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

It wis a weel-attended do, right enough, ya hoor sor. Kravy might huv turned ays back oan the Beath but the Beath nivir turned its back oan him. Besides, naebody likes tae see a young cunt die. Nae Spaniards made it ower, but thir wis stacks ay wreaths sent through Interflora n loads ay touchin messages oan Jenni’s email, which she goat printed oaf n stuck in a folder wi a big Spanish n Scottish flag oan the front, which she then presented tae ehs ma. Ah huv tae hand it tae wee Jenni, she played a blinder. She wisnae pleased at aw at huvin tae approach Jakey Anstruther, especially wi upset aboot her perr hoarse huvin jist kicked it, but she helped ays git the auld minister oanside.

The boy’s sermon wis the undoubted highlight ay proceedins. Ah hud tae git um a wee bit tanked up first, but no sae much that eh widnae be able tae perform. Whin eh staggered up tae the lectern at the chapel ay rest, ah feared the worst. — Hullo… eh slurred. — Gid tae see yis aw… one or two auld friends… n some strangers…

Thir wis a deathly silence. Kravy’s ma looked at ays fir a second or two. She wis still nipped that the heid hudnae been recovered, so thir could be nae open-casket viewin. Hud tae keep it fae her; couldnae lit the woman see the maggots eatin intae um. Jakey, though, soon started tae find ehs stride.

— The aulder yin gits the less yin is taken by aw this churchy shite. It’s aw driven by fear; thon fear that wuv no been guid enough tae git selected fir the trophy-winnin team n need tae stey in a satanic version ay this doss. But Ally Kravitz wis nivir plagued by they fears. They cried him a free spirit, but what in the name ay sufferin fuck is that? Ah cry him a Fife spirit, eh bellows, now it’s like the auld felly’s never been away fae the pulpit. Ah saw a tear run doon Mrs F’s cheek at that yin.

The nods ay approval ur enough tae send Jakey intae oratory hyperdrive. — Think aboot this coonty, a place what gied the world capitalism, and yit wis one ay the first places tae realise thit capitalism wis shite and steadfastly opposed it. For mair thin any ay they Weedgie chancers wi thir Paddy-teuchter pish, or they snobby English connivin Embra hoors, this coonty is a microcosm ay the true spirit ay Scotland. N Allister Kravitz, a bold, internationalist laddie ay passion n soul, wis, ah’ll declare, a microcosm ay this damned coonty, a place thit yit might huv the key tae baith global and national salvation within its borders!

Kravy’s ma is smiling through her tears and the place is now a furnace ay emotion. — Ah want yis now tae pray fir the soul ay Ally Kravitz, especially if ye urnae given tae prayer. Cause ma God might jist listen tae ye! Ma God will be seek tae fuck ay hearin the same voices; askin um fir a new car or hoose or speedboat, or tae endorse another fuckin barbaric war fir eyl!

Thir’s a huge cheer echoes round the chapel ay rest. Even the Iron Duke’s goat a tear n ehs eye, ah swear tae fuck. Ah cannae see Call-Centre Comorton, but it’s ma belief thit the revisionist wee Tory cunt is hudin ehs dippit heid lower thin a snake’s erse right now. Jakey’s still daein ehs nut n aw. — Ma God wants a bit ay a fuckin change, n eh wants tae hear fae somebody whae wants nowt in return except they wee things wi cry liberty, justice n equality! eh roars, then wheezes a bit, takin a swig ay Buckie tae calm um doon. — Jesus fuck almighty, eh smiles, — ah’d forgotten how guid it wis tae be up oan this pulpit wi a fuzzy heid fae the night afore n bolstered by a few drams ay the Deevil’s elixir. It’s in this state — jist a baw hair fae demonic possession — that ah feel closest tae Oor Saviour, n ah’m talking aboot God, no that wanker Jesus fuckinerse Christ. N as a last broadside against they snooty cunts doon in George Street, ah’d like tae thank Jason here, fir giein ays the opportunity tae stand n dae this at a Fife pulpit in honour ay yin ay its finest sons, Allister Graham Kravitz. Ay-fuckin-men, ya hoor, sor.

