I’ll tell him, no bother. Big shit. Might call round to see him before I have a drink. Aa could put aa brick through his windaa. Not worth the slavva: police, court, fine. Aa better watch it after I’ve had drink. Just might do it. Thinks he owns ye because he gives you aa suit. With these lapels, in this wind, I might just take off. Still it’s better than nowt even if aa got it from that shit. Don’t know what me sister saw in him. Mind she’s always been aa funny bugger.

Might get something in the pub. Somebody’s garden to dig over, always a couple of quid there. Mebbe’s more. Got fifty quid in me hand last week for a demolition job. It’s a young man’s game, swinging from the rafters. No insurance. You start thinking about that the older ye get.

Tell ye what I don’t know as many as I used to when I walked in the yards. Knew hundreds of lads. Never see them now. Some are working away. If you’ve got a trade you can do it. There’s no work for labourers. It’s all push button, blokes with white coats. Nowt for me.

My mate Petey’s a mug doing that security job, working for washers. At least he’s out the house, away for their lass, he has no life with her. She was always a bitch. Go with any bugger. She said I look smart in me new suit. I could see she was dying to laugh. How can she laugh at any bugger? She broke the scales at Weight Watchers.

No point working when I’ve got five bairns; the benefits I’m getting mean I’d have a job worth a fortune. Nobody would give that sort of money. Fiddle jobs are the best I can expect. As long as our lass doesn’t mind I’m alright. She gets sick. She never goes out.

I got a shock the other day, looked in the mirror, for the first time in years. I looked the double of me father. I’m bald. I suppose you always think you look the same, well in ye head. I’m fifty now. Some bugger must have lived me life. That’s what started it. Me brother-in-law called me a baldy bastard.

He picked the wrong time to be funny. Our lass kept saying he’s been good to us and the bairns. He acts the big lad in the club. Buys plenty of drink. I did the same when I was working. I’ve turned down plenty of drink from him, even went home sober. ‘Big man’. Big shit.

Aa like a good drink, ten or twelve pints. No point in just having a couple. Wouldn’t bother going out. I’ve seen me take an hour to get up our street, two steps forward, three back.

Me father was an alcoholic. Time-served. He used to say if drink had windows he’d live in it. He did. Me mother had no life. Slow she was, couldn’t write her name. Read the paper to her every night, when me father went out. She’d say she had trouble with her eyes.

Big woman me mother. Heart attack. Went down like a ton of bricks. Me father was drunk at the funeral, cried all through the service. That was the drink. He didn’t give a shit about me mother. Went straight to the bar. Hell was too good for him. Me uncle tried to push him in me mother’s grave. None of our family went to his funeral, just a few of his drinking cronies. No bugger cried that’s for sure.

My shit of a brother-in-law said I was like me father. I’m going to call round to see him. Aa might put aa brick through his windaa.

Tom Kelly