well shag it n aw.
We walked across the forecourt. Thir wis a pungent, shitey smell and Lozy's face crinkled up aw that satisfied wey n eh nods doon tae a river ay stagnant water thit wis bubblin tae the surface fae aroond the rim ay a rusty iron drain-cover.
Calum turned back taewards the flats and raised baith airms in the air. Eh gave a double V-sign. — Game set and match, ya masonic bastard.
Lozy goes: — The union boy'll chew ehs fuckin nuts oaf if eh tries tae take this yin tae a disciplinary.
— Widnae git that far, ah sais, — we gave oor professional opinion. Whit's it the gadge thit took us fir the ONC at Telford College sais? The maist important skill in any trade is accurate problem diagnosis. Ah goat a fuckin distinction, ah pointed at masel.
Lozy raised ehs eyebrows, the cheeky cunt.
— Eh did, Calum backs ays up.
— Aye, n that cunt Knoxie chose tae disregard oor professional advice.
— Waste ay council resources, Lozy agreed. — Manderson'll nivir back that cunt up.
We swagger through the centre towards the pub. That pint's gaunny taste sweet, right enough.
WAYNE FOSTER
Two Sparryheids sit at a table in a public house talking shite about the football. The Sparryheids are almost indistinguishable from each other with their soft brown feathery heads, open, tense, belligerent beaks and slimy liquorice eyes. The only thing that sets them apart is that one Sparryheid has a trail of black gunge weeping from the corner of his left eye, the result perhaps of some injury or infection.
— Some trouble the day at the match, eh?
— Aye, casual infiltrators. Shouldnae huv been thair, no at that end.
— Ah heard it wisnae casuals, but. Ah heard it wis a couple ay boys thit wir in each other's company, arguing about Wayne Foster. One cunt goes: Git that fuckin English cunt oaf the park. The other boy sais: Gie the cunt a chance. So the first boy sais something back and one things leads tae another, one boy panels the other. Next thing ye ken, yuv goat a big fuckin swedge oan yir hands.
— Naw, says one Sparryheid, with an unconvinced shake of his beak, — it'll be they fuckin casuals. No interested in the fitba, these cunts.
— Naw naw. This wis aboot Wayne Foster. That's what ah heard.
— Casuals, the unconvinced Sparryheid shakes his beak again. A few brown feathers float to the lino floor, — that's who it'd be. Fuckin troublemakers.
— Naw, explains his friend, now slightly exasperated, — no this the day. Ah agree wi ye aboot the casuals, but wir talkin aboot this the day. This wis two boys chit kent each other. They started swedgin, then every other cunt jumps in. Frustration, ken. Frustration wi the way things are gaun. Ken?
— Awright, mibbe, n wir jist sayin mibbe, it wis they boys n Foster, Wayne Foster — who's awright by the way; at least ye always git one hundred and ten percent fae Foster — mibbe it wis Foster this time thit started it, but it's usually they casuals.. . that's aw ah'm sayin.
— Aye, bit no this time. This the day wis definitely this Foster thing. Ah heard two boys spraffin aboot it.
— Admittedly Foster husnae goat that much skill. Fast as fuck though, man.
— Foster . . .
— Another thing aboot Foster, wi goat that cunt for fuck all. Derek fuckin Ferguson; three quarters ay a million fir that! A fuckin prima donna!
— Naw, that's a fitba player, man.
— Foster. That's the boy. See if they aw hud Foster's commitment. . .
— Awright, awright. If ye could combine Foster's commitment wi Ferguson's class . ..
— Aye, nods the other Sparryheid, — ah'll gie ye that.
— Foster's commitment n speed wi Ferguson's class n vision.
— Foster.
— Right. Foster, ya cunt.
— Aye. Wayne Foster. Right enough, the Sparryheid considers, before turning to his mate: — Another pint?
— Aye.
One Sparryheid goes up to the bar but the barman refuses him service as he, the barman, has sectarian leanings which make him averse to Sparryheided cunts.
