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

Darkness faws like a workin hoor’s keks: sudden but yet predictable. Ah gits hame, n tae celebrate my new employ makes masel a fried egg sanny n hus a read ay the paper, which irritates the fuck oot ay me. The Central Fife Times and Advertiser says that Dunfermline Pathetic huv selt 3,500 season tickets so far. I’ll no be fuckin well addin tae that list any roads! Shouldnae be huvin information aboot they cunts in the Cooden media! Hoors’ve goat thir ain fuckin press!

The Auld Boy’s in; either here or the library ur the only places yill find um. The Goth n aw: but only around last orders. Nivir leaves the hoose much as eh’s badly disfigured oan yin side ay the coupon due tae a burnin accident. Back in 1989 eh set himself oan fire. He blamed the cheap, flammable shell suit eh wis wearin, while the auld doll blamed the fags. Dinnae think that the auld mare wis that sold oan ehs coupon any roads, so wee Shitey Breeks moved in n whisked her oaf doon the road tae a life ay Dunfermline decadence.

The auld boy looks at ays, then sits doon wi the Record and starts shakin ehs heid at the news. Eh’s soon back oan ehs favourite subject, the seventies and the betrayal ay the workin cless. — The tax rebate, ye nivir git thaim now. Eywis came at the right fuckin time n aw. Aye, the seventies. Great times, then along came that English hoor n fucked it aw up. It’s aw fir the rich now, the whole fuckin country. That’s nivir a Labour man, no wi a mooth like thon. That’s a hoor’s mooth thon. Must huv been worth a fortune at that posh Fettes school wi a mooth like that; aye, well sought eftir, ah kin fuckin well bet ye! That Eton Tory wanker that’s gaunnae replace um: a fuckin clone!

— Thir’s a loat tae be said fir progress but, Faither. Some ay they great auld seventies institutions wir bad bastards; like the chip-pan fire disaster. The microwave, deep-fat fryer n the late-night takeaway’s done fir aw that.

— Aye, ah suppose thir’s been some kind ay progress, eh sais as eh rips intae ehs Pot Noodles. — But ah blame Scargill, should’ve goat a fuckin mob doon they Hooses ay Parliament, torn it apart brick by brick and stoned every yin ay they public-skill cunts tae death wi the rubble.

— Elites’ll eywis try tae impose themselves ower time but, Faither. The day’s revolutionary vanguard are the morn’s rulin cless.

— Aye, bit that’s how ye need permanent revolution but, son; build a set ay non-hierarchical structures…

Ah’m lookin oot the windae n ah see thit the wheelie bins huv been left oot in the street n need pit back in the front gairdin. — Aw structures by thir nature ur hierarchical but, Faither. N people dinnae want permanent revolution, they want tae jist chill oot sometimes.

The auld boy slams the Pot Noodle carton doon on the table. Eh twists the fork tae gain control ay the stringy noodles thit dangle fae it. — So what’s the answer then? Drink, drugs, the chippy n mair Tory rule? The cornerstanes ay your life?

— Ah’m no sayin that.

— Defeatist talk, son, eh sais waving ehs noodle-filled fork around. — That’s the problem wi your generation, nae collective consciousness! Ye should be doon that library fillin yir heid wi political n social education soas yi’ll be well placed tae take advantage whin the upturn comes! The likes ay Willie Gallagher and Auld Bob Selkirk wid be turning in thir graves!

— Ah doubt they’d be much impressed wi your gangsta rap stuff either, Faither.

Eh turns they blazin een oan ays: — Thir’s mair real politics in yin line ay 50 Cent thin in a hundred albums ay that hippy poof that you listen tae!

Fuck sakes, thir wis me hopin tae enjoy my fried egg oan Sunblest n Lurpak, garnished wi HP Sauce and pepper, but that’s aw fucked now.

ONE OF THE saddest things imaginable is seeing my mother in her workout gear, putting on an exercise DVD, getting about five half-arsed incompetent minutes into the forty-five-minute programme, then switching it off and going into the kitchen. You see the tear stains on her fat cheeks and her flustered air as you approach her. Then you check the chocolate biscuits in the big, plastic Tupperware box and they’re about 50 per cent down.

— It’s our anniversary today, Mum almost absent-mindedly announces as she starts to tend the plants with her clippers and watering can. I can see from the display on the DVD that the recording is still in the machine, playing away to nobody. Out of boredom I’m sitting on the couch with Indy watching cartoons on another channel.

— So how many years have you been married? Indigo asks.

Just then my dad comes in. Mum’s about to say something when he replies, — Who cares aboot that? Love’s aw chemicals, he snorts. — It’s aw just a big con, like that Valentine’s Day.

My God, he’s so crass. — You don’t know what you’re talking about, I tell him. — Besides, you’re a hypocrite. You’ve got Mum’s name tattooed on your wrist.

He looks at his wrist, and then gapes stupidly at the cartoons, Scooby Doo and Shaggy running from a very unscary monster, then turns to me with a tight smile on his face. — You’re idealistic, you’re young. You’ll see sense and grow oot ay it.

I glance up at him. — Like you did when you were young? Indy looks at him too.

— I was never idealistic, always a realist, me. He shakes his head, collapsing into the big chair. — I was too busy making money so that you and your sister could ride horses and grow to hate me, he laughs, reaching across and flicking Indy’s long tresses.

— I’ll never hate you, Daddy! she screams and leaps from the couch and jumps on his lap.

My dad makes a big fist and plants it softly on her face. — Naw, no you, hen, cause you’re a wee smasher!

She reciprocates the gesture and they box and play-fight for a bit. I can’t stand this, because part of me wants to join in. I stand up and move off. — Give it five years, some hormones and a bit of perspective, I say, heading for the door.

— Who rattled your cage, Lady Muck? he bites.

Mum looks around slowly in stunned incomprehension as she skooshes the cascading spider plant. I point at my own forearm. — You read what it says on your own wrist if you think that you were never an idealist. You’re a coward, that’s all.

— Mind what you call me, hen, he snaps. — You’re crossing the line.

One of his favourite sayings. I get out and bound up the stairs, two at a time. I’ve become an outcast in this family. The little brat is the mainstay of their lives now; she’s like a drug, reducing them both to baleful, fawning idiocy as soon as she walks into the room. I’m the embarrassment, the troublemaker, and the one who reminds them of how they’ve failed. The money shelled out for Stirling University, which I flunked, now more for Midnight, who is probably fucking lame because of me forcing him to jump a fence that was too high for him just to keep up with that bitch Lara and Scarlet Jester, and I’m nowhere near as good as her.

I lie on my bed listening to Marilyn Manson’s, ‘(s)AINT’ from my favourite LP of all time, The Golden Age of Grotesque , and reading my Danielle Sloman. I saw that guy on his motorbike, the good-looking one, who lives in Spain. He had the creepy wee Jason stalker on the back with him. I wish it was me that was on the back, and my fingers rub against my crotch when there’s a knock on the door and he barges in, obviously still upset. I move my free hand to my book. — You should be oot in that stable kicking that horse’s erse instead of lying around here listening tae that crap.

I look up from Reluctant Survivor . — The vet said that Midnight was to rest. He’s not finished his course of anti-inflammatory drugs yet.