Wae every second that passes she sees these thoughts in ma face. ‘I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want you to come. I’m not just asking you to tag along. I’m asking you to come with me. It’s different.’

‘A know that, but this is your big plan …’

‘Think about it then?’

‘Course A will.’

‘Okies. So, I’m heading out with a few friends tomorrow night. You want to come?’

‘What friends?’

‘A couple of mates from uni.’

‘Which ones?’

‘Not Dominic! Just a couple of girls n guys. They’re all cool.’

Deep doon A’m inclined tae avoid these kinda situations. Tae say naw makes yi look para n antisocial but A’ve got this wee feelin, like the types she hangs aboot wae irnae our people n we irnae theirs. Sittin among those types n puttin on ma more proper English register isnae so appealin. Cos A’m knee deep in wae the boys again n aw the shite here is buzzin aboot ma fuckin nut. While Monica’s crew ir talkin aboot studyin, their gap years, which postgrad they’re gonnae dae or how many weans in Africa they’re gonnae build huts fur, A’m thinkin aboot ma ain shite n A don’t feel like tartin it up. Hi, I’m Alan Williams, left school after my Highers and studied Sociology at college in Newcastle, lived in a city-centre flat and enjoyed a few years of easy education before uni, while gaining life experience in a different city. Degree level next? Why of course! Economics, Arts and Humanities, Linguistics n Languages … blah blah fuckin blah. Maybe it’s spiteful tae think like this. It isnae really the case. These cunts huv led different lives tae us n it’s only the night, sittin before Monica Mason, that A feel envious ae the lives they take fur granted. A don’t want tae sit wae strangers who ir gonnae judge me n feign a mild interest in ma daft wee college course. A cannae really talk on their level yit. A’m no stupid, A’ve got opinions n aw that. A know aboot politics n other topics ae polite conversation – but ma opinion is like a trained monkey tae these cunts. Frankenstein’s creature, an eloquent mutant. A hybrid specimen. Working class wae a brain n an accent, that guarantees the split forever.

‘Course A’ll go.’

We’re passin through Bellgrove station n the train’s bouncin. Loads ae young cunts ir drunk n talkin shite n there’s dressed-up elder couples headin through intae the city fur different nights oot. Saturday night wis never the same energy as a Friday tae us. It held residual sufferin ae deathly roughnesses, eckto-weekender re-burns where we hunted fur more Class As n a bottle ae wine tae try n revive us in the chase fur that elusive buzz. That wis back when our spirits wur unbroken n our hearts wur still on fire. We barely went oot in the toon on Saturday nights – we wur somewhere in the stratosphere, on that definite downward trajectory towards earth n the sufferin below that awaited yi on Sunday. When cunts git excited aboot Saturdays, they wur speakin a different language tae us, the Friday Feelin shamans of eld.