We walked across the forecourt. Thir wis a pungent, shitey smell and Lozy's face crinkled up aw that satisfied wey n eh nods doon tae a river ay stagnant water thit wis bubblin tae the surface fae aroond the rim ay a rusty iron drain-cover.
Calum turned back taewards the flats and raised baith airms in the air. Eh gave a double V-sign. — Game set and match, ya masonic bastard.
Lozy goes: — The union boy'll chew ehs fuckin nuts oaf if eh tries tae take this yin tae a disciplinary.
— Widnae git that far, ah sais, — we gave oor professional opinion. Whit's it the gadge thit took us fir the ONC at Telford College sais? The maist important skill in any trade is accurate problem diagnosis. Ah goat a fuckin distinction, ah pointed at masel.
Lozy raised ehs eyebrows, the cheeky cunt.
— Eh did, Calum backs ays up.
— Aye, n that cunt Knoxie chose tae disregard oor professional advice.
— Waste ay council resources, Lozy agreed. — Manderson'll nivir back that cunt up.
We swagger through the centre towards the pub. That pint's gaunny taste sweet, right enough.
WAYNE FOSTER
Two Sparryheids sit at a table in a public house talking shite about the football. The Sparryheids are almost indistinguishable from each other with their soft brown feathery heads, open, tense, belligerent beaks and slimy liquorice eyes. The only thing that sets them apart is that one Sparryheid has a trail of black gunge weeping from the corner of his left eye, the result perhaps of some injury or infection.
— Some trouble the day at the match, eh?
— Aye, casual infiltrators. Shouldnae huv been thair, no at that end.
— Ah heard it wisnae casuals, but. Ah heard it wis a couple ay boys thit wir in each other's company, arguing about Wayne Foster. One cunt goes: Git that fuckin English cunt oaf the park. The other boy sais: Gie the cunt a chance. So the first boy sais something back and one things leads tae another, one boy panels the other. Next thing ye ken, yuv goat a big fuckin swedge oan yir hands.
— Naw, says one Sparryheid, with an unconvinced shake of his beak, — it'll be they fuckin casuals. No interested in the fitba, these cunts.
— Naw naw. This wis aboot Wayne Foster. That's what ah heard.
— Casuals, the unconvinced Sparryheid shakes his beak again. A few brown feathers float to the lino floor, — that's who it'd be. Fuckin troublemakers.
— Naw, explains his friend, now slightly exasperated, — no this the day. Ah agree wi ye aboot the casuals, but wir talkin aboot this the day. This wis two boys chit kent each other. They started swedgin, then every other cunt jumps in. Frustration, ken. Frustration wi the way things are gaun. Ken?
— Awright, mibbe, n wir jist sayin mibbe, it wis they boys n Foster, Wayne Foster — who's awright by the way; at least ye always git one hundred and ten percent fae Foster — mibbe it wis Foster this time thit started it, but it's usually they casuals.. . that's aw ah'm sayin.
— Aye, bit no this time. This the day wis definitely this Foster thing. Ah heard two boys spraffin aboot it.
— Admittedly Foster husnae goat that much skill. Fast as fuck though, man.
— Foster . . .
— Another thing aboot Foster, wi goat that cunt for fuck all. Derek fuckin Ferguson; three quarters ay a million fir that! A fuckin prima donna!
— Naw, that's a fitba player, man.
— Foster. That's the boy. See if they aw hud Foster's commitment. . .
— Awright, awright. If ye could combine Foster's commitment wi Ferguson's class . ..
— Aye, nods the other Sparryheid, — ah'll gie ye that.
— Foster's commitment n speed wi Ferguson's class n vision.
— Foster.
— Right. Foster, ya cunt.
— Aye. Wayne Foster. Right enough, the Sparryheid considers, before turning to his mate: — Another pint?
— Aye.
One Sparryheid goes up to the bar but the barman refuses him service as he, the barman, has sectarian leanings which make him averse to Sparryheided cunts.
Similar Books
