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

Author:Irvine Welsh [Welsh, Irvine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781407018102
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2014-05-11T11:25:08+00:00

Kingdom of Fife

1.

JASON AND SEXUAL JEALOUSY

YA HOOR, SOR; the conversation in this place wid make a pornographer blush. — You ken Big Monty, it’s no as if eh isnae well hung or nowt like that. Eh’d goat a hud ay that crystal meth fae some boy in Edinbury n it wis up like two fuckin cans ay Tennent’s, yin oan toap ay the other; his words, no mine, the Duke ay Musselbury says aw sagely, liftin the pint ay Guinness tae ehs lips n takin a swallay. Thir’s a ridge ay foam, or cream as the Porter Brewery chaps in Dublin wid like ye tae think ay it, hingin fae the dirty ginger mowser oan ehs toap lip. Early Seturday n we’re the only cunts in the Goth, wur local boozer. Great place, the Goth, an awfay warm howf, wi aw thon mahogany-coloured wood everywhaire. Thir’s a big screen opposite the bar for the fitba, usually just Scottish (borin, only two teams kin win), or English (worse, only one team kin win), bit they sometimes show Le Liga or the Bundeslegia. Thir’s a big partitioned pool room at the side, surrounded by gless, makin aw the bams in thaire look like goldfish.

No thit thir’s any in the day. The hale high street’s as deid as a Tel Aviv disco flair. Means thit the Duke’s goat a captive audience ay two fir ehs tale. — Bit eh’s cowpin ewey at this piece n she’s no jist takin the fuckin loat, it’s rattlin oan the sides, man! This is yin dirty hoor, wider thin the fuckin Nile, ya cunt. Aye, dinnae talk Mississippi tae me. So eh pills oot n turns ur ower n whaps it tae ur up the fuckin chorus n it’s as tight as a drum n eh’s gittin a decent ride oot ay it at last. The Duke lits oot a wee belch n settles ehs beer oan the bar.

— Phoa, ya cunt, thit ye are, says Neebour Watson, takin oaf ehs silver-framed specs for a wee polish.

The Duke ay Musselbury’s fair shakin yon big, baldy napper ay his; ehs ginger ponytail’s whippin acroass ehs back. — Naw bit, wait till ye hear this: it’s a fuckin total miscall, man, cause this bird’s been oot oan the fuckin peeve fir a few days ehrsel n as soon as ehs fuckin knob’s in her choc-boax aw this diarrhoea’s right under ehs foreskin, like fuckin chip shoap sauce, nippin away at the cherry n that, eh.

Ah sees the Neebour Watson’s eyes starin tae water under they specs, fair cascadin away n aw: like the contents ay a hoor’s gash at the end ay a line-up.

— She’s tweakin oan the crystal n aw, the Duke explains, — gaun fuckin mental, n she sais tae um, ‘Ah’ll fuckin bend it, ah’ll fuckin brek it oaf ye,’ n she’s backin intae the cunt n it’s like yon irresistible force n yon immovable object, eh.

— What happened? the Neebour Watson asks, pickin a bit ay crust ootay a nostril.

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