N eh steps doon tae a massive applause and a standin ovation that goes oan till eh left the chapel, as the coffin went doon.

Ootside, it’s me n Kravy’s ma sayin thanks tae the mourners. — It wis Jason, ah hear her say tae muh auld man, — he wis the one that made the whole thing special.

It’s back tae the Miners’Welfare fir the do eftir; sausage rolls, egg n cress, fancy cakes, tea, whisky, the fuckin loat, wi pit oan a guid spread. The wee collections in the toon’s boozers peyed fir it aw. Jakey is in ehs element; people ur plyin um wi drink, telling um tae stert ehs ain church; a real Church ay Scotland. N it hus tae be said, eh’s scrubbed up well fir the do. Thir’s nae whiff oaf ay um but wino n eftirshave. Ah wrap an airm roond ehs auld shoodir. — Ye took the words oot ay muh mouth, ah telt him. How dae ye follay thon?

Jakey winks at ehs. — The laddie might huv been a fickle, drug-dealin hoormaister, but, n here’s whaire it gits crucial…

Ah join in chorus: — Eh wis oor fickle, drug-dealin hoormaister!

Jakey laughs n ah pat um oan the back again. — Whit ye gaunny dae, Jack? Ye canny sit oan that bench the rest ay yir days.

Eh gies a wee shrug. — No that bad a place tae be, Jason. Still goat the C of S pension. Huv tae confess thit since ay loast yon tenure ay the Manse things huv been a bit slack.

— That wis ower ten years ago, ya hoor.

— Eleven n three months, son, and it’s flown like a hoor’s bloomers off a washin line in March. But what can ye dae against the Calvinist repression ay the Kirk?

— It wid huv helped if ye believed in Jesus Christ, though, Jack. They wir bound tae git upset wi that.

— Nonsense! Very few ministers, when ye get them on thir ain, will admit tae believing aw that Christ-wis-the-son-ay-God garbage, eh snaps in scorn. — Wi aw huv tae go along wi this Hans Christian Andersen-Lewis Carroll shite world view tae appease the brainless elements, but maist ay us are educated enough tae ken that’s jist wee bairns’ nonsense. Besides, it wis the hoorin thit finished wi me n the Church, no a disbelief in some moanin-faced auld hippy!

Ya hoor, ah wis nearly compelled tae rise tae Cat Stevens’ defence thair, till ah realised eh wis talking aboot that other cunt. Ah wis intrigued tae ken a bit mair, but eh wis gittin loud n thir wis duties tae attend tae, so ah made ma excuses n mingled.

Mrs F, as wis her due, goat a wee bit drunk n emotional, n the auld boy wis gallant or opportunistic enough tae take her hame (delete tae taste, ya hoor), nae doot keeping a guid tight hud ay her gaun doon they steps ay the Welfare.

So later ah hud thum back upstairs at mine; me, wee Jenni, the Duke n Neebour Watson, wi the remains ay Kravy in the urn, well, maist ay um. Aye, the open casket wis nivir gaunny play. Snooty wee Lara nivir showed up fir some reason, Jenni reckons she wis oot wi thon Big Monty cunt.

— This is sick, Neebour Watson goes, as ah mix up some ay the boy’s ashes wi the coke n speed n rack up the lines oan ma copy ay Tea for the Tillerman .

— Sick yir minging furry hole, ah retaliates, savourin the delicious feedback ay a sexy wee giggle fae Jenni. — Kravy wis a free spirit; he wid huv goat aw the New Age significance ay wir ceremony, ya hoor, ah explain tae thum.

— I think it’s so beautiful, Jenni says, squeezin ma thigh, n thir’s a wee bit ay blood rushin tae the auld hee-haws here. — I wish I could have done something similar for poor Midnight.

— Ye cannae compare a hoarse wi a human being, the Duke goes.

Wee Jenni shakes her heid emphatically. — We all love beautiful souls, primal souls, whichever vessel they’re housed in, she says. Sweet wee chick, but mibbe a wee bit oan the doolally side. Kent ay should huv gone the fill hog n pit thon new Marilyn Manson CD ah boat oan display.