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that awright, just thinkin aboot you fine ladies, ah laugh. Then ah shout, — See yis later but, jist fir a fag n a wee cup ay tea but eh.
    — Aye, right, Maggie shouts back, but she’s laughin now.
    — See yis, girls! Ah wave, watchin thum go. That Maggie, if they Biafran cunts saw pictures ay her oan thaire news, they’d be huvin a whip-roond tae git some crates ay rice shipped ower here. Tidy erse oan that mate ay hers but; it’s like two bairns fightin in a pillaycase in they white troosers.
    A total fuckin pump.
    That Stevie’s some fucker. Cannae pass a bookie’s. Aw eh does is flick through the racin pages. Eh’s an edgy cunt wi a big dago moustache. One ay they boys that’s aw serious n nippy at work, n disnae lit ehsel go until eh’s finished n eh’s in the boozer. Ah dinnae hud wi that sort ay patter: as if ye huv tae be aw torn-faced tae drive a fuckin lorry the right wey. Ah’m wantin tae take ma test n git masel a motor, jist fir the shaggin likes. Birds eywis go for the guy wi the motor, no thit ah need one tae git
ma
hole, unlike some ah could mention. A van’s eywis useful but.
    When wi knock oaf, Stevie wants tae go tae the Busy Bee for a pint. — Naw, ah’ve goat other plans, ah tell um.
    — Suit yerself, eh goes. Eh starts gaun oan again aboot the round no makin money. Who gies a fuck aboot that? Ah git enough money oot ay it, n ye git roond tae check oot aw the fanny. That’s mair important than money, gittin the chance tae chat up different birds n find oot which ones go n which ones dinnae. Ye want clathes, ye snowdroap thum offay some cunt’s line, or git a wee fucker tae dae it fir ye.
    But the main thing fir me is fanny. Ah gied wee Lucy a ring oan her finger, jist tae keep her quiet likes. She’s eywis gaun oan aboot ays bein oan the juice lorries like it’s no good enough fir her. Ah ken whaire it aw comes fae: her auld man’s a snobby cunt n aw. Drives a fuckin bus for the corpie n thinks eh’s middle-class. Cunt only goes nsays tae ays one time, — Juice lorries, thir’s no many prospects thaire, is thir?
    Ah jist sat n said nowt, but ah wis thinkin tae masel, yir fuckin wrong pal, ye git tons ay prospects in that joab, n your wee lassie wis one ay them. Ah cannae fuckin well move fir prospects! Spice ay life!
    Well that Maggie’s a prospect awright and ah’m straight roond tae her hoose when ah finish. She’s in the same stair as the Birrells but she’s one flair up, so ah git the gen oan her auld man n auld girl offay Billy. Fuckin pish-heids. Ah sniff the airmpits tae make sure ah dinnae smell fae luggin they crates, then ah knock at the door.
    She comes tae answer n she’s standing thair, her airms folded, lookin at ays as if tae say, what are you wantin.
    Ah ken what ah’m wantin awright. — Can ah come in fir a cup ay tea well? Sustenance fir a thirsty working chap?
    — Awright, she goes, lookin ower ma shoodir, — but jist for a cup ay tea, n jist fir five minutes.
    We go ben the front room and it’s jist her n the other lassie hame. — Ye ken Gail, Terry? Maggie asks as ah crash the ash.
    She’s goat that ‘ah’m sure ah ken you fae somewhaire’ look oan her face.
    — Ah’ve no hud that pleasure, ah say, noddin ower at Gail n winkin. — No yit, anywey, ah add, as Maggie sniggers and Gail hud’s ma gaze fir a bit. Birds like laddies wi a sense ay humour, n see me, ah’ve goat that Monty Python-type sense ay humour. At the school whin me n Carl n Gally started fuckin aboot nae cunt could understand us. They aw thoat wi wir mental n ah suppose wi wir. The thing Carl doesnae ken but, n that’s how eh disnae git ehs hole, is thit, aye; ye need a sense ay humour but yuv goat tae be mature aroond lassies n aw, no like the daft laddie aw the time. Look at they Monty Python cunts; they might be mental, but thir no like that aw the time. They aw went tae fuckin Cambridge or wherever, n ye dinnae git in thaire unless yuv goat brains. Ye kin bet they didnae