she’s gantin oan it; each time she’s like two slices ay nicely done breid bouncing up oot the slots ay a springy toaster.
In the mornin, ah gits up n through, blawin ching n snotter oot ay ma beak, openin the blinds n lookin oot oantae the street. Looks cauld ootside. A few bins turned ower, some rubbish blawin aboot n seagulls squawkin. Fuck that. Ah turns back in tae survey the gaff. This is a shaggin pad awright, n gittin a place in toon wis the best fuckin move ah ever made.
Ah’m thinkin aboot the epic knobbin ah gied that Suicide Sara-Ann Lamont aw night: gaun the extra mile fir the purposes ay therapy! Cure for aw the problems in the world? A decent fuckin ride. What the fuck has anybody got tae worry aboot when they’ve had a good shaggin? Politics . . . what a load ay fuckin shite. Relationships . . . well, any burd huvin a bad relationship just needs a solid length ay boaby slammed intae her. Then it’s: what bad relationship? Works fuckin wonders! Ah’m hopin now that Sal’s no a nutter wi a saviour complex. But that’s a silly thing tae say: of course she’s a nutter, she wis gaunny fuckin well top herself last night!
N she comes through wearin ma fuckin ‘Sunshine on Leith’ T-shirt, settin oaf mair warnin bells. As ah eywis say, the time ye git nervous aboot lassies is no whin yir tryin tae git
thair
fuckin knickers oaf thum that night, but whin yir tryin tae git
your
fuckin T-shirt oaffay thum the next mornin! Guaranteed!
She’s a fit burd awright. The collar-length black hair n the make-up, goth as fuck but sexy, n jist a wee bit hefty n that mid-thirties wey whin they start tae go oaf, which ah fuckin love! That’s when a lassie
really
gits fuckin shag-happy! So it’s a big change fae the torn coupon the other night, as she flops oan the couch wi a crocodile smile.
Ah looks at her. — So how dae ye feel now?
— Well shagged.
— Still suicidal?
— No, she goes, aw thoughtful. — Just angry.
— Well, feel angry at the cunts that gied ye a hard time. Dinnae take it oot oan yirsel. If ye dae that they’ve won.
She shakes her heid. — I know that, Terry, but I can’t help being
me
. I’ve received all kinds of counselling, all sorts of advice, I’ve been on different medication –
Ah pats ma groin. — This is the medication you need, hen. Guaranteed.
— God, she laughs, — you really are insatiable!
— Aye, ah goes, — too right. But that’s no important, ah winks. — The question ye should be askin yirself is: ‘Am ah?’
15
JONTS IN MCDONALD’S
AH WIS NIVIR much guid at the skill, sur. Naw sur, naw sur, ah wis not. N ah eywis felt bad aboot that. Ah pit that doon tae real faither Henry spendin a loat ay time workin away n Ma gittin too fat tae leave the hoose. Oor Hank went tae the skill, n Karen n aw. That real faither Henry, he says tae us, — Yir a wee bit slow, Jonty, so the skill’s no gaunny make any difference, no like wi Hank n Karen.
Ah nivir said nowt but it hurt ays. It hurt ays deep in the chist, like if ye could open up yir chist n thaire wis spiders in thaire. Spiders that crawl aboot oan wee legs n make ye feel aw funny inside. Aye, eh pit spiders in ma chist, that eh did, sur. It didnae dae thum that much good, mind, oor Hank n Karen. Mind you, Hank drives a forklift truck now, so that’s no too bad but Karen jist looks eftir Ma. A waste ay that social care course she did. It made ur aw qualified, sur; aw qualified tae look eftir tons ay people in thair hooses, no jist her ain ma in her ain hoose. An awfay waste, aye sur. Jist yir ain ma whin yir qualified tae look eftir tons ay mas; aye sur, that it is. Aye.
