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

— Mr King — the official briefly blusters, before walking away, shaking his head in disgust.

Jason’s dad grins and looks at his son in admiration. — Ain’t cutting no deal with that muthafuckin DA, he shouts. Neebour and the Duke are looking at each other, nodding in agreement. Everybody in the Fife squad laugh, as the Corstorphine lads hang their heads and start to sneak out.

I see Maxwell turning away, shaking off the overtures of another official. — I’m no taking part in this disorganised crap, he spits. — You let people into this tournament who bring it into disrepute! I lost under the association rules! It’s over, do you hear?! Over!

In the pub across the road, Jason’s dad approaches with some drinks he’s got up. — Well done, son.

— Aye, ah held ma bottle in the shoot-oot, Faither.

— Naw, son, thon speech, he says, all misty-eyed, and the disgraced minister nods in approval. — Pure James Connolly or John McLean. A sort ay ‘I stand here as the accuser, not as the accused’ speech fae the dock, pittin authoritarian structures oan trial in thir ain fuckin coort, he turns to me, raising an eyebrow, — if yis’ll pardon my French. Aye, he says to Jason, — ah saw the spirit ay Auld Bob Selkirk and Willie Gallagher thaire, son. The very spirit we need tae turn yon so-cried Kingdom intae the fully-fledged Soviet Socialist People’s Republic it wis destined tae become!

Jason looks at the dirty reverend. — It wis Jack here that wis the inspiration, he says, and the drunk ex-man of the cloth beams.

We slam our pint glasses together and toast the forthcoming communist revolution. If my father could see me now!

SO AH’M BACK in the morn and it’s a nippy heid wi aw last night’s champers n lager: the tipples ay the workin man n wummin. But even though ah’m ridin ehs lassie, thir’s nae escaping merkit forces: Tam Cahill still wants a fill shift in the stables. Ah’m graftin like a hoor servicing a trainload ay tweakers, only the odd glad eye fae Jen brightenin up the day.

But we couldnae believe it whin the RSPCA boys showed up at the Cahill hoose n opened the back ay the van. There wis auld Ambrose in a cage, but still wi thon bit ay driftwid in ehs mooth! Eh widnae lit it go!

Evidently the daft mutt jist kept swimmin, driftwid wedged intae they jaws like a hoor’s haund intae yir pocket, n the current fae the tidal Firth took um as far as Leith whaire eh washed up. The polis n the authorities wur alerted by a lone angler whae saw um paddlin, cream-crackered, intae Newhaven harbour.

So Tam Cahill’s gaun, — That’s him! That’s muh boy! N they opens the cage n the dug ignores um, jumps oot n bounds ower tae me droapin the bit ay driftwid at ma feet.

Ah bends ower n pats the laddie’s heid. — There’s a boy, there’s a boy, ah goes n looks up at the rest ay thum.

— He never let thon bit ay wid oot ehs sight, even when he was eating, one RSPCA man, a boy wi a military tash, goes. — Woe betide ye if ye tried tae take it oaf him!

— Aye, ah looks roond nervously, — ah used tae chuck um things tae fetch.

Tam disnae notice but, eh jist goes doon n leads up the dug.

The other RSPCA boy, a clean-shaven hoor, goes tae Tam, — Those scars on his face and body, sir, how did he come by these?

— Mauled by Rottweilers, Tam tells them sadly, and this cunt is yin plausible hoor, ah’ll gies um that. — Two ay thum set upon him in Dunfermline Glen; the mess they made ay him. Eh turns tae the dug as if lookin fir backup, — Thought wi wir gaunny lose ye… again, ya wee rascal! Aye, they fair made a mess ay um, eh, boy? eh sais sadly, then turns tae the uniformed men. — They pit thum doon, of course. It wisnae the dugs’ fault; ah blame the owners.

The clean-shaven RSPCA boy disnae look impressed, mind you.

Tam seems tae recognise this and changes tack, gaun intae ehs wallet. — Right, chaps, how much is it ah owe yis?

