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

— Eh nivir touched thum bit, jist hud a wank ower thum, Neebour sais, turnin tae me wi a big grin splittin ehs coupon. — Mind you, Jase, what did you huv tae dae fir um tae git that ban overturned fir ye? Your size ah’m bettin ye could’ve fitted easily intae they lassie’s clathes! Did eh huv a wank ower you n aw, ya hoor ye? Eh laughs, but eh’s starin at me and the Duke’s lookin wi serious intent n aw n ah’m thinkin: muh whole credibility and future in the Kingdom is determined by muh next response. It’s like huvin the baw in the shooting area oan the football table, the game’s tied n thir’s jist time fir this yin shot. Stey cool, Jase. — Nowt like that, ah goes. — Ah jist sucked ehs cock, that’s aw.

The Duke lits oot a volley ay laughter n Neebour does n aw, then pats ays oan the back n sais, — Ah widnae fuckin well pit it past ye; anything tae git that ban rescinded, eh!

— Ya hoor, ah wish ah’d hud the option ay suckin ehs cock or gittin dragged up, insteed ay haein tae listen tae the hoor gaun oan aboot proceedures and protocol and standards ay behaviour. Wid’ve been a loat less fuckin demeanin, ah kin tell yis.

Thir cacklin away n ah gits the round in. Bit that wis a narray escape, n ah wis tempted tae make another joke bit it’s best no tae owerplay the auld haund. It’s time tae look forward wi focus, and the main thing is thit ah’ve goat that Perthshire cunt Derek Clark in the next round. A hame tie n aw fir the laddie Clark, the venue bein the Salutation Hotel in the Fair City. St Johnstone v the Blue Brazil; mair thin a clash ay two individuals, toons or coonties. Nothin mair thin a desperate battle fir supremacy between two diametrically opposed philosophies ay life!

Bring it oan, ya cunts!

Neebour sterted gaun ower auld times, talking aboot the Horse ay the Year Show at Wembley Arena, when wi baith worked doon thair oan the caterin. — Caroline Johnson oan Accumulator; now there was a filly worth ridin.

Of course, ah’m moved tae reciprocate the inane grin oan the hoor’s coupon.

— Accumulator of course, wi bark in unison.

It fair gits me in recall mode. — Ya hoor ye, thaire’s me tryin tae dae muh best wi the grub n aw they posh cunts ur giein ays it tight. Ah mean ah ken the Hoarse ay the Year Show’s thir big bash n that but thir’s nae need tae git as wide as thon. The old colonel boy wi the tash started bellowin at me like eh wis muh auld man n it wis last orders at the Goth, ya hoor ye!

— Aye, some gey nippy fuckers thair, Neebour agrees. Ah nivir said nowt, ya hoor ye, but ah kin fuckin well tell yis ah wis straight tae that packet ay rat poison thit they’d pit doon in the stockroom, n ah goat chefin fir the Kingdom, did ah no, but.

Couldnae believe the read in the paper the day eftir:

Commander Lionel Considine-Duff, OBE CBE RN (ret) was discovered dead at his home in Belgravia in the early hours of this morning. His maid, who alerted police and ambulance services, found his body when she went to wake him for his morning breakfast. Considine-Duff had been complaining of chest and stomach pains following an enjoyable evening at the Royal Horse of the Year Show at Wembley Arena. Formerly a keen equestrian himself, he retired from political life after having suffered two mild strokes.

Political correspondent Arthur McMillan writes: ‘Buffy’ Considine-Duff was a knowledgeable, compassionate backbencher whose distinguished military and sporting careers meant that he was disinclined to climb to the top of politics’ greasy pole. Having previously been satiated with the demands of high office and the spotlight, Buffy was happier to stay in the background and serve. A tireless lobbyist for the oil industry, he also strived ceaselessly on behalf of his Wessex constituents. His personal life was colourful. Thrice-divorced Buffy was prone to admitting that the type of filly that gave him most pleasure invariably had four legs. When having quaffed a little too much of his favourite tipple he was prone to loudly exhorting ‘two legs bad, four legs good’ at anybody from the two-legged variety who incurred his displeasure…

N it went oan like that, so it did, ya hoor ye.

Ah sup the last ay the black gold and gie Ambrose a very gentle tug, and low and behold the boy’s oan ehs feet n wir oot the door. Goat the hoor eatin oot ay muh hand here!

DOBSON HAS JUST finished another examination of Midnight’s leg. The trot was too much for him, now he’s hobbling again. I phoned Fiona La Rue who came round straight away, then on her advice, I called Dobson. Now it’s not looking good. The vet’s face briefly crinkles in distaste as the horse excretes. Clifford the pony brays as Curran the pig (named by my father after the policeman who busted him for drink-driving) headbutts the back of his legs. — Will he be okay for the Hawick competition? I ask, knowing what the answer will be.

He looks sombrely at me, then at my father. — I’m afraid not. Look, Jenni, I’m sorry to say this, the words spill grimly from those rubbery lips in that hangdog face, — but I think we may have to face up to the fact that Midnight’s leg makes him unsuitable for showjumping. It’s a very high-impact sport, and it’s only going to make this weakness worse.

Clifford the pony makes a playful whinny, as if in celebration of the news.

My father has been standing over us; one hand stuffed into a pocket, the other pulling on a cigarette. Rolls of fat hang from his chin. It’s as if seeing him from this angle is showing me how much he’s aged and I now feel a strange tenderness towards him. Which evaporates instantly when he opens his mouth. — Telt ye, he says, shaking his head knowingly, a sneer cutting his face, igniting his features, pulling them north. — That hoarse is gaun naewhaire but intae Spiller’s pet foods.

I swallow hard and look in appeal to Dobson, who shakes his head in disgust. — He’s a perfectly healthy horse, Tom, there’s absolutely no question of him having to be put down. It’s only tendonitis, but he needs much more rest and another course of anti-inflammatories will do wonders. I would say, though, that competition jumping is very unlikely.

— So eh’s washed up, that’s what yir sayin? My dad looks aggressively at the vet.

— I wouldn’t put it like that, Tom, Dobson whines. — He might still be suitable for lighter use; pleasure or trail riding, hunter-jumper, dressage and such. It’s just that showjumping is very hard on horses and his leg has a weakness.

My dad flicks the cigarette out of the stable. — Dead wood, that’s what I call him. He shakes his head. Midnight looks so depleted, his eyes so sad, I almost want to scream at my father to shut up. — We bought him as a jumper, a competitor . Now he’s going tae be another parasite whae does nowt but drain resources, he says, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket and looking around in contempt.

Who the hell does he think he is? What does he know about horses?

— Midnight’s a Cleveland Bay, I protest, — they’re really carriage horses, I explain to the old fool as I stroke Midnight’s face and whisper calmingly in his ear. My dad and that pig, the one that’s supposed to be a companion, they spook him. It’s funny, but he’s okay around Ambrose the dog.

— Aye? Well, ah’ll mibbe buy ye a carriage fir um, he says facetiously, — then ye can dae they horse-drawn tours ay the Beath. That’s aboot his dead strength n you might even make some money instead ay spending aw ay mine on lost causes!

I’m outraged at his crassness and selfishness and all I can think to say is, — I didn’t ask to be born!

— It’s aboot the only thing ye huvnae asked fir, he scoffs.