But ah jist used tae sit in the graveyard, readin the stanes, unless it wis too cauld, then ah’d go tae Boaby Shand’s hoose, fir a cup ay tea n a wee heat. We’d watch the racin oan telly n bet wi each other. Then ah stoaped gaun cause Boaby eywis won. ‘Ye dinnae git the odds, Jonty son,’ he’d tell ays. Well, ah goat thit the
In the mornin, ah gits up n through, blawin ching n snotter oot ay ma beak, openin the blinds n lookin oot oantae the street. Looks cauld ootside. A few bins turned ower, some rubbish blawin aboot n seagulls squawkin. Fuck that. Ah turns back in tae survey the gaff. This is a shaggin pad awright, n gittin a place in toon wis the best fuckin move ah ever made.
Ah’m thinkin aboot the epic knobbin ah gied that Suicide Sara-Ann Lamont aw night: gaun the extra mile fir the purposes ay therapy! Cure for aw the problems in the world? A decent fuckin ride. What the fuck has anybody got tae worry aboot when they’ve had a good shaggin? Politics . . . what a load ay fuckin shite. Relationships . . . well, any burd huvin a bad relationship just needs a solid length ay boaby slammed intae her. Then it’s: what bad relationship? Works fuckin wonders! Ah’m hopin now that Sal’s no a nutter wi a saviour complex. But that’s a silly thing tae say: of course she’s a nutter, she wis gaunny fuckin well top herself last night!
N she comes through wearin ma fuckin ‘Sunshine on Leith’ T-shirt, settin oaf mair warnin bells. As ah eywis say, the time ye git nervous aboot lassies is no whin yir tryin tae git
thair
fuckin knickers oaf thum that night, but whin yir tryin tae git
your
fuckin T-shirt oaffay thum the next mornin! Guaranteed!
She’s a fit burd awright. The collar-length black hair n the make-up, goth as fuck but sexy, n jist a wee bit hefty n that mid-thirties wey whin they start tae go oaf, which ah fuckin love! That’s when a lassie
really
gits fuckin shag-happy! So it’s a big change fae the torn coupon the other night, as she flops oan the couch wi a crocodile smile.
Ah looks at her. — So how dae ye feel now?
— Well shagged.
— Still suicidal?
— No, she goes, aw thoughtful. — Just angry.
— Well, feel angry at the cunts that gied ye a hard time. Dinnae take it oot oan yirsel. If ye dae that they’ve won.
She shakes her heid. — I know that, Terry, but I can’t help being
me
. I’ve received all kinds of counselling, all sorts of advice, I’ve been on different medication –
Ah pats ma groin. — This is the medication you need, hen. Guaranteed.
— God, she laughs, — you really are insatiable!
— Aye, ah goes, — too right. But that’s no important, ah winks. — The question ye should be askin yirself is: ‘Am ah?’
15
JONTS IN MCDONALD’S
AH WIS NIVIR much guid at the skill, sur. Naw sur, naw sur, ah wis not. N ah eywis felt bad aboot that. Ah pit that doon tae real faither Henry spendin a loat ay time workin away n Ma gittin too fat tae leave the hoose. Oor Hank went tae the skill, n Karen n aw. That real faither Henry, he says tae us, — Yir a wee bit slow, Jonty, so the skill’s no gaunny make any difference, no like wi Hank n Karen.
Ah nivir said nowt but it hurt ays. It hurt ays deep in the chist, like if ye could open up yir chist n thaire wis spiders in thaire. Spiders that crawl aboot oan wee legs n make ye feel aw funny inside. Aye, eh pit spiders in ma chist, that eh did, sur. It didnae dae thum that much good, mind, oor Hank n Karen. Mind you, Hank drives a forklift truck now, so that’s no too bad but Karen jist looks eftir Ma. A waste ay that social care course she did. It made ur aw qualified, sur; aw qualified tae look eftir tons ay people in thair hooses, no jist her ain ma in her ain hoose. An awfay waste, aye sur. Jist yir ain ma whin yir qualified tae look eftir tons ay mas; aye sur, that it is. Aye.
But ah jist used tae sit in the graveyard, readin the stanes, unless it wis too cauld, then ah’d go tae Boaby Shand’s hoose, fir a cup ay tea n a wee heat. We’d watch the racin oan telly n bet wi each other. Then ah stoaped gaun cause Boaby eywis won. ‘Ye dinnae git the odds, Jonty son,’ he’d tell ays. Well, ah goat thit the
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