the work gits done. It sais thit the supervisor gits the joab done by meetin the individual and group needs ay the team. So we pilled Knoxie up aboot this. Calum sais thit eh needed tae score some Es fir this rave eh wis gaun tae; Lozy sais thit eh needed tae spend some time in a massage parlour. As a group wi needed an all-day bevvy session in the Blue Blazer. Could Knoxie arrange aw that? The cunt wisnae chuffed. Eh sais that wisnae whit it wis aboot n thit wi shouldnae be lookin it ehs notes unless wid been oan the course.
Anywey, it didnae last. It wis soon back tae the same auld Knoxie. So we wir quite lookin forward tae gittin the cunt oot the road fir a couple ay days, whin they pit um oantay Part Two. Ah dinnae ken whit they did tae the flicker this time bit; whiti-vir it wis it made um even mair ay a Nazi. Now the the radge jist willnae listen tae reason. N Lozy's right. The blockage is bound tae be in the fuckin drain. We've no goat the tools tae go doon thair, even it if wis oor joab.
Doon at the flats it's really fuckin boggin. Thir's a polisman standin aroond like a spare prick. This housin officer boy n this social worker lassie uv goat the perr auld cunt oan the couch wi some forms, tryin tae git um sorted oot. The environmental health boys ur doon here n aw. Thir wis nae wey ah wis gaun intae that bathroom.
Calum goes tae ays, — Wir talkin aboot an ootside joab here. Defo.
Knoxie overheard n goat aw fuckin stroppy. — Eh? eh goes.
— Likesay, jist sayin thit the blockage'll be doon in the drains, ken, no the stink pipe. Probably the bend, likes.
— That would seem logical, ah sais in ma Spock-oot-ay-Star Trek voice.
— Nae cunt kens that fir sure until we gie it a go, Knoxie contended.
Ah wisnae fir gaun intae that bog tae check it oot. — Ye ken whit happens, Knoxie. Burds pit thir fanny pads doon the pan, they aw clog up at the bend, ken?
— It's these cunts thit flush they fuckin disposable nappies away, that's the cunts thit git oan ma fuckin tits, Lozy shook ehs heid. — That's whit does the real fuckin damage, no the jam-rags.
— Ah'm no arguin wi yous cunts. Git they fuckin rods oot the van n doon that fuckin pan.
— Thir's nae point, ah goes. — Fill in an MRN 2 n lit they drainage cunts fae the Region sort it oot. Thill huv tae in the long run, wir jist wastin oor time here.
— Dinnae you tell me ma fuckin joab, son! Right! Knoxie isnae pleased. The cunt's bein too nippy here. Eh's no backin doon. Well, ah'm no either.
— Waste ay fuckin time, ah repeated.
— Aw aye, n whit else wid ye be daein? Sittin in the fuckin howf playin cairds!
— That's no the fuckin point, Lozy sais, — it's no oor fuckin joab. MRN 2 up tae the Region. That's whit's needed.
This social worker lassie turns roond n gies us a stroppy look. Ah jist smiles bit she looked away aw fuckin nippy likes. Disnae cost nowt tae be social. A social worker thit cannae be fuckin social; that's nae good tae nae cunt, thon. Like a lifeguard thit cannae fuckin swim. Shouldnae be daein that kinday joab.
— Yous cunts, jist fuck off. Ah'll dae it masel. Gaun, jist fuck off, Knoxie sais.
We jist looked it each other. Every cunt wis scoobied, so we jist turned n went doon the stair. We jist thought: if that's whit the cunt wants. . .
— Dis that mean wuv goat oor cairds? Calum asked.
Lozy jist fuckin laughed in the cunt's face, — The only cairds ye git at the DLO come in packs ay fifty-two. We're jist obeyin orders n ye eywis follay the last yin. Go, the cunt sais, so wir gaun. Eh shrugged.
— Whin ye think ay it though, ah sais, — Knoxie didnae learn much fae that fuckin course. They sais thit it's the supervisor's joab tae make sure thit the work gits done, no tae dae it ehsel. There's the cunt up thair graftin oan ehs puff while we're aw oot here.
