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

Eftirwards ah stey in Dunfermline huvin arranged tae meet Kravy. We plan oan gaun up tae the Queen Margaret hospital tae see ehs ma. Ah takes a look around the centre for a bit but ah sees that Monty comin oot ay the newsagent wi two or three ay they boys that gied Sheky n me that skelpin thon time. Ah turn the other wey and thankfully the hoors are too loast in thir ain drama ay fag-crashin tae register muh presence. Close shave! Ah consider gaun tae see the auld doll at her hotel, but ah dinnae want tae risk bein frozen oot by the Sperminator, thon wee cunt Arnie. It’s gittin near time tae meet Kravy any roads. Darkness descends like a hoor’s proverbials as I get oot the centre and oantae the main drag. The city chambers looks like a fairy-tale castle wi its turrets as it juts oot intae the street. Ah turn doon the hill and git intae Tappie Toories, a hostelry kent way beyond the borders ay Fife as it wis once owned by the late, great Stuart Adamson, formerly fae Big Country and the Skids.

Ah’ve jist set up some black gold whin ah hears the roar ay a bike engine ootside n then Kravy walks in. Ah set um up a lager. — What’s in the bag, Jase? eh asks.

— Eh… set ay clathes. Left thum at this bird’s the other night whin ah hud tae dae a runner.

— Anybody ah ken?

— Ask nae questions yi’ll git telt nae lies.

So wi hus a quick Artooro, then ah climbs reluctantly oantae the back ay his bike up tae the hozzy.

Whin wi finds the ward ehs ma’s sittin up in her kip. Thir’s a congealed penne picante on a wheelie table by the side ay hur bed. Her beak’s streamin, like she’s been daein tons ay coke. — How goes, Mrs Forsyth?

— Ah seriously doot thit ah’m long fir this world, Jason, son, already spoke tae Faither Maguire. She looks tearfully at Kravy. — Ah jist wish thit muh boy wid come back hame n meet a nice Scottish lassie n settle doon.

— Ah prefer Spanish burds but, Ma, Kravy sais, — especially the chunkier yins. Eh traces oot a fill rather thin oorgless figure. — Barry rides; it’s the Latin spirit. Thir’s this chick ah’ve been slippin the doadie tae up in Setubal, intae threesomes, the lot.

Kravy’s ma sits up n pushes the trolley table away fae the bed. — Huh, we did aw that sort ay thing n aw, son. Hear him, she turns tae me, — thinks eh kin shock ehs auld mother.

It fair leads yin intae contemplation, but. — Funny, Mrs F, aw the auld yins up the Goth say the same thing. Tell ays thit pre-Aids, thir wis some vintage ridin gaun oan in Fife. The young team ur aw intae it as well; that Ballroom up the road, um telling ye, ya hoor, ye’d end up oan the register jist walkin in thaire oan a Seturday night! Aye, it jist skipped a generation, or at least ma pert ay the generation! Lorenzo’s n aw, ah tell thum, now in effervescent form, — the Miners’Welfare back in Cowden cannae compete!

— Aye, bit this yin here, she looks at her laddie, — still thinks thit eh’s invented sex. Besides, whin ye git tae ma age ye realise thit thir’s mair tae life.

Kravy looks contemptuously at his striken ma, gypsy-broon lamps risin up ehs foreheid. — Aye, n you’re tryin tae tell ays thit they injuries ay yours wurnae sustained in the hunt fir a lum sweep? eh sneers. Fuck me, ah widnae be able tae talk tae muh ma like that. The chops wid be mair fuckin tanned thin that wee Lara’s chorus eftir a session oan yon sunbed!

— I was having a social glass of wine on a night out with some of the lassies from the bingo, his ma protests in formal tones.

N that’s whit maist ay the evening consists ay: listenin tae thaime windin each other up. When we git oot, it’s brass monkey weather n ah dinnae feel like gittin oan the back ay yon bike. Ah’m almost tempted tae elaborate oan my porky pie aboot seein this bird in Dunfermline, tellin um ah’m gaunny meet her, then sneakin oan the 19 or 30 fae Halbeath Road, or even doon tae the station. But ah swallay hard and climb oan the back.

Kravy accelerates away that quick my bowels and hert are still in Dunfermline whin the outskirts ay the Beath ur comin intae view!