Clean-Shaven shakes ehs heid. — It’s all part of the service.

— Then it’s an excellent service, neebs, Tam says, — but what aboot a wee drink oan me? Ah really cannae thank yis enough for finding him and bringing him back tae ays.

Clean-Shaven looks at ehs mate Tashy for a second. The hoor looks like some cunt’s rammed a white-hoat poker up ehs erse. — Thank you, sir, but there’s no need. However, if you want to make a donation to the RSPCA, that would be most welcome.

— Coont ays in, Tam beams in contentment.

— Unfortunately, we can’t take cash here, Clean-Shaven says, — but we do have forms for you to complete.

— Right… Tam says deflatedly, cause the cunt kens that ehs been huckled!

Tashy goes back intae the car and comes oot wi a set ay forms which Tam fills in, ehs jaw droapin a wee bit, then the boys take thum n jump back intae the motor n speed oaf.

Once thir oot ay sight Tam boots the dug in the side n perr Ambrose lits oot a sad yelp, n cowers away. — See what you’re costing me, ya cunt! Fuckin twelve quid per month on direct debit! He wellies the perr boy again n muh hert rises tae muh mooth.

Jenni jumps across in front ay um. — Fucking leave him! You did that to his face, at the dogfight! I know because I was there!

She picks up Ambrose’s leash. Tam’s just standin thaire, glaring daggers at me.

— What? ah goes, in appeal. — Ah didnae take her. Ah’ve no been tae any dugfight in ma puff!

— Let’s get away from this psychopath, Jenni shrieks and pills Ambrose doon the path n ah look back at Tam, shrug n follay.

— Whair ur you gaun, lover boy? You’ve goat work tae dae!

— Sorry, Tam, ah’m wi Jenni, ah say, and ah feel a bit bad cause it’s goat tae be said that Tam’s treated me awright.

— Fuck off then! Pair ay yis! See how long ye last without me peyin for everything! Fuckin parasites, the lot ay yis! N eh turns n heads back intae the hoose.

Jenni’s takin Ambrose tae the car n ah’m followin. It hus tae be said thit ah’m happy tae get in as ah dinnae fancy stickin roond here wi him in that mood. Naw, sor, ya hoor. Jenni starts up the motor, n pulls oot ay the drive. Whin wi hits the road she says, — He’s an animal. I have to get out of this place now. We have to take Ambrose with us or he’ll go the same way as Midnight!

— Aye… lit’s git back tae mine. Ah’ll say goodbye tae ma faither. Tell um wir away. Tae Spain!

— I can’t fucking wait, Jenni hisses, then breks intae a big smile. — Oh Jase, it’ll be so fucking excellent!

We drive intae the toon for a bit, stoapin at the offie fir a wee boatil ay champers tae celebrate. Headin back oot ontae the street, wee Jack Anstruther’s there, lookin a bit pished, but definitely smarter in ehs appearance. Showin ehs face in the Goth a lot, by aw accounts. — Awright, Jack? Mind ay Jenni?

— I certainly do, eh smiles, n lifts her mitt fir a kiss oan the back ay it. Fair play tae her, she manages tae maintain a smile. A lassie pushin a pram passes ays, n Jenni lits oantae her n thir soon bletherin. Just then, the Neebour Watson comes intae view, carryin what looks like a box ay tools.

— Awright, Neebour? Moonlightin?

— Jack, Jase, eh goes. Then eh moves in closer. — Ask nae questions n ah’ll tell yis nae lies, ya hoors.

Ah asks Jack in a low voice, — Ah nivir goat the real story as tae how the Kirk gied ye yir marching orders. It wis hoorin, right enough?

Jack shakes ehs heid in disgust. — Despite ma detailed citations ay scripture that made ridin hoors acceptable, it fell oan deef ears in George Street.

The Neebour looks outraged at this. — But no in the church, durin the Sabbath, in front ay the congregation!