— Fancy a pint? Lozy asks. — Whitsons?
Calum raises a hopeful eyebrow.
— Why no, ah goes, — if yir gaunny git hung fir stealin a sheep ye might as
Anywey, it didnae last. It wis soon back tae the same auld Knoxie. So we wir quite lookin forward tae gittin the cunt oot the road fir a couple ay days, whin they pit um oantay Part Two. Ah dinnae ken whit they did tae the flicker this time bit; whiti-vir it wis it made um even mair ay a Nazi. Now the the radge jist willnae listen tae reason. N Lozy's right. The blockage is bound tae be in the fuckin drain. We've no goat the tools tae go doon thair, even it if wis oor joab.
Doon at the flats it's really fuckin boggin. Thir's a polisman standin aroond like a spare prick. This housin officer boy n this social worker lassie uv goat the perr auld cunt oan the couch wi some forms, tryin tae git um sorted oot. The environmental health boys ur doon here n aw. Thir wis nae wey ah wis gaun intae that bathroom.
Calum goes tae ays, — Wir talkin aboot an ootside joab here. Defo.
Knoxie overheard n goat aw fuckin stroppy. — Eh? eh goes.
— Likesay, jist sayin thit the blockage'll be doon in the drains, ken, no the stink pipe. Probably the bend, likes.
— That would seem logical, ah sais in ma Spock-oot-ay-Star Trek voice.
— Nae cunt kens that fir sure until we gie it a go, Knoxie contended.
Ah wisnae fir gaun intae that bog tae check it oot. — Ye ken whit happens, Knoxie. Burds pit thir fanny pads doon the pan, they aw clog up at the bend, ken?
— It's these cunts thit flush they fuckin disposable nappies away, that's the cunts thit git oan ma fuckin tits, Lozy shook ehs heid. — That's whit does the real fuckin damage, no the jam-rags.
— Ah'm no arguin wi yous cunts. Git they fuckin rods oot the van n doon that fuckin pan.
— Thir's nae point, ah goes. — Fill in an MRN 2 n lit they drainage cunts fae the Region sort it oot. Thill huv tae in the long run, wir jist wastin oor time here.
— Dinnae you tell me ma fuckin joab, son! Right! Knoxie isnae pleased. The cunt's bein too nippy here. Eh's no backin doon. Well, ah'm no either.
— Waste ay fuckin time, ah repeated.
— Aw aye, n whit else wid ye be daein? Sittin in the fuckin howf playin cairds!
— That's no the fuckin point, Lozy sais, — it's no oor fuckin joab. MRN 2 up tae the Region. That's whit's needed.
This social worker lassie turns roond n gies us a stroppy look. Ah jist smiles bit she looked away aw fuckin nippy likes. Disnae cost nowt tae be social. A social worker thit cannae be fuckin social; that's nae good tae nae cunt, thon. Like a lifeguard thit cannae fuckin swim. Shouldnae be daein that kinday joab.
— Yous cunts, jist fuck off. Ah'll dae it masel. Gaun, jist fuck off, Knoxie sais.
We jist looked it each other. Every cunt wis scoobied, so we jist turned n went doon the stair. We jist thought: if that's whit the cunt wants. . .
— Dis that mean wuv goat oor cairds? Calum asked.
Lozy jist fuckin laughed in the cunt's face, — The only cairds ye git at the DLO come in packs ay fifty-two. We're jist obeyin orders n ye eywis follay the last yin. Go, the cunt sais, so wir gaun. Eh shrugged.
— Whin ye think ay it though, ah sais, — Knoxie didnae learn much fae that fuckin course. They sais thit it's the supervisor's joab tae make sure thit the work gits done, no tae dae it ehsel. There's the cunt up thair graftin oan ehs puff while we're aw oot here.
— Fancy a pint? Lozy asks. — Whitsons?
Calum raises a hopeful eyebrow.
— Why no, ah goes, — if yir gaunny git hung fir stealin a sheep ye might as
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