If You Liked School, You'll Love Work

  This island’s full of fucking junkies! Two cunts sitting in the corner of the bar, staring at the farking walls. Sorry, but did I leave London for a reason? My bleedin mistake. Mind you, the quality of football in the so-called Premiership would have every cunt on gear. The game’s shit, too fucking tactical, all the flair geezers stifled by five across the middle. Playing percentages and charging muppets forty nicker for the privilege, and mugs like me for the satellite equipment and packages. Then you got them commentators and pundits; the telly company tell them to talk up every farking game, so you got them cunts having a farking orgasm while we’re at home falling asleep on the flaming couch or in the boozer begging the barmaid to turn the cunting jukebox up. So another Scotch goes down and my face glows and I realise that I’ve only gone and got arseholed again!

  Any roads, Cynthia and I have been getting it on. Unshaggable till you down a couple of Scotches, then she fairly sets up the horn in you. Birds will make a cunt of you all the time. Not that I’m cynical; a cheerful sort by nature really, but I only make the observation.

  Cynth and me didn’t half cane it the night before I went back to me mum’s in Walton: a big session on the red wine. I think I got right up between her there and then, I believe that to be the case, but I was too farkin rat-arsed to remember much about it. So I wakes up feeling horny, as in fucking Alpine, and gets my fingers moving south of the border. Gor blimey, it was like trying to work with a block of sandpaper. Funny though, the things you learn with a bit of experience. As a young buck I would have taken that as a sign that she don’t fancy me and said something defensive like: What’s up with you, you farking frigid lezzer, you fucking peculiar or something?

  Experience though. Now you know that as she’s been canning the vino, she’s just a bit dehydrated. So I brought her a big glass of water. — Get that down ya, gel, I told her.

  — You’re so sweet, Michael, she said.

  Didn’t dare tell her I was just watering the flaming garden, did I?

  Phase 2 involved getting her up and moving around, let the metabolism kick in. With a tourist bird I’d’ve suggested a bracing walk along the seafront or the beach before taking her back and nailing her, but that weren’t an option with Cynth, as discretion was of the essence. She’s still a married woman, after all, even if her relationship with that golf wanker is tenuous to say the least. So I offered to make some tucker, scrambled eggs on toast.

  Sure enough, a bit of sweet talk over the table, some fresh orange juice and another big glass of water and the next time me hand went downstairs it was like sticking it under a running tap.

  I brought her off that way, then slipped the old how’s your father in for a bit more Sunday sport. There’s plenty to cushion you when you’re on top of her, and I love sticking my finger in her belly button and going: ‘Ow’s my Pilsbury Dough gel then?’ And as I give her one, I get a hold of that big, fat wobbly arse and those flabby love handles and, of course, those floppy great tits. It’s bleedin wonderful, but there’s no way that I’d let Cynth go on top. She suggested it after a bit and I sort of skirted round the idea. I mean, who’d want all that beef on top of em? If I want buried alive I’ll go round some East End boozers bad-mouthing the Kray twins, thank you very much.

  Excellent fuck, Cynth, but she went a bit funny afterwards with all this ‘hold me, Michael’ stuff. Birds are like nosh-ups, have a big one and you’re satiated. Don’t wanna go near one again for a bit, do ya? Basic psychology, but something skirt never get. She went a bit frosty, and I was trying to get some bleedin kip in for the next morning’s flight to Gatwick, so we ends up rowin. She only tears off into the night, but, well, for me it’s mission accomplished, innit. I reckoned that with a seeing-to like that she was well bound to be back. Sure as night follows day.

  And I wasn’t wrong. True what they say about absence making the heart grow fonder, and the ravine wider. There’s no mention of the previous argy-bargy and she’s all over me like a cheap suit tonight, asking me about bleeding Walton-on-Thames. — Great town, I tell her. — Whenever I leave I always keep a little bit of Walton in me. What about you?

  — I’m from Faversham, she says, — you know that …

  — Well then, I say, how’d you like a little bit of Walton in you?

  She punches me in the chest but she’s looking around making sure the coast is clear and she whispers, — Your place at midnight?

  — I shall be waiting, I say in my best MC tones.

