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

And he gives me a wee wink, which makes me blush.

I now realise that I was so wrong about him. To think I thought that he was just a sleazy wee pervert. He’s not; he’s excellent. Even more forceful on his next poem, Jason clears his throat, letting the chatter of the audience subside into a hush, then states with strident pride: — This yin’s called ‘Eulogy Fir Robin Cook’, whae last year, or wis it the year afore that, anywey, whae tragically passed away.

The crowd really seems to lap that one up, especially Jason’s dad, who is at a front-stage table with some of his friends drinking. He claps in a demented manner, whooping and cheering his son. — You is ma niggah! he shouts, pointing at Jason.

Ackey Shaw gets up and graciously says, — Excellent stuff from Cowdenbeath’s very own Jason King there, before launching into his own set.

After the event, Jason greets me at the bar, ordering drinks for us both. He opts for whiskies, not his usual tipple. He tells Ackey Shaw, who looks a little bit bemused, — One ay your best lines: whisky n freedom gang thegither, then announces, — Slainte!

People are coming over to congratulate him on his performance. His father seems to be holding back, then steps forward. — Ye made me proud up there, son, he says, all watery-eyed. Jason seems bowled over by this. — Well, ah’ve no eywis been a source ay that fir ye, Faither.

His dad’s eyes widen, and for the first time the father and son look very similar. — What d’ye mean?

— The jockeyin wis a failure. The hingin aboot here oan the dole. The lack ay interest in the political struggle.

His dad shakes his head sorrowfully. — Aw, son, ah’m sorry. Dinnae listen tae the likes ay me. These are different times. You always make ays proud, and he looks over at his friends, — me wi aw ma homies here n aw. Now you git oan through tae Bathgate the morn and git in the final ay that cup.

Jason’s face scrunches up in pain, like he’s eaten something nasty. — Faither, ah’m thinking ay blowin that yin oot.

— Whit dae ye mean, son?

— Wi reference tae one ay yir ain great literary heroes, Faither, Alan Sillitoe: The Loneliness ay the Long Distance Runner , ya hoor.

— A great book, son, his dad acknowledges as he hands me a pint of lager I didn’t even see him getting up. — Excellent film n aw; Tom Courtney, ah think ah’m right in sayin.

Jason nods at a settling Guinness, blackening up on the bar. — Aye, bit mind the central thesis ay thon work but, Faither: sometimes ye kin only win by no takin part.

I take a sip at the lager. It’s very gassy, but I can’t stomach that gut-rot Guinness Jason loves so much.

His father smiles at me, then nods back to Jason in enthusiasm. — Whin the odds are stacked against ye, optin oot ay the system is the only wey. Like the boy in the book that won yon race but refused tae cross the line. The ultimate rebellion, son, n yin muh man 50 Cent understands only too well, he says, and then asks in concern, — What you goat planned?

— Dad, Jenni n me ur thinking ay gaun tae Spain. Fir good, likes. Kravy’s got mates ower thair, Jason explains, — n ah’ve been in touch wi thum… on the Net, likes.

— Go for it, son! That’s excellent. His father takes a swig of his pint, gulping it back. — Ah wid n aw if ah hud ma youth, n if ah hud a wee belter like this yin, he smiles at me, — aye, ah’d be right oaf tae Spain in a flash!

I feel my face igniting in a smile. — Your dad is so sweet, Jason, I say, and Mr King goes a little coy.

— Ye’ll be awright oan yir ain? Jason asks in some concern.

A mischievous glint comes into his father’s eye. — Whae says ah’ll be oan muh ain?

— Aye?

His father winks and lets a smile mould his face. I notice that there’s something different about him. It’s the burn mark, it looks faded, but I can see he’s just put some cosmetic foundation on it. — Maybe this old niggah got moves too. Watch this space, but ah’m sayin nae mair except: oot ay adversity wi can find triumph.

— A sentiment ah hertily endorse, Faither, a sentiment ah hertily endorse, he says and puts his arm around me and we have a little snog.

— Enough ay thon! Mr King snaps. — Mind, this is Fife! Dampen yon ardour n buy yir auld felly a beer. Ah saw that boy slip ye a double score fir this gig!

— It’s my shout, I say, pushing up to the bar and shouting them up. Before I leave this town I want them all to know that I’m Jenni Cahill, not Tom Cahill the haulage guy’s daughter!

THAT WIS A great yin in Kirkcaldy last night, then ontae that perty in Glenrothes. Wee Jenni liked it n aw; hud plenty joints and even a couple ay lines. Glenrothes isnae Fife, but. They filled the place up wi Weedgies back in the sixties. Three tae fower generations doon the line thir still no assimilated intae the local population. Insteed it’s real Fifers thit gie it aw yon ‘by the way’ shite n swan aroond in Auld Firm replica tops. Some social experiments ur doomed tae fail here, like the preservation ay the native rid squirrel fae yon incomin American grey hoors.

Ah also git the wee notion thit Tam’s beginnin tae suspect that somethin’s cookin wi me n ehs firstborn, cause eh gies ays a call first thing in the morning. So ah huv tae head up early doors. Ah mind ay Jenni no being happy aboot cutting oot early, but she said she hud tae drive her ma tae the city.

Ah lits masel in the hoose wi the spare key Tam gied ays, hopin a might catch Jenni fir a wee grope and snog. But thir’s nae cunt hame; she’s already gone intae Edinbury shoapin wi her ma n yon wee spoiled Indigo. Thir’s a note n a pair ay car keys.

J

Decided to get train. Take car if you want.

So ah borrow her motor, thinkin thit ah’ll take the dug doon tae the seaside at Abby-Dabby, cause it’s a hoat yin awright, sor. Mair like a summer’s day!

The water wisnae even like thon oily pish thit ye normally git in the Forth Estuary, it wis St Andrews-style; cobalt blue and as calm as a well-shagged, wedged-up hoor wi hur purse in her drawers. Tae ma mind then, thir wis nae bother aboot flingin yon bit ay stick in; jist a wee bit driftwid fir the boy tae fetch. Cool doon the pantin beast, likes. Didnae want um gittin aw nippy in yon heat n takin a chunk oot ay some cunt’s weddin tackle. Like mine. Aye, ye kin git awa wi murder wi fower n a hawf inches by flingin hawf a dozen Bicardis intae the mix, but three n a hawf n ah’d nivir work again. No in this fuckin coonty any roads!

Aye, Ambrose is gaspin in yon heat. Felt fair sorry fir um, so ah did.

So ah picks up a long, slimy bit ay driftwid n birls n launches the fucker oot as far as ah could. Afore ye could say ‘Jim Leishman’ the dug’s flyin off intae the sea eftir it, bobbin up n doon, that retriever gene still active even eftir three generations, ya hoor ye!