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

— I hate these bullies. I wish somebody would put them in their place. All of them, n she’s lookin at me wi intent.

— Eh aye, nivir liked that Monty or ehs mate, ah goes weakly. But the thoat ay fightin Big Monty. Back at the skill ah’d uv raised they white pair ay hoor’s knickers up the figurative flagpole in the gesture ay surrender, afore ye could say Mixu Paatelainen. Big Monty, Wee Jason. The fitba player, the ugly, craggy centre half, versus the wee jockey. It wid be ‘attach yir teeth tae ehs baws n hud oan fir dear life’, like that nippy wee dug in the news thit saved its owner fae gittin mauled by a bear ower in America. Yir one chance in they circumstances, aye, ya hoor, sor.

Aye, they halcyon days back at Beath High. No that snobby wee Lara n Jenni went thaire but; bussed up tae St Lenny’s for Posh, Rich Bairns up in St Andrews. Mind ay thum climbin intae that Mrs Grant’s motor in they school uniforms. Ya hoor, ah used tae mind ay it every night!

WE’RE HEADING DOWN to Hawick in the car, following the horsebox driven by Dr and Mrs Grant, and containing Scarlet Jester. Jason was sweet to volunteer to sit in the back and let Lara and myself be up front together, not that I particularly wanted to be beside her.

When we get down to the showgrounds, we head to the tented marquee café to relax for a bit. Well, Jason and I relax. Lara goes up to get some coffee; she’s nervy and antsy. Jason’s been strolling around, checking things out, letting on to everybody. I saw him introducing himself to an old couple: — Hello, I’m Jason King, he says, flashing a toothy smile and extending a hand that they feel moved to take. I can’t stop sniggering at his antics, but perversely, he seems sincere enough. — Goat tae make an effort tae be social, likes, especially wi the auld folks. Thi’ll no be oan this planet much longer; aw that accrued wisdom gaun tae waste, he says sadly. Then he looks up at the blackening Borders sky. — Thir’s some big cumulus clouds ready tae pish doon oan thir parade. Hope Lara’s ready tae gie thon hoarse the ride ay its life, he winks at me.

I nudge him in the ribs and we both get the giggles, then go for a little stroll. I stop and say hello to Angela Fotheringham and Becky Wilson. Becky isn’t competing either. — To be honest, she tells me in hushed conspiracy, — it was all getting a bit too much like hard work.

— Tell me about it, I grimace, looking over at oddly nervous Lara, who’s networking like her life depended on it.

Becky and I swap numbers on our mobiles: hers is a new one. Jason is watching them depart. — Stop checking out their arses, I chide, — you’ve got a girlfriend now. At the very least I expect you to be subtle in your leering.

Jason looks sorrowfully at me. — Sorry, doll, force ay habit.

— Well, cut it out. You don’t catch me staring at boys’ packets, I tell him, ‘you don’t catch me’ being the operative part of the comment.

Poor Jason just says, — Right enough.

He’s such an innocent, deep down.

We come across a big, beautiful-looking bull at one of the shows. Its intelligent stare seems to unnerve Jason. — What’s up?

He shakes his head. — Yon bull’s giein ays some fuckin look awright; sly, evaluatin, wise. Last time ah saw yon expression wis the face oan muh ma’s fancy man in yon snobby wee hotel, ya hoor, he nods at the bull. — Ah ken you awright, Wee Arnie, ya cunt, he says. Then he turns to me and adds in conspiracy: — Yon look thit sais ‘it might be a good idea tae discourage Jason fae comin roond sae much’. Aye, aye, ah ken.

— Don’t be so paranoid, Jay, I laugh, grabbing his bony arse. — When you win at Bathgate tonight, I’ll fuck you senseless.

His eyes bulge out so severely it’s like a movie computer-generated special effect. — But what if ah git beat?

— Then you can fuck me senseless.

His jaw drops to compound the effect of the eyes.

The buzz goes around that there’s free champagne in the sponsors’ tent, so Jason and I are right across. We’re enjoying the bounty with restraint as I have to run Jay to Bathgate for the tournament, but Lara’s appeared and she’s still a suffering bag of nerves. I hear her going on to some toff about Princess Di. — The latest theory is that she was murdered because of her views on Palestine.

Jason’s picked this up and looks aghast. — What fuckin views oan Palestine? Git tae fuck! he snaps in irritation like a little terrier. Suddenly it’s all very testy between the two of them. The toff takes his leave, and not very discreetly either, swanning off in disdain.

— Thank you, Jason! Lara spits. — Do you have any idea who that was?

— Some hoor, says Jason, mimicking the toff’s arrogance and heading off himself, circulating like he’s to the manor born.

That’s my boy!

It becomes more than apparent that Ms Grant is not pleased with my choice of partner. — I’m trying to get in with the sponsors and you bring him along! She squeals as Jason shamelessly steals over to her uncomfortable-looking father and mother, engaging them in conversation. Dr Grant is looking away, while Mrs Grant is struggling with a pained face. What’s even more delicious is that I know Jason knows just how much he’s winding them up, and is thoroughly enjoying it! So am I.

— But he’s fun! I protest, enjoying her discomfort. The bruise has faded a bit, but you can still see it. Of course, I’d previously told her that it was completely invisible.

— You haven’t been, you know…? she asks.

I shrug nonchalantly. — I’m saying nothing, Ms Grant.

— You have! With a stable boy! With a failed jockey! A stalker midget, a drug addict… how horrible… Then she sees I’m not amused. — But Jen, you could do better. You’re so pretty.

— Don’t worry about me, I tell her. — I’m fine. I’m getting shagged. That was my big problem, remember? Well, problem solved.

— But Jason … he’s stalked us both all over the fucking country! Lara gasps.

I stare into her bruised eye. — Yes, I know that I don’t have your immaculate taste in the opposite sex.

— Gosh! Her hand instinctively goes to her eye. — It really doesn’t show, does it?

Then a voice booms through the tannoy, telling Lara to go to the paddock and ready Scarlet Jester.

— Maybe a little, I concede, — but it’s really nothing to worry about.

She looks wanly at me, touching her face, and heads off in trepidation.

— Good luck, Ms Grant, I shout.

I have to hand it to Lara; she is a good horsewoman, and a gutsy competitor. In spite of everything, she pushes Gillian Scott all the way for the cup. But Gillian is gangly, spotty and an awkward mess out of the saddle. Her teeth are more prominent than those on any horse in the tournament. The television people go through the motions with her, but what they really want to do is talk to the sexy, feisty loser, Lara Grant. No, you can’t worry about our Ms Grant. She’s a Nazi monolith and some day she’ll rule the world. But I have to admit to being concerned when she comes storming up to us, in a real state of agitation. — It’s a disaster! she shrieks, tears in her eyes.

— Second to Gillian Scott isn’t a disaster, Lara. She’s won—

— No! The interviewer made a joke about my black eye! On camera!

— Thi’ll edit that oot, surely, Jason says, strutting over, champagne glass in hand. Lara’s bottom lip trembles and she breathes heavily through her nostrils like a snorting dragon. I doubt she’s ever hated anybody in her life as much as she detests Jay right now, although the TV presenter must come a close second. — Never mind though, second isnae bad, Jason says at that moment, and I have to stifle a chuckle. — Better tae huv fought n loast, that’s ma stance. He turns to me with a thoughtful nod, his bottom lip curling out. — Onywey, we’d better be shootin oaf, if yi’ll pardon the expression!