by Irvine Welsh
— Spell ‘sir’ will you, Mr Galloway? eh asks.
— Eh . . . ah goes.
— Wrong! There is no ‘a’. Spell ‘sir’.
— S-I-R.
— Correct. S-I-R. Not S-U-R, eh sais. — Andrew Galloway . . . he looks at his watch. — Well, Mr Galloway, registration, as your associates tell me, commences at eight-fifty. Not eight-fifty-one. Eh sticks ehs watch in ma face n taps it. — Certainly not nine-o-six.
For a while ah thought that the cunt wis gaunny jist lit us go withoot giein us the web, cause eh’d been struttin aroond like eh’d made a big point. One ay us should huv sais ‘sorry sir’ or some shite like that, cause it wis like eh wis waitin oan us tae say somethin. Bit naw, we wir sayin nowt like that, no fir that wanker. So eh marched us intae ehs office. Thaire’s the web sittin oan the desk, it’s the first thing ah see. Ah goat a sinkin feelin in ma guts.
Blackie slapped ehs hands thegither n rubbed thum. Thir wis big chalk marks oan ehs blue suit jaykit. We’re standin in line. Ah’ve goat ma hands oan the radiator behind ma back, warmin thum up fir what’s tae come. Blackie gies the web sair. Eh’s rated one ay the top three behind Bruce fae Tecky n mibbe Masterton, the Science cunt, though Carl reckons eh’s hud it sairer offay Blackie thin eh did offay Masterton. — Our society is founded on responsibilities. One of the cornerstones of responsibility is punctuality. The late never achieve anything, eh sais, lookin at Billy, — in sport, Birrell, or in anything else. A school which tolerates lateness is by definition a failed school. It is a failed school because it has failed to prepare its pupils for a life of work.
Carl wis gaunny say something. Eh eywis speaks up fir ehsel, that cunt; yuv goat tae gie it tae um. Ye could see um, sortay hestitatin, gittin ready. Then Blackie looked at him, wi ehs neck juttin forward and ehs eyes bulging oot. — Do you have something to say, Ewart? Speak up then, boy!
— Please sir, Carl goes, — it’s jist thit thir isnae really any jobs now. Like where muh Dad works, at Ferranti’s, they jist peyed oaf a loat ay men.
Blackie looked at Carl in sheer disgust. The fuckin coupon oan the specky cunt; ye kin see thit eh thinks the likes ay us are nowt. That goat me gaun. — United Wire huv peyed oaf people n aw, sir. And Burton’s Biscuits oan the estate.
— Quiet! Blackie snapped. — You’ll speak when you’re spoken to, Galloway! Insolent young man, eh sais, lookin us up n doon like we wir sodjirs oan report. — There’s plenty of work for those that are prepared to work. Always has been, always will be. The lazy and the work-shy on the other hand, they will always find an excuse for their indolence and sloth.
Funny, but him sayin indolence and sloth made ays think ay Terry, n he’s jist aboot the only one ah ken whae is workin, even if it’s jist oan the juice lorries. Ah wis tryin no tae look at Billy n Carl, as though ah could tell that Carl wis startin tae snigger. Ye jist ken. Ah could feel masel gaun as well. Ah kept ma heid doon.
— What would have happened, Blackie asked us, now pacin up n doon, n lookin idly oot the windae, then pickin up the web oaf ehs desk n swingin it aboot, — if Jesus had been late for the last supper?
— Eh would’ve goat fuck all tae eat, Carl spat oot the side ay ehs mooth.
Blackie goes spare. — WHAA-AAT!! Who . . . who said thaatt . . . you . . . you . . . you . . . little animals! Ehs eyes jist bulged oot like the cunts in cartoons whin they see a ghost, like in that Casper. Eh starts chasin us roond the table swingin the fuckin lash. It wis like the fuckin bit at the end ay Benny Hill, n wi wir aw laughin like fuck, shitein it in a wey but laughin, bit then eh gits Carl n starts thrashin at um, and Carl’s protectin ehs face, but Blackie’s gaun mad. Billy jumped roond n grabbed Blackie’s wrist. — Let me go, Birrell! Take your hands off me, you fool of a boy!
