boy.
I’ll fucking well keep an eye on that cunt.
A volley of hailstones urgently rattled the large windows, which, despite their size, only at certain times of the day seemed to let in enough light. This was due to the proximity of taller buildings on the other side of the Royal Mile, that narrow thoroughfare which ran from Castle to Palace, a place where sovereign powers once sat, but now essentially just a large open-plan museum.
Skinner stood up to look out at the pedestrians below running for cover. A soaked man, his grey suit made black across the back and shoulders, face red with bombardment from hailstones, scurried into an arched close, peering out with impotent belligerence in the face of the weather’s assault. It was only when he plucked up the nerve to make the dash across the forecourt and his face came into sharper focus that Skinner recognised him as Bob Foy.
Delighted at his boss’s discomfort, Skinner sank into his chair.As befitting his status, it had no armrests. There was a leather-wrapped football tankard on his desk, with a black-and-white Notts County FC crest, in which he kept pens and pencils. As the strip lighting above bounced off the paper on his desk and into his head, how he wished that it was full of refreshing lager.
Just one fucking pint tae get me going. That’s all I ask.
He thought about toughing it out till lunchtime, when perhaps Dougie Winchester upstairs might have similar needs. Winchester, stuck up in his garret, a small office-cum-broom-cupboard at the top of an old staircase, the struggling council piss artist that the non-job had been found for.
Dead wood, just waiting tae be chopped oot by some cunt ruthless enough to wield the axe. And he’ll be along soon, no doubt about that, chavy.
In his mind’s eye he could see Winchester’s ashen face, now almost neckless, and the dead, sunken eyes with the thinning hair swept across the balding pate, a display of vanity so ludicrous that it could only be contemplated by a clinically depressed old fucker. Skinner recalled a particularly dismal conversation he’d had in the pub with him, one Friday after work. — Of course, as ye git aulder, sex becomes less important, Winchester had contended. Skinner looked at him in his shiny suit, reckoning that he was stating the obvious. — Och aye, ye still like the
idea
ay sex, but it becomes too much faffin aboot. Too uncomfortable and sweaty, Danny son. A nice wank, or a blow job fae a tasty wee hoor, och aye, that’s bliss. But see aw this tryin tae satisfy a woman; too much ay a burden, too uncomfortable. Ma second wife couldnae get enough. Aw they friction burns on the welt, scrotum and inside ay the thighs. Nae use. Nae use at aw.
In his hard office chair, Danny Skinner squirmed, chilling as he tried to think of how many times he and Kay had made love last weekend. Only once, a violently sweaty hangover-cure fuck on Saturday morning, devoid of any sensuality. No, there was also a drunken one on Saturday night he could scarcely recall.
She should be having sex with an athlete, not a fucking jakey . . .
Sitting up, Skinner saw Foy appear and his torn face mould into an avuncular grin as he noted the presence of Kibby. He winked, rubbed his cold hands together and led the new boy upstairs to the mezzanine and his office.
Another fucking clone, another Foy arse-licking sycophant. Somebody else who’ll be right up the hole of cunts like that fat fandan Chef De Fretais!
6
Little France
IT SNOWED LAST night. Some of the gritter lorries are out but there seems no need as it’s all gone into slush. This kind of weather always gets me thinking about how tough it must be to work on a farm. You get an idea of it from
Harvest Moon
. Just a big, long slog, where, before you know it, it’s morning once more and you have to get up and do it all over again. It annoys me when they show you farmers on television, always standing around, lazing about or drinking in country pubs. I
I’ll fucking well keep an eye on that cunt.
A volley of hailstones urgently rattled the large windows, which, despite their size, only at certain times of the day seemed to let in enough light. This was due to the proximity of taller buildings on the other side of the Royal Mile, that narrow thoroughfare which ran from Castle to Palace, a place where sovereign powers once sat, but now essentially just a large open-plan museum.
Skinner stood up to look out at the pedestrians below running for cover. A soaked man, his grey suit made black across the back and shoulders, face red with bombardment from hailstones, scurried into an arched close, peering out with impotent belligerence in the face of the weather’s assault. It was only when he plucked up the nerve to make the dash across the forecourt and his face came into sharper focus that Skinner recognised him as Bob Foy.
Delighted at his boss’s discomfort, Skinner sank into his chair.As befitting his status, it had no armrests. There was a leather-wrapped football tankard on his desk, with a black-and-white Notts County FC crest, in which he kept pens and pencils. As the strip lighting above bounced off the paper on his desk and into his head, how he wished that it was full of refreshing lager.
Just one fucking pint tae get me going. That’s all I ask.
He thought about toughing it out till lunchtime, when perhaps Dougie Winchester upstairs might have similar needs. Winchester, stuck up in his garret, a small office-cum-broom-cupboard at the top of an old staircase, the struggling council piss artist that the non-job had been found for.
Dead wood, just waiting tae be chopped oot by some cunt ruthless enough to wield the axe. And he’ll be along soon, no doubt about that, chavy.
In his mind’s eye he could see Winchester’s ashen face, now almost neckless, and the dead, sunken eyes with the thinning hair swept across the balding pate, a display of vanity so ludicrous that it could only be contemplated by a clinically depressed old fucker. Skinner recalled a particularly dismal conversation he’d had in the pub with him, one Friday after work. — Of course, as ye git aulder, sex becomes less important, Winchester had contended. Skinner looked at him in his shiny suit, reckoning that he was stating the obvious. — Och aye, ye still like the
idea
ay sex, but it becomes too much faffin aboot. Too uncomfortable and sweaty, Danny son. A nice wank, or a blow job fae a tasty wee hoor, och aye, that’s bliss. But see aw this tryin tae satisfy a woman; too much ay a burden, too uncomfortable. Ma second wife couldnae get enough. Aw they friction burns on the welt, scrotum and inside ay the thighs. Nae use. Nae use at aw.
In his hard office chair, Danny Skinner squirmed, chilling as he tried to think of how many times he and Kay had made love last weekend. Only once, a violently sweaty hangover-cure fuck on Saturday morning, devoid of any sensuality. No, there was also a drunken one on Saturday night he could scarcely recall.
She should be having sex with an athlete, not a fucking jakey . . .
Sitting up, Skinner saw Foy appear and his torn face mould into an avuncular grin as he noted the presence of Kibby. He winked, rubbed his cold hands together and led the new boy upstairs to the mezzanine and his office.
Another fucking clone, another Foy arse-licking sycophant. Somebody else who’ll be right up the hole of cunts like that fat fandan Chef De Fretais!
6
Little France
IT SNOWED LAST night. Some of the gritter lorries are out but there seems no need as it’s all gone into slush. This kind of weather always gets me thinking about how tough it must be to work on a farm. You get an idea of it from
Harvest Moon
. Just a big, long slog, where, before you know it, it’s morning once more and you have to get up and do it all over again. It annoys me when they show you farmers on television, always standing around, lazing about or drinking in country pubs. I
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