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

Dobson the vet looks nervously at us and says, — I think I should be off. And I’m thinking to myself what a fucking good idea that is.

MINDFUL AY THE lessons ay previous abuse, ah took it easy in preparation fir the next roond ay the Scoattish. Ah goat a nice bit ay haddock fae Boak’s at the Central Perk market: protein, ya hoor. The laddie even dressed it up in breed-crumbs, so ah fried it up at hame, mine in a sanny on Sunblest, Lurpak, pepper n HP, in front ay Scotland Today , the auld man, a traditionalist, at the table wi ehs Pot Noodles oan the side, hummin yon 50 Cent’s ‘What Up Gangsta’ under ehs breath.

A double feast n aw, cause later that night Kravy treated ays tae a big curry at the Shimla Palace. The only time ah’ve been in whin it wisnae thir eat-aw-ye-kin Sunday buffet. Felt like a fuckin sultan whin ah got back hame. Fir synergy purposes, ah hud a guid auld ham shank tae some Asian porn, blawin muh load as the vindaloo still bubbled in ma belly wi the lager. Nae black gold or grinnin Scandinavian sirens wi a curry: a chap needs a sense ay propriety.

The next morning ah’m oan the back ay Kravy’s bike n wir tearin through the Beath high street like a thirsty Kelty hoor oaf the backshift wid a six-pack. Wir gauny hit the trail fir Perth n ah feel like tellin the Kravitz laddie tae cool they proverbial jets, but it wid be an exercise in futility. Thankfully, eh does slow doon though, whin eh sees the twa lassies gaun past oan the hoarses.

— Better no spook they gee-gees, eh shouts, or something like thon as eh slows tae a halt beside the lassies.

— Hi, Lara (whae’s clad tae chug tae, by the way) shouts at us, — where are you off to?

— Perth, ah goes. — Goat a result. Common sense prevailed at administrative level n ah’m back in the cup. Gaunny progress fir the Kingdom, show thum whaes philosophy ay table fitba will win through in the end. When’s yir Borders tourney?

— Thursday, Lara goes.

— Might even take a wee jaunt doon thair oorselves, eh, Kravy, support the lassies, likes, ah ventures. Kravy jist shrugs non-committally. Eywis been a cool yin. Bit ye kin tell thit they dark, broodin looks huv goat the birds’ gashes fair waterin. N ah’m thinkin it widnae be a bad result if ah jist left the field clear fir him wi Lara, n concentrated ma efforts oan that wee Jenni Cahill lassie; peach ay an erse oan it! So ah says, — Ye headin doon then, Jenni?

— I’d entered but I’ve had to scratch. Midnight just isn’t ready, she says sadly. — The vet has even said he might not be able to jump in competition again.

— I’m sure he will, Lara smiles.

— Right, Kravy goes, — hud on tight, Jase, you’ve got a tourney to win, n eh kicks oot n wir tearin up the road n by the time ah’m relaxed enough tae look back the lassies n even the hoarses ur jist dots.

Ya hoor, ah dinnae like aw this swervin in n oot ay traffic oan the motorway! Thir’s nowt ye kin say but, ah jist try n think ay the next life, wonderin if thir might be some sortay arrangement whereby Fife becomes the new Sussex, a county ay affluence within the realm and Scots withoot sectarian leanings can sing ‘God Save the Queen’ wi an absence ay irony! N ma dreamin works tae an extent, bit whin wi stoap oaf at the Little Chef for a coffee b/w one ay Mr Kipling’s fir the sugar hit, ah’m shakin like a Hill ay Beath hoor thit’s been gittin pleasured wi a pneumatic drill insteed ay a vibrator.

— Ye okay, Jase? Kravy asks.

— Nerves, ah tell um, — no through bein oan the bike, ah lie, — ah’m an ex jockey eftir aw, well, trainee, bit it’s this forthcomin game wi Clarky. The boy’s good, n ah’m feelin the weight ay the coonty’s expectations oan they shelpit, roond shoodirs ay mine. Bit the better the stage fright, the better the performance, ya hoor.