— Yir no supposed tae hit um like that, Billy said, standin ehs groond.
Blackie stares at Billy, then lowers ehs airms n Billy lets go. — Put your hands out, Birrell.
Billy looks at him for a bit. Blackie goes, — Now! Billy puts ehs hands oot. Blackie gies him three, but no too hard. Billy disnae even flinch. Then eh does the same tae me, but no Carl, who’s rubbin ehs leg through ehs ice-blue Jam Tart Sta-prest whaire Blackie’s web caught um.
— Well done, lads. You’ve taken your punishment like men, eh went, aw nervous. The cunt kent eh wis oot ay order. Eh nodded tae the door. As we went oot, we heard him say, — Like Jesus would have done.
And we goat the fuck oot ay thaire n up tae the reggie cless before wi aw cracked up again. Up thaire the first thing ah saw wis Caroline Urquhart gaun oot the door. She’s no goat the broon skirt oan, it’s a long, tight black yin. Ah watched her go doon the corridor wi Amy Connor. — Rides, Birrell went. Miss Drew looked at us and ticked our names off in the register. Ah gied her the thumbs up and wi headed oaf tae oor clesses.
The Sporting Life
The first load ay them came oot ay Waverley. We wir sittin in the Wimpy opposite, nae colours, ’cept for Billy, whae’d taken the skerf oot ay ehs poakit n made a big show ay pittin it oan. Carl wis a Jambo, he wisnae bothered, but me n Terry never hud oor skerfs oan. — Take the skerf oaf, Billy, these cunts’ll be ower here, ah telt um.
— Fuck off ya shitein wank. Ah’m no feart ay they Glesgay wankers.
Birrell’s fuckin things up for every cunt. This wisnae whit wi agreed. Ah looks ower at Terry. — That wisnae whit wi said, Billy, Terry tells um. — These cunts’ve goat the numbers. Thir aw crappin bastards whin ye git thum oan thir ain, one against one. Bit they’ll nivir go fir that.
— This is the wey tae dae it, Carl said, — like they West Ham boys ma cousin Davie n ehs mates met eftir Wembley. They telt us when they went up tae places like Newcastle or Manchester, they never wore thir colours. That’s what we have tae dae: merge wi the Huns crowd, find some cunts who’ve goat the mooth and batter the cunts.
— Only a coward doesnae wear thir colours, Birrell goes, — ye wear them wi pride, even against aw the odds.
Terry’s shakin ehs heid, as eh clicks ehs lighter oan n oaf. Ye kin smell bevvy oan ehs breath. Eh said eh rode that Maggie lassie, n that shut Carl up fir a bit, cause he wis tryin tae git intae her. — Listen Billy, whae made that fuckin rule up? Glesgay cunts, wi aw thir Irish shite, the fuckin orange n the green. That suits thaim, cause they’ve goat the numbers. It’s easy tae be wide whin yuv goat fifteen thousand skerfed wankers behind ye. Guaranteed. Bit how many ay these cunts would want tae ken us wi even numbers? Answer ays that if ye kin.
This is Terry talkin sense fir once in ehs puff. Ah kin tell Billy’s listenin. Eh strokes ehs chin. — Awright Terry, but it’s no jist an Irish thing, it’s a Scottish thing, comes fae Culloden whin the English widnae lit us wear clan colours. That’s what your auld man wis sayin Carl, mind.
Carl’s noddin, rubbin the logo oan this plastic bag eh’s hudin. Ehs auld boy’s eywis tellin us aboot history n things, whin wir up at the hoose. Bit it’s no like the history ye git taught at the school, aw English kings n queens n aw that shite thit nae cunt’s bothered aboot.
