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

Ah’m thinking thit in this place, ye might as well wish fir the fill set ay lottery numbers.

Anyway, the stink ay desperation is social bromide, so ah move oaf patrolling the dance flair in search ay better prospects. Maist huv been sectioned oaf as Young Team property, bit. Every time ah try tae make eye contact wi something decent, a steely glint ay the type usually found sandwiched between two swathes ay Burburry check comes intae view.

Whin ah say thit the fanny isnae bitin, ah mean thit ah could be standin ‘starkers’ in an Edinburgh sauna wi a wad tied roond the wee fellay and ah’d still be oan a KB.

Ah git a bit humpty and order a lonely pint ay lager at the bar. Then ah hears this voice in muh lug. — Every cunt’s entitled tae a wee bit social exclusion, Jason, but there’s nae need tae monopolise it. Come and join us.

Ah turns roond tae see yon big Tam Cahill. Eh points ower tae the roped-oaf VIP section whaire some big hitters oan the Central Fife social scene are sittin gathered. Thir’s that boy Sammy F Hunter, him that wrote the science-fiction novel aboot the asteroid hittin Fife n nae cunt giein a fuck. That wis years ago, but jist whin ehs star wis oan the wane, along comes yon Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans n they call the cunt a visionary, sayin thit eh predicted exactly the American government’s response tae yon crisis! Thir’s a big Fife literary presence right enough; if ah’m no mistaken next tae Sammy we’ve goat the poet Ackey Shaw, reckoned tae be yin ay Jim Leishman’s greatest influences. Eh penned the pamphlet ‘A Hermless Cunt’ which the literary magazine Chapman gave positive reviews tae, aye sor.

Ya hoor, once ye go under yon rope ye step intae another world; a veritable galaxy ay champagne ice buckets, sunbed hoors n big deals talked, a wee bit ay Stringfellay’s relocated tae Fife Central.

— Jason King. Wur great white hope at the sport ay kings at one time, Cahill addresses the company. — Was formerly signed up to Cliff Redmond’s stable in Berkshire, right, Jason?

Ah hate this bit cause ah ey end up huvin tae explain why ah nivir ran, lit alaine won a pro race. What kin ye say whin yir life began at fowerteen n wis ower at eighteen?

— Aye, ah goes.

Fortunately, the onus is taken away fae ays as Tam Cahill turns roond tae Sammy F, n goes, — This man here wis an apprentice jockey n aw.

— Aye? Ah’m surprised, n the sci-fi scribe looks like he is n aw.

Tam pats the boy’s ample gut and goes, — An apprentice Jocky Wilson, that is.

Everybody hus a wee laugh, n ah’m thinking that old Tam Cahill isnae such a bad felly eftir aw.

I HAD TERRIBLE dreams last night. I curse myself and my stupidity and weakness with that Klepto idiot. I curse Lara, for getting me involved with scum like that. Most of all, I curse him. I won’t forget it either; one day, some way, I’ll watch the bastard squirm as I kick in his buck teeth.

I go downstairs to get some breakfast. I’m planning to head to the leisure centre for the kick-boxing introduction class. The steps are too boring, and I want to be able to punch and kick hard. It seems to be a required skill in these parts. I’m sitting at the breakfast bar and I start suddenly as I look beyond the partition into the lounge and see a figure rising in the semi-darkness from the settee. I’m about to scream, when I realise it’s that creepy wee Jason!

— Eh, hiya… he says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. — Ah met Tam last night… we eh…

My dad appears in the doorway, trussed loosely in his dressing gown. He rubs at his eyes. — Morning, he says in clipped tones.

— Ah, Tam… wis jist telling Jenni here how I was a bit the worse for wear the other night and you played the Good Samaritan and took me back here tae crash on yir couch.

— Aye, my dad says, suddenly becoming animated, — but ma charity isnae boundless, Jason. So once you’ve hud yir slice ay toast or whatever that garbage is, he looks at my high-fibre cereal, — you can git tae work muckin oot in thon stable. Sweat some ay that bad beer oot ay ye!

— Ah’m oan the case, Tam, he says, rising, — ready for a fill day’s shift!

Jason helps himself to some coffee I made, and a couple of slices of toast.

— So, you’re going to work in the stable, eh? I ask.

— Aye… Tam… yir dad, reckons that I’ve a good wey wi animals. Ah’m cleaning them oot, feeding the hoarses and takin that dug fir walks. Yir faither reckons he needs mair exercise.

This is a double-edged sword. I’m far from happy that I have another weird acquaintance of Lara’s hanging about, without me even being consulted as to who looks after Midnight, but I have to say that I’m delighted at all the time this is going to free up for me!

My dad comes back in, with Ambrose on the chain leash. — Aye, yir a proper Dr Dolittle, Jason. Ah need your skills with animals, son, and he hands poor Ambrose over to him.

— He’s a beauty, Jason says, warily taking the leash. He looks shocked at the wounds in the dog’s face. — What happened tae ehs coupon?

I’m about to say something, but I stop myself, remembering the tacit pact, of which, I suppose, this Jason is now a part. As my mum and Indigo come through, my father repeats the lie.

— A sair yin, Tam, fir the boy, likes, Jason nods.

Mum picks up her coat and takes Indy out to the car to run her up to school in St Andrew’s. I start to head out after them, but I decide to hang around outside the kitchen door.

I hear my father’s voice, low, conspiratorial. — Three-quarters pitbull, one-quarter retriever; a killer with intelligence. You huv tae look eftir him while I’m no aboot. Ah dinnae trust the missus, fuckin shite-for-brains, tae dae tae it right, n ah widnae trust him aroond the wee yin.

— What aboot Jenni?

— She’s no interested, he scoffs dismissively. — Aw she cares about is that scabby auld hoarse ay hers.

— Eh… awright, Tam. Ye mentioned something else last night? this Jason tentatively asks.

— Aye… see how ye go wi this yin first, his voice rises, and I can sense he’s coming back out, so I head into the hallway and slip out the front door. I see Lara coming by on Scarlet Jester. I’d forgotten that we’d arranged to have a session with Fiona La Rue at the stables. — Hi, Lar! I shout, moving over to her. Jason and my father have appeared on the doorstep behind me and are both waving at us or should I say her, then they look at each other, each of them suddenly seeming uncomfortable.

— Hi, Jen! Hello, boys, she smiles, getting down from Scarlet Jester and putting him in the stable beside Midnight and Clifford the pony. Curran the pig scuttles to the back of the pen and they all seem pleased to see each other. Except for poor old Ambrose, whom my father ties miserably to the post outside. Then he goes inside and Jason starts cleaning out the stable. Lara and I talk about the forthcoming Hawick show and after a bit we harness up the horses for a light canter across the field, but Midnight is struggling and can barely break out of a walk. I can tell he’s distressed as he pulls forward, tearing the reins from my grip, which he never usually does. We decide to stay here and Lara calls Fiona La Rue to reschedule. Midnight and I have to watch Lara and Scarlet Jester flying over the small jumps.

I take him outside the stable, keeping on his halter and bridle, and clip him to the posts with the horse ties. Removing the bridle, saddle and saddle pad, I start to groom him. With the hoof pick that hangs on the post by the ties, I do his soles, one by one, taking special care with that sore front left leg. A heavy snort tells me he’s in discomfort, so I leave it. I get the curry-comb and start rubbing in circular motions. He loves this and settles down into a steady rhythmn of breathing, dozing contentedly.