God, it’s great tae git oaf that fucker. Whin ah arrives hame, muh auld boy goes, — That gangster hoor, thon Tam Cahill, he wis oan the phone fir ye. Ye want tae keep away fae thon scum, thon’s a wrang yin.

— Thoat you wir intae gangsters?

— Gang sta’s son, thir’s a big difference.

— Aye, right, ah go, too tired tae argue, whit did eh want?

The auld boy forces oot some air as ehs lips purse. — Ah dinnae ken. Telt um tae fuck off.

— Ye didnae…

— Naw, bit ah felt like it, the auld man scowls at ays. — Dinnae be bringin trouble tae this hoose.

— It’s only aboot some stablework, ah tell um, raising they palms in appeal.

— Thir’s nae employment that’s stable right now, the hoor says, totally missin muh drift. — No fir the workin cless at any rate.

Well, ah didnae fancy another lecture oan politics oafay him, so ah flung oan the glad rags and opted tae go oot tae Starkers niteclub, owned by redoubtable Fife businessman, Eric Stark. When ah git thaire, the sign has been vandalised, the activity ay the Young Team ah’m wagerin, as the first ‘R’ hus an ‘L’ painted ower it. It’s an awfay young crowd. Thir’s two lassies sittin at a table aw made up n wi aw the slap oan it takes ays a while tae recognise thum as Roastin Wi Sweat n Soakin Wi Rain. One ay them waves at ays. — Ah ken you fae somewhaire, she threatens.

Ah fell like sayin, ‘Cowdenbeath, perchance?’ but ah sits doon cause tae muh surprise Roastin Wi Sweat looks the pert wi the warpaint oan. It wid take ah few mair nips inside ays before ah’d plunge thon pork bayonet intae that Soakin Wi Rain, but. Hobbies include: pregnancy, cigarettes and daytime television.

— Did you no used tae stey next door tae Alison Broon? ah asks Roastin Wi Sweat.

— Aye. Her wee sister Evelyn used tae be muh best pal.

Wee Evelyn, wi the braces oan the teeth. Doaktir Lecter, ah used tae call her; only in jest but, ya hoor.

— Thoat ah wis yir best pal, Soakin Wi Rain cuts in, really pit oot.

— Aye, but she used tae be, but. Yonks ago likes, Roastin Wi Sweat hastily pacifies her.

Ah’m thinking aboot they braces again. Wonderin if the grown-up Evelyn could be induced tae wear thum in a one-off, purely fir the purposes ay giein oral pleasure, ya hoor. It moves ays tae enquire, — Whatever happened tae wee Evelyn Broon?

Roastin Wi Sweat takes a fag oafay Soakin Wi Rain n lights up. — She went ower tae Canada wi Alison n her man. They sponsored her. Think she’s goat a felly now, ah ken she’s goat a bairn.

— What aboot Alison?

— Last ah heard she hud three bairns, Roastin Wi Sweat goes n Soaking Wi Rain nods approvingly.

— Aye, jist goes tae show, eh. So what aboot you ladies? Any of youse enjoying that fine institution of motherhood?

— What? Soakin Wi Rain goes.

— Youse goat bairns?

— She’s goat two, Roastin Wi Sweat points at Soakin Wi Rain whae glows in a bovine pride.

She’s giein me the look like ah’m now supposed tae say ‘ye dinnae look auld enough’. — Whaire ur they the night?

— Muh ma’s goat thum, she says. Then she screws her face up and goes to her mate, — Watch muh coat, um gaun fir a pish.

As she departs Roastin Wi Sweat turns tae ays n discloses, — She’s up the duff again. It’s his, she grasses, pointin ower at this wee guy fae the Young Team, whae isnae that wee. In fact, eh’s a monster; shaggy black hair, a white shirt and a bottom drawer ay a chin hingin open tae catch any stray flies. — Big Craig thaire. He screwed her when they wir baith steamin in the perk. That’s three bairns wi three different fellays, Roastin shakes her heid in somethin like disgust. — Ah mean, ah want bairns, but wi jist one nice felly, whae wants tae be wi me. She takes a drag oan her fag, and looks around hopefully. — That’s no too much tae ask, is it?