— Aye, bit whae keeps it gaun? ah sais. — Terry’s right, Billy. It’s playin intae thair hands. They Orange n Celtic cunts are ey dressed like radges wi aw thir colours n badges n flags. Like wee fuckin lassies oan parade at the Leith Pageant. They swarm aw ower ye cause they ken every cunt’s gaunny jump in fir them. See whae wants tae ken when we go as a team and we’ll huv it wi the same numbers ay a squad ay them. Jist boys against boys, nae hidin in the crowd. N the beauty ay it is, the rest ay them willnae ken wir Hibs!
Billy looked at ays n laughed. — We kin spot a Glesgay wanker a mile away withoot colours. They’ll be able tae spot us jist the same.
— Ah dinnae see how ye kin check yir heid fir lice at distance, Terry laughed, n wir aw joinin in, then eh goes, — Mind youse, ah’m sure that bird in the film last night hud lice in her pubes.
— Git away, ah goes.
— Ah’m tellin ye, Gally, ye want tae huv seen this boot. Fucki
n hell. N the size ay the welt oan the boy thit wis giein her the message . . .
Terry eywis went tae the Classic up in Nicolson Street oan a Thursday night, tae watch the dirty films. Ah tried tae git in once, but ah goat knocked back fir lookin too young. — Whit wis oan? ah asked.
— The first yin wis called Hard Stuff, the second yin wis I Feel It Rising. Bit we steyed oan fir the late show, Soldier Blue. Fuckin barry film.
— Ah’ve heard thit Soldier Blue wis pish, Billy sais.
— Naw Birrell, ye goat tae see it man. The bit whaire they chop the bird’s heid oaf n it flies intae the screen, ah thoat it wis gaunny land in ma fuckin lap.
— That wid huv knocked ye oot ay yir stroke whin ye wir wankin oan yir ain in the back row, Carl sais, n wi aw laugh.
Terry shuts um right up though by singin a bit ay that Rod Stewart song. — Oh Maggie I couldn’t have tried anymo-ho-hore . . . Then eh points at Carl, — She made a first-class fool outah you . . .
Wir laughin at Carl now, whae’s lookin oot the windae at some passin Huns. — Quite a few Soldier Blues oot thair, eh goes, tryin tae change the subject.
Terry ignores Carl n starts laughin ower at me, — Ah eywis huv tae tell this wee cunt aboot the films in the Classic. Ah’ll be daein it fir a while n aw cause it’ll be ages before eh looks auld enough tae git in.
Billy’s laughin at ays, n Carl is n aw, though ah notice he’s never tried tae git intae the Classic.
— Stroll on, Mr Lawson, ah sais tae Terry, — ah kin git intae the Ritz.
— Big deal, Mr Galloway. Yi’ll be fuckin shavin next. Then what? Spunk?
— Plenty spunk here, Mr Lawson.
— Jist lookin fir somewhaire tae pit it aw, eh goes, n every cunt laughs. Cheeky cunt. It wis eywis the patter tae speak tae each other like the teachers spoke tae ye. That’s minded ays aboot the Ritz though, a good time tae change the subject. — Naebody fancy gaun tae the Ritz this week? It’s goat that Zombies oan. A double-bill wi The Great British Striptease.
— Git tae France, Terry laughs, glancin oot taewards the windae, what dae wi need that fir? We’ve goat aw the zombies in the world tae pagger oot thaire, eh points ootside tae some passin Huns. — Then the night wi git intae the fanny up at Clouds n it’ll be the Great British Striptease right enough. Fuck the pictures, lit’s huv it aw fir real!
That goat me thinkin, then a chant of ‘No Surrender’ went up from the street ootside and my guts turned. Ah didnae ken whether ah wis intae aw this! — What aboot Dozo n that, whaire are they cunts? Look ower thaire! A tall guy wi long hair and a star V-neck jersey was draped in an Ulster flag. The cunt looked ancient. — Ah’m no paggerin wi a cunt that’s fuckin forty, ah sais.
Ah wis still fuckin fifteen years auld.
— Pagger any radge that messes, wee man, Billy goes.
— How did youse git oan this mornin, ah asked um, tryin tae change the subject again. Ah hate bein called wee man.
— Four-one, eh said.
— Whae fir? ah asked.