  Fair play to Cynth; she don’t keep me too long, once I turf em all out and lock up. She double-backs and I hear a familiar knock on the door from the back staircase. I let her in, then we’re on the couch ripping each other’s clothes off like teenagers and all that flab’s flying all over the place, and I’m on her in a sweaty hump and she’s off like an alarm clock n all.

  Jesus fack almighty!

  The next day at least the bleedin rains have eased off a bit but the weekend hangovers have kicked in ever so bad. Cynth couldn’t stay, told her old man she was playing cards with her mates and cleared off early. I don’t lie around in bed too long. I’m up and strolling through town to pick up some nice fish, fresh off the boat, then phoning Trees-the-ex back in Walton-on-Thames. Before you can say Jimmy Pursey the dopey cow only goes and tells me that she thinks it would be a good idea to send our Emily over for some of the school holidays, which translates as ‘I’m knocking off some geezer and I want her out from under my bleedin feet’.

  Thanks a farking bundle, you filthy old trout.

  Puts me in a right shit frame of mind, that does. Still, you got to keep thinking: calmness and serenity. So I gets in the motor and takes a trip down to the Kraut side of the island using the FV1 coastal route and bypassing that farking dump Puerto del Rosario. As you get onto the FV20 and head south to Gran Tarajal it could be a different world. It’s the best-looking bit of the island by far, and the portion which the old Squareheads have thoughtfully commandeered for themselves. Makes you wonder who won the farking war. I park up outside a boozer I occasionally use and poke my head round the door but it’s dead. There’s this waitress who works in a restaurant I like down here, but it don’t look like she’s in today. No worries: they’ve a nice bit of grilled lemon sole on.

  A bit of tucker sets me up and when I get back for the evening shift Rodj is already in, and Cynth ain’t far behind. — How’s it goin with Marce? I ask him discreetly.

  — Nuffink’s going on, he shakes his head angrily, which means it most certainly is. No need for the cunt to get all bleedin narky; it ain’t as if they’ve exactly been discreet about the whole thing!

  I clock a couple of dodgy-looking geezers standing at the bar. One’s a big burly fucker with a crew cut, wearing light-reflective glasses. The other’s a weaselly little cunt with shifty eyes and greasy hair, slicked back. He’s dripping with tom; two earrings, at least two gold chains round his neck, bracelets on his wrist and sovereign rings on nearly every finger. Farking little tart. But it wasn’t so much how they looked as what they were saying that got me interested. You got to watch putting your nose in but I got intrigued and found out that by hiding behind the gingham curtain which drapes at the side of the small public bar, pretending to be looking at the books, I can hear every bleedin word they say. Meantime, the cunts think I’m in the back shop! So here I am, fiddling away, but getting a proper earful.

  — … but there’s a few around here she’s going to have to sack if she’s gonna go all the way to the top. Baggage and such. I mean, I ain’t naming no names but that gel’s got star potential and I’d be loath to have it undermined through some dodgy associations … it sounds like the weaselly cunt with the gold is saying.

  — You’re thinking of Graham, I take it? the big cropped-haired bastard says. His voice is gravelly, like a villain on The Bill.

  The other cunt has a high, nasal, snidey tone: — Like I said, I ain’t naming no names, but if the cap fits …

  — You got to save her from herself,
Trev.

  — Well, we’re gonna have to sit down togevah, just the two of us over a nice meal, bottle of wine, and have a serious little chat …

  — Serious chat …

  — A serious chat about her future, cause I’d hate to see her blow it. But what she needs is a little discipline, a firm hand. Otherwise she’s gonna throw it all away.

  — Cruel to be kind, Trev.

  — Exactly, Chris. Tough love I believe is what they call it nowadays. And if that Graham was to just somehow disappear it would make my job a great deal easier.

  There’s a silence as the big brick-shithouse geezer goes, — Disappear … let’s be clear about this, Trev. Disappear from her life or disappear for good?

  The other cunt’s voice goes low. I think he says, — Whatever it takes.

  — If he did vanish off the scene, she’d be very upset.

  — In the short term, Chris, in the short term. But she’d get over it. Course, she’d need a shoulder to cry on.

