Free Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh Page B

entitled tae come n go as she wants. That’s shite though. Aw ah wanted tae dae wis talk. Franco agreed wi us. It’s different whin yir in a relationship, we telt Rents.
    Ah felt sick n nervous oan the bus. Tommy might’ve felt the same, cause we nivir spoke any mair. The morn though, we’ll be in some boozer wi Rents, Beggar, Spud, Sick Boy n aw thame, boasting like fuck.
    Speedy Recruitment
    1 — Preparation
    Spud and Renton were sitting in a pub in the Royal Mile. The pub aimed at an American theme-bar effect, but not too accurately; it was a madhouse of assorted bric-à-brac.
    — Fuckin weird man though, likesay, you n me gittin sent fir the same joab, ken? Spud said, slurping at his Guinness.
    — Fuckin disaster fir me mate. Ah’m no wantin the fuckin joab. It’d be a fuckin nightmare. Renton shook his head.
    — Yeah, ah’m likesay happy steyin oan the rock n roll the now man, ken?
    — Trouble is though Spud, if ye dinnae try, if ye blow the interview oan purpose; the cunts tell the dole n these bastards stoap yir giro. Happened tae us in London. Ah’m oan ma last warnin doon thair.
    — Yeah . . . me n aw man. What ye gaunnae dae, likesay?
    — Well, what ye huv tae dae is tae act enthusiastic, but still fuck up the interview. As long as ye come across as keen, they cannae say fuck all. If we jist be oorselves, n be honest, thill nivir gie either ay us the fuckin joab. Problem is, if ye just sit thair n say nowt tae the cunts, thir straight oantae the dole. Thill say: That cunt jist cannae be bothered.
    — It’s hard for me man . . . ken? It’s difficult tae git it thegither like that, likesay . . . ken? Ah git sortay likes, pure shy, ken?
    — Tommy gied us some speed. What time’s yir interview again?
    — No till half-two, likesay.
    — Well, ah’m at one. Ah’ll see ye back here at two. Ah’ll gie ye ma tie tae pit oan, n some speed. Buck ye up a bit, let ye sell yirsel, ken? So let’s get tae work oan they appos.
    They placed the application forms on the table in front of them. Renton’s was already half-completed. A few entries caught Spud’s eye.
    — Hey . . . what’s this man, likesay? George Heriots . . . you went tae Leithy man . . .
    — It’s a well-known fact thit ye nivir stand a fuckin chance ay gittin anything decent in this city if ye didnae go tae a posh school. Nae wey though, will they offer a George Heriots FP a porterin joab in a hotel. That’s only fir us plebs; so pit doon something like that. If they see Augies or Craigy oan your form, the cunts’ll offer ye the joab . . . fuck, ah’d better go. Whatever ye dae, dinnae be late. See ye back here in a bit.
    2 — Process: Mr Renton (1.00 p.m.)
    The trainee manager whae welcomed us wis a mucho spotty punter in a sharp suit, wi dandruff oan the shoodirs like piles ay fuckin cocaine. Ah felt like takin a rolled up fiver tae the cunt’s tin flute. His biscuit-ersed face and his plukes completely ruin the image the smarmy wee shite’s tryin tae achieve. Even in ma worse junk periods ah’ve nivir had a complexion like that, the poor wee bastard. This cunt is obviously along for the ride. The main man is the fat, stroppy-lookin gadge in the middle; tae his right thirs a coldly smiling dyke in a woman’s business suit wi a thick foundation mask, who looks catalogue hideous.
    This is a heavy-duty line-up for a fuckin porter’s joab.
    The opening gambit wis predictable. The fat cunt gies us a warm look and says: — I see from your application form that you attended George Heriots.
    — Right . . . ah, those halcyon school days. It seems like a long time ago now.
    Ah might huv lied on the appo, but ah huvnae at the interview. Ah did once attend George Heriots: whin ah wis an apprentice joiner at Gillsland’s we did some contract work there.
    — Old Fotheringham still doing his rounds?
    Fuck. Select from one of two possibilities; one: he is, two: he’s retired. Naw. Too risky. Keep it nebulous.
    —