie ye a bell when ah need ye, cash in hand, eh winks.

There wis me thinking ah wis gittin pilled n aw. Naw, but, it’s a fuckin stalkers’ paradise! Oan the firm, ya hoor! — Aye, sound.

— Geez yir mobile number, eh sais.

This occasions a wee bit ay embarrassment oan ma behalf. — Eh, muh mobby is oot ay commission right now. But ah’ve goat a landline.

The boy’s lookin at ays as if eh’s made a big mistake, seein the dirty drink n drugs grime oan ays, nae doot catchin the whiff fir the first time. — Geez it then, eh gasps aw exasperated. Kin awready tell eh’ll be a cunt tae work fir. But if eh’s daein ehs haulage shite n ah’m in the stables, it should be a sweet case ay neer the twain. — How dae ye git oan wi dugs? eh asks ays.

— Love thum, aw kinds, ah tell um. No thit ah hud yin since Jacob, the German shepherd-collie cross thit died wi a lump in ehs throat whin ah wis seven. Cut ays tae the quick, yon did. The auld girl said somethin aboot cross-breeds eywis dyin n wi should’ve went pedigree, n the auld boy called her a fuckin Nazi hoor. Aye, they wir nivir that close.

The auld boy said that she only wanted tae mairry him cause he’d goat her up the duff. She’d been dumped by this Greek waiter whae’d headed back hame eftir the family restaurant in Kirkcaldy went bust, brekin the auld mare’s hert. Eywis a speculative venture fir the seventies: back then the Chinky wis probably exotic. She suffered fae a bout ay depression but comfort ate her wey through it, pittin oan loads ay weight in the process. Then the auld boy fired intae her up the Miners’ Welfare and bairned the hoor n ah wis the result. So ah cannae really complain but what the fuck, ye eywis think thit what yir folks dae before ye came along is nowt tae dae wi you. Supposed tae be grateful tae them fir the gift ay life; fuckin nonsense. Wi aw intuitively ken that thir’s aw they souls in heaven thit ur gaunnae git allocated tae some cunts anyway, if they dinnae shoot one oaf.

So ah shakes Tam Cahill’s hand and ahm a semi-workin man again. Stable haundin wis nivir ma thing, but. Ah wanted tae be a jockey but ah wis never that keen oan fuckin nags; best appreciated fae Ladbrokes, they cunts. But it fair held ays back, that attitude did. N tae be honest ah eywis shat it when they bastards goat gaun fill pelt. Like Kravy oan thon fuckin Triumph Boneville bike; ah dinnae really like it oan the back ay that hoor.