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

— You going to come along to Bathgate with us? I ask Lara.

She bubbles back at me: — I can’t go to Bathgate… to some table-football game! Don’t you see! Everything’s ruined! And she runs across to Dr and Mrs Grant, collapsing sobbing into her father’s thin chest. Her mother strokes her hair, looking accusingly over at us.

— My God, she’s such an emotional retard! How old is she! I find myself squealing with sheer, unbridled delight, and utter shock. — What an outburst! I never, ever knew that she was such a daddy’s girl!

We go to take our leave and Jason waves and shouts over at them, — See yis, well! As we head to the car he says to me, — Never liked thon Doaktir Grant. Eh wis ey a right tight hoor wi they lines whin ah worked in the warehoose.

Climbing into the car, we set off for Bathgate. The second glass of champagne was a mistake and I drive slowly and with great deliberation. I keep thinking about something that’s been concerning me and I decide to raise it with Jay. — She was only fourteen when you went out with her. Wasn’t that a bit dodgy?

Jason does that crazy thing with his eyes, then hunches his shoulders back. — Whin ye pit it like that, mibbe it wis, but ah nivir saw it that wey at the time. Ah mean, thir wis nae hanky-panky, it wis jist a friendship brought aboot fae a mutual love ay the hoarse. Besides, she wis probably mair experienced thin me at the time!

That’s the amazing thing about Jason, he actually boasts about his celibacy. This marks him out from any other boy I’ve ever met. — I wouldn’t doubt that. I don’t mean it as a slur on you, Jay, but Lar’s always been a busy slut.

— Aye, but thir wis nowt like that wi us. The odd wee snog, but maistly, as ah sais, it wis the mutual love ay the hoarse thit brought us thegither. The rest wis aw platonic.

I look steadily at him. — She’d have fucked you back then if she thought you were up for it. I turn back to the road, then accelerate past a camper van. — She told me that.

I watch his eyes bulge out a little further as he sits in silence.

We get into Bathgate and on the Whitburn Road stands the rather imposing Victorian building, the Dreadnought Hotel, with its five spires and five bay windows. We go inside and a receptionist ushers us through to the nightclub, which is the venue for the semi-finals.

This guy Maxwell is the tournament favourite, and he’s brought a few supporters from Corstorphine with him. They wear maroon Hearts football tops with ‘Maxwell No 1’ in white letters on the back. However, some of the Fife boys from the Goth pub are over, and Jason’s dad is down with some friends. One of them is the old down-and-out minister, who seems to have got himself together a bit. I catch his dad looking at the confident, swaggering Maxwell, and saying to Jason, — Niggah don’ fool nobody. I can see the pussy in his eyes.

Jason doesn’t respond, just clenches his jaw.

The crowd is fired up. They’ve obviously been drinking, especially the Fife contingent. I change my mind about the disgraced minister as he slurs something I can’t understand at me. At least he doesn’t smell too bad, though. Jason is obviously nervous. — Okay? I ask.

— Ya hoor, ah dinnae want tae lit every cunt doon, he says to me, holding out trembling hands.

— It’s okay, Jay. Just do your best, I urge.

He nods tersely and heads to the table.

It’s a very tight game but Maxwell seems to be at the table more and Jason is finding it hard to keep possession. His jaw is tight in concentration, but he gives out the odd exasperated ‘shite’ or ‘fuck’. It’s just a hiss, really, and it’s at himself rather than his opponent, but the referee gives him some disapproving glances. Then Maxwell opens the scoring and there’s gloom and doom in the air from the Fife camp, as several overweight, bespectacled guys in maroon tops jump around.

Then suddenly, Jason is awarded a penalty, which Maxwell hotly disputes. Jason converts it and we all go crazy, setting up a chant of ‘Blue Brazil, Blue Brazil, Blue Brazil…’, which we’re told to cease by the officials. For the first time, I realise, I really feel like I’m part of my town, like I belong. And that’s not something to be celebrated; in fact, it’s the saddest thing I can think of: enjoying myself with a bunch of strange permanently pre-adolescent misfits at a table-football tournament. And worse: I feel anything but sad at the moment.

— Eh’s takin a pummellin, but, his friend Colin Watson, or ‘Neebour’ as they call him, whispers in my ear. But Jason’s goalkeeping is inspired and he makes several brilliant saves as Maxwell’s shots rain in on his goal. They go into extra time and still can’t be separated. It comes down to the penalty shootout.

At first I thought I was imagining things, but now I’m sure that Maxwell’s been staring at my tits before and during the game. It has to be the case; I’m the only female here. Inspired, I take off my jumper. Underneath it I have the sleeveless T-shirt and the Wonderbra, showing the rack off at its best.

I’m standing behind Jason, who’s positioning his keeper for Maxwell’s penalty. I can see Maxwell looking from me to the goal and back to me. I look straight at him and slowly lick my lips. He shoots, and Jason saves! I make sure I stay behind Jason as he converts to Fife cheers at the other end. Already, the poor Corstorphine lad is almost in tears at what he perceives as the injustice of it all. — This is nae wey tae decide a place in the final ay a major tourney, he bleats. — It’s a joke!

He scores his next one, but he’s still disconsolate, as Jason converts to go two-one up. Maxwell seems to sink into a seething depression and the referee urges him to take his third kick. He thrashes it and it rebounds straight off Jason’s keeper and bounces right down the table. After a cheer, there’s a ghostly silence, then a roar as Jason coolly converts, punching the air, and it’s three-one. Chants of ‘so fucking easy’ come up from the Beath mob, only to be silenced by officials making disqualification threats. We all shut up.

The referee gets the broken Maxwell to take his fourth. He needs to score his last two and hope that Jason misses his last pair, just in order to force more penalties. Maxwell scores, and it seems to energise him as he forces his face into a twist of defiance. It’s now in Jason’s hands. This for the game. Our hearts sink as he blasts high and wide.

Maxwell goes up to the table. I’m right over the defending Jason’s shoulder, looking at Maxwell. He won’t look at me. I wait till he goes to take the flick and I quickly pop out my breast, hoping that the umpire doesn’t see. As my cleavage is hastily secured the ball flies wide and the Fife crowd celebrates, with chants of ‘Blue Brazil’ filling the air, and Jason is in the final of the Scottish Cup!

He gets up and shakes the hand of the referee, then the disconsolate Maxwell, who reluctantly proffers his mitt, but can’t look at him.—A wee announcement, Jason says suddenly, raising his voice, as shushing is urged by the Beath boys, and the crowd falls silent. — Ah’m no gaunny take part in the final ay the Scottish Cup. He shakes his head to incredulous gasps. — It’s up tae youse what ye dae, he says, turning to the officials. — Ah hereby forfeit this game in favour ay ma very gifted opponent, Murray Maxwell. And ah take the opportunity tae wish Murray all the best fir the final.

Maxwell is walking away, shaking his head. A fat guy tries to lift his arm, but he brushes it off.

An official comes up to Jason, obviously panicky. — But this is most irregular, Mr King! We at the East of Scotland Table Football Association—

Jason cuts him off. — Youse at the East ay Scotland Table Fitba Association need tae git laid. It’s a bairn’s game fir retards. Grow up, ya fuckin tubes!