  Then Cynth comes through and shouts something, whipping the curtain away, dozy farking cow, which is so farking mortifying as them geezers see me standing up from behind the bar. They look daggers at me giving me that ‘how much have you heard’ thing, but I just keep staring at the ledger in my hand, worrying that my cheeks are flushing. — Yes, my lovely? I say as distractedly as I can.

  — We need some San Miguels and Coronas up here right now.

  — Where’s Rodj? I ask, as if I don’t know.

  — He nipped out for a moment.

  A wooing, no doubt, the cahnt. — Bleedin hell, gel, can’t it wait? I’m engrossed in those books. Totally engrossed, I turn to the geezers at the bar. — Got to do everything around here, I shake my head and smile, and the big cunt gives me a tight grin back, but the weaselly geezer’s eyes are all black pools.

  I drop the books and head downstairs, cursing that fat, stupid blundering cow.

  Farking villains. Never did like the cunts, even back home. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve pulled a few strokes myself now and again, but I don’t get off on all that gangster bollocks. Most of those cunts are just fucking bullies and you’re the mug who’s got to listen to their bullshit and laugh in all the right places. Wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t so farking boring most of the time. Yeah, some of these geezers are genuinely witty, but most of them’s peddling the same farking shit you’ve heard a million times before.

  Eventually, the cunts drink up and leave. The greasy little fucker with the gold gives me a long, slow, hard nod and I’m paranoid all bleedin day, in me own farking place.

  At night it’s a better atmosphere in the pub and I lock Vince, Bert and myself in for a card school. Funny to think that by keeping Bert here right now, I’m probably assisting Rodj in his quest to nail his missus. Mixed feelings about that one. Vince is a decent sort, from Manchester, or near there. Rents out properties here on the island. Dodgy as, never seems to do anything, always away on little trips, but generally has a horsechoker of a wad in his pocket. Bertie runs a sporting-goods shop but if you ask me it’s been bought with funny money. He’s a shifty little git, and every time some new face comes in the boozer he seems to get a bit antsy.

  Vince and I are winding Bertie up. — You mean to say that you’ve never had a homosexual experience in your life before? I ask him.

  — Course I haven’t, Bertie says, all offended.

  I’m shaking my head, looking at the dross I’ve got in my hand. — How old are you, you’ve got to bleedin thirty-seven and you’ve never had a gay experience?

  He looks to Vince who smiles and shrugs, which freaks old Bert right out. — Of course not … you’re bleedin tapped, he goes, then he turns to Vince again. — Have you?

  Vince looks at him with his big hooded eyes. — Of course I have, he says in that Manc voice, — I mean, you got to try everything once, aven’t ya?

  Poor Bertie almost chokes on his beer. He puts the glass onto the table, looking at Vince all sorta weird. — But … I can’t believe I’m hearing this … he says and turns to me. — What about you?

  — I’m thirty-nine for fuck sakes, I tell him, — I mean, we ain’t all led sheltered lives.

  — I ain’t led no sheltered life … he protests, his voice going all high.

  — Yeah, sure, Vince shakes his head.

  — Well, no, he starts, all hesitant, — cause there was once …

  And we’re all ears as he only goes and describes this encounter with a bentshot at some bleedin queer bar down in Clapham. Well, Vince and I just let him finish and then shout together: — WE’RE ONLY FARKING JOKING, YOU FARKING GREAT BIG POOF!

  Outed! Always knew he was bleedin suspect. I point at him and shout, — File under arse behnnndit!

  Bertie begs Vince and I to say nothing, insisting that he was just a bit freaked at our so-called disclosures and making it all up so as to fit in, which knowing Bert is quite possibly true. We’re having none of it though, the dirty bleedin arse bandit. But the geezer’s pretty distressed so the only thing to do is tell him we’ll keep shtum about the whole thing.

  Of course, it’s only all around the bar the next night, innit. Somebody obviously kissed and told but mum’s the word on that one.

  Thing is, it fair sets old Bertie off on the warpath with Vince and I as main suspects. Marcia’s only gone and heard all about it and kicked off about Aids, putting poor old Bert on an indefinite no nooky ban. Not that she gave him that much in the first place, by all accounts, or rather by Rodj’s account. Now Bertie’s gathering evidence for his appeal. But this one ain’t going to go to Stewards, not if I can help it.