Kravy looks deeply intae ma eyes. — You’ve goat the spirit, the soul n the passion. Eh’ll no live wi you, Jase.

— Steady on, ya hoor, ah sais, a bit embarrassed by the emotion oan display in the Little Chef. That’s the problem wi we bonnie laddies: cannae trust oorselves around sports. Ah think it wis the great bard Rabbie Burns that once said: ‘Cocaine n fitba mak homosexuals ay us aw.’ Or mibbe it wis this coonty’s ain Ackey Shaw.

Whin we rolls intae the ancient toon ay Perth, the sickenin wealth oan display makes ehs want tae git a squad roond fae Cowden wi a few vans, tae start instigatin oor ain form ay socialist redistribution ay loot. Fuck thon pie-in-the-sky promises the frocked n collared defenders ay the status quo advance (auld Jakey Anstruther excepted): lit’s hae it here and noo. But ah huv tae admit thit ah wis partial tae yon Salutation Hotel; mahogany wid everywhaire, as auld skill as a Kelty hoor that utters thon reassuring words ‘whin ye talk size in oor game, it’s eywis wad rather thin willy’. N ye’d hae tae huv a harder hert thin mine no tae appreciate thon portraits oan the waw ay several recent VIP visitors; Sir Bob Geldof, MPs Boris Johnson and Tommy Sheridan, Clarissa Dickson or whatever ye call thon fat yin that cooks, the yin that didnae die, n Frank Bruno. Nae Jason King yit, bit that yin’s impendin, ya hoor; aye, impendin.

N whin wi gits tae the Moncrieffe Suite, where aw the tables ur set up fir this round ay the contest, thir’s a buzz ay expectancy in the air. Pure sporting theatre! Ah’m stridin around, sizin up ma fellow gladiators whin ma hert twangs as ah sees the disgruntled collaborator Mossman, well in the Clark camp, rootin fir yon Perth cunt, ya hoor. Fuckin Dunfermline: the capital ay Vichy Fife. As ah head tae the toilet ah’m even treated tae Mossy’s wee stage-whisper tae Clarky, intended fir ma ain delicate lugs: — Ah hope ye annihilate that dirty wee jockey.

Ah turn tae Kravy in the bogs as wir sprayin the porcilin wi urine. — Did ye hear that Mossman cunt callin ays a ‘dirty wee jockey’? At least some ay us tried tae make wur mark in the world ay sport!

Kravy shakes it oot n zips up. — Ah thoat eh said ‘dirty wee jakey’, Jase.

— That’s awright then, ah goes, thinking again ay wee Jack ‘Jakey’ Anstruther, n hopin, in spite ay muh Marxist-Leninist leanins, that if thir is a god, then the hoor’s a Fifer rather thin a Perth cunt.

Bit fuck divine assistance: that Mossman’s ungracious behaviour wis aw the motivation ah needed. Ye could breeng in wi the likes ay him but Clark wis a different matter: the laddie hud some talent. Ma tactics wir tae play the passin game, retain possession, jist keep the Clark fellay away fae the table soas eh couldnae establish any momentum, thus frustratin the hoor. Ah kent the boy hud cavalier tendencies and thit eh goat a bit nippy if eh went too long without gittin a flick.

So ah did jist that; keepin the baw, no in situations ay threat at first, but slowly weavin muh men intae place, n waitin till ah wis in a good position afore any goal attempt. Muh first yin came whin ah deflected a shot oaf his defender (meant, by the way) tae take the lead. The second wis a long-range strike fae the midfield whaire the baw wis jist oan the shootin line n the player trundled intae the net eftir it. Ya beauty! The Clark felly showed ehs displeasure in thon second concede, knockin ehs goalposts n net aboot, forcin the ref tae huv a wee word.

Ah kept hud ay the baw n ran the clock doon, and it steyed at two-nil.

The cunt nivir even accepted my gracious offer ay a pint ay black gold at the bar eftir. The drink eftir the contest is the symbolic cup ay friendship; even Sir Alex and thon wee fuckin dago cunt’ll share a bottle ay rid wine eftir a game, win, lose or draw. Nae time fir thon unsportin behaviour.