— Whae dae ye think? It wis Fet-Lor we wir playin. Thair pish. Ah scored yin. Alan Mackie goat two, eh sais, lowerin ehs voice.
Billy hud come fae the Setirday fitba. Eh played fir Hutchie Vale n eh wis the captain ay oor school team. Ah think eh wis a wee bit jealous ay the likes ay Alan Mackie though, cause eh’d signed S-forms wi Hibs yonks ago, but naebody hud offered Billy any contract. — Doogie Wilson take yir gear hame?
— Naw, ah gied it tae ma wee brar n jist came straight here, didnae want tae miss anything, eh sais, noddin tae me tae look at the next table, then ower tae Terry n Carl whae’re starin acroass.
It wis these two lassies sittin at a table acroass fae us. One ay thum’s awright, big teeth n long brown hair. Quite a tall lassie. She’s goat a rid hooded Wrangler toap oan. The other yin’s wee-er bit wi short black hair. She’s wearin an imitation leather jaykit n she’s smokin a fag. Terry’s lookin ower at them. They’re lookin back, laughin tae each other. — Hi, ma mate fancies you, eh shouts ower tae one, pointin at Carl. Carl wis cool though, eh didnae git a beamer. Ah would’ve.
— Ah’m fed up, no hard up, she sais back.
Terry pit ehs hand through ehs corkscrew hair. It’s really tight n curly, even mair thin usual, so ah’m sure that cunt’s hud it permed oan the sly. Eh looks awright but, in that dark-blue Adidas top n they broon Wranglers.
Ah feel a dig in ma ribs. — Dinnae you be shitein oot, Gally, Birrell sais tae ays, ehs voice aw low.
Cheeky cunt him but. — Stroll on, Birrell. It’s you thit’s fuckin well shitein oot . . .
— How am ah . . .
. . . — shitein oot ay the plan wi agreed. Wir gaunny fuckin git a couple ay wide cunts n have them. Wi wir even gaunny git a Huns skerf n wear it fir disguise, mind, ah sais. — That wis the plan wi agreed.
Billy shook ehs heid. — Ah’m no wearin any Huns skerf.
— Fuck that, Terry said.
Carl’s sittin thaire, waitin tae jump in. — Ah’m no bothered aboot wearin one. Ah dinnae want tae wear a Huns skerf, bit ah broat this, fir camouflage likes, eh sais, pillin a Rid Hand ay Ulster flag ootay ehs plastic bag.
Terry looks at ays, then at Billy, who’s right up n eh’s torn the flag fae Carl’s hands and pulled oot his lighter. Thir wis two blank clicks before Carl managed tae git it back eftir a struggle which wis gittin a wee bit nasty. — Cunt you, eh Billy, Carl goes, ehs face as rid as the fuckin hand oan the flag.
— Dinnae bring oot a Huns flag in front ay me, Birrell says, aw nippy.
Carl folds the flag up, keepin it oot ay Birrell’s reach, but eh’s no pittin it away. — It’s no a fuckin Rangers flag, it’s a Protestant flag. You’re no even a Catholic, Birrell, what you gittin oan tae ays fir a Protestant flag fir?
— Cause yir a cheeky milk-boatil-heided Herts wanker and yir gaunny git yir mooth burst, that’s what fir.
It’s a wee bit chilly here, Billy’s goat one ay they moods oan um. Terry turned away fae the birds and looked ower at him. — Cool it, Birrell, ya cunt, thir’s aw the Huns in the world tae pagger wi, dinnae start fightin each other.
— Jam Tart toss shouldnae be here, Billy goes. — Bet ye Topsy n aw yir mates fae the bus thit huvnae gaun away wi Herts’ll be here wi the Huns, eh sneered.
— Ah’m here wi youse, but, um ah no, Carl sais back.
As eh said that, ah clocked a team ay Huns, mibbe aboot oor age or wee bit aulder, come intae the Wimpy. We went quiet. Then they seen us, and they went quiet n aw. Ah could tell they wir lookin at Carl’s Rid Hand ay Ulster flag and Birrell’s skerf and tryin tae work it aw oot. Birrell wis starin back at thum. Terry wisnae bothered, he wis still lookin at they lassies. — You goat a felly? he shouted ower.