  After closing time he only goes and comes round to mine with a bit of attitude on him. — One of you two has been blabbing about the other night! It’s all round the bar, Marcia’s heard all about it!

  — Bollocks. I ain’t said nothing to Marcia. Who told her then?

  — One of the geezers at the bar, Bertie says, open-gobbed.

  — Who?

  — I dunno, do I? he whines. — She won’t say.

  — Well, that covers a multitude, don’t it? I shake my head. — Why won’t she say? I ask. Thing is, with geezers like Bertie, it don’t really matter how pissed off they are, you just keep asking the questions and you soon draw their sting.

  — I dunno, do I? he repeats like a flaming parrot, all flustered.

  I shake my head. — Sounds suspect to me, mate.

  — What? What sounds suspect?

  I feel like saying, ‘You, you fucking dodgy little arse bandit, you sound farking suspect,’ but I explain it to him. Bertie, God love him, he ain’t the sharpest needle in your old mum’s embroidery kit. — If my missus had told me that she’d heard that I was an iron, I’d want to know who’d told her. I wouldn’t be happy hearing that it was just pub talk. I’d be asking myself: who stands to gain from her thinking that you’re bottled beer?

  You could quite literally see the coin drop. — Was Marce on with Rodj the other day? he gasps.

  — I believe that to be the case.

  Then he headed off, eyeballs bulging out like a Jack Russell’s bollocks. As if he was planning to do some serious damage. Not that he’s the sort, really, but there’s no telling what some geezers will do over skirt. Crimes of passion n ah’ll. Think ancient Rome; Caesar, Mark Antony and Cleopatra. And it ain’t just big empires what’s been brought to their knees by minge; some tidy little businesses in the licensing trade have gone right down the flaming Swanee when the guvnor and or his missus have been caught on the wrong side of the duvet. See, I’d mentioned Bert’s little secret to Rodj earlier, knowing full well that, in turn, he’d be compelled to tell Marcia. So my hope now is that Rodj does a runner and Bert’s sine die, leaving the field clear for yours truly to fire into Marce.

  I’m sitting back feeling pleased with meself, when me mobile sings out, signalling a text coming in. It’s Trees-the-ex. Her message reads:

  Bell me on the landline

  betwe
en 4 and 6. Urgent.

  Tight-arsed cow. I have a shower, make myself a sandwich of cheese, tomato, lettuce and mayo, then pick up the blower and dial, getting a funny farking tone. Forgot to knock off the zero on her number after 0044. I try again and get her voicemail. — Neither Teresa nor Emily are in at the moment. Please leave your number and we’ll try to get back to you.

  I leave a message. — Trees, it’s Mickey. You wanted me to call between 4 and 6, from your text. You said it was urgent, so I called right away. Do you want to get back –

  — Michael, she says and you know that the cow was sitting there all the time letting me farking rabbit on like that. — How are you?

  — Busy, I tell her. — What’s up? Is Em okay?

  — Oh, well, I ain’t gonna be popular, am I. Thing is, Em’s been playing up so I’m sending her over to you for a bit.

  It might be hot here but ain’t nobody told my blood that right now. The farking cow. — What do you mean? You said some orf the holidays. I got a flaming bar to run, I can’t –

  — You can’t make time for your own daughter. Fine. I’ll tell her.

  She’s loving all this, the farking cow. I take a deep breath. — You say she’s coming for a bit. What is a bit?

  — Dunno. She’s flying out tomorrow on the 8.15 from Gatwick, gets in at 12.30.

  — You can’t do this without bleedin well sortin it with me, that is bang out of order. I got things to do!

  — N I ain’t?

  That bleedin cow is in her farking element. She knows that I can’t knock Em back. — You know what I mean … I need notice, you can’t just hit me with a fait accompli like that. C’mon, Trees, give us a break –

  — Nah, you give me a break, Mickey, she whines, that adenoidal tone squeaking down the blower, like a proper Hardwick. Forgot just how much it does your crust in. Patience of a saint I must have, putting up with that all them years. — She wants to see ya. She’s been a proper narky little cow and I ain’t havin her sitting around talkin the hump with me and Richie …