The bird wi the long broon hair n the teeth looks um ower. — Might huv. What’s it tae dae wi you?
Ah’m tryin tae git a wee sketch at her tits bit ye cannae make thum oot under that toap.
— Naw, cause ah’m sure ah saw you wi a felly at Annabel’s one time.
— Ah dinnae go tae the Annabel’s, she sais, but she’s lookin aw that chuffed n shag-happy wey back at um, n that cunt’s in thaire.
— Well it wis somebody thit looked like you . . . Terry’s up and squeezin in beside her in thair booth. That cunt isnae shy.
A couple ay the Huns start singing The Sash. These cunts’ll be as nippy as fuck, cause it wis oan the telly the other day thair that the Pope’s comin tae Scotland. No that ah gie a fuck aboot that. Ah do gie a fuck aboot they wankers gittin aw wide through here but. Birrell’s happy though, cause thir no lookin at him. — These cunts . . . wi dae these cunts, eh sais tae ays. Thir wis a guy wi a mohican n a rash ay spots doon the side ay ehs face, n a fat cunt wi blonde curls.
Ah felt the chib in ma poakit. Ah cut a cunt at the school one time, even if it wisnae really much ay a cut. Glen Henderson. It wis oot ay order, the boy wisnae bein that wide. Ah mind ay the cunt twistin ma airm back in the first year whin eh wis wi they cunts
eh’d been at Primary wi, so ah owed um, but really it wis me thit wis jist showin oaf this time. Ah hudnae meant it tae happen like that. It wis ehs hand, ah stuck it in ehs hand. Ah shat ma pants fir days n case it went back tae the polis, the teachers, or hame tae muh Ma. The boy Glen said nowt but. In a way it wis barry cause eftir it, that wis the first time Dozo Doyle or Marty Gentleman or any ay that team spoke tae ays. Bit ah shat ma pants still aboot what ah’d done. Here though, it would be different. Nae comebacks, jist some Glesgay cunt ye’d nivir see again. Ah dinnae like the idea ay cairryin a blade, no really, but every cunt kens these slummy wankers cairry knives. Mind you, half these glory-huntin cunts arenae real Glesgay, thir fae fuckin Perth n Dumfries n places like that, speakin in a fake Weedgie accent. They want tae be seen as Glesgay, soas that every cunt’ll think thir hard. Want us aw tae think thit thir aw like that boy fae the Special Unit or somethin. Ma fuckin hole. Naw, ah dinnae like cairryin a knife, but it makes ye feel good tae huv that extra back-up. Jist tae scare cunts wi like. — You take yir skerf oaf n ah’m game, ah’ll follay ye eftir thum, ah said tae Birrell.
Birrell ignores me n takes a paper plate n sets it oan fire wi the lighter, hudin it aw carefully, lettin it burn doon. Thir’s a lassie in a Wimpy uniform tidyin up, and she’s seen um, but she disnae seem bothered.
Billy’s gittin as wide as fuck. Eh’s rated the third-hardest cunt in our school, behind Dozo n Gent, ivir since eh battered Topsy in the second year. But ah reckon eh could take Dozo in a square-go, wi Billy bein intae the boxin n that, but ye nivir git a square-go wi the likes ay Doyle. Carl hated it when Birrell n Topsy hud that big pagger in the park, cause eh’s good mates wi baith ay thum.
— Billy, moan tae fuck, yi’ll git us flung oot, Carl moans, then turns tae me, — See this cunt fir fire . . .
Billy lits it burn doon, turnin it soas it disnae burn ehs hand, then droaps it intae the cup. — Burn, ya Orange bastards, eh sais softly.
An auld wifie wi silver hair, n wearin glesses, a hat n a yellay coat looks ower. She’s jist starin. The perr woman looks a bit dippit. It must be shite tae be auld. Ah’ll nivir git auld, no me.