‘IT’S a f*ckin terrible hing,’ one of the apprentices said. ‘Noo we cannae joost up an leave an go an work in a bar in Ibiza or anywhere like that. It’s no right, man.’

‘Och, as if you’d ever dae that anywey,’ the other laughed, tearing into his packed lunch.

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‘Here f*ck off, ah might. Ye never know.’

‘Aye nae bother, mate. So that’s it? That’s yer big anti-Brexit argument? That you cannae go tae Ibiza an get a joab in the Highlander or Kilties Bar or something?’

‘Aye that an … other stuff as well.’

‘Like wit?’

‘Well, like, it’s a shame fur the refugees an that. Poor c*nts cannae come here noo. It’s a shame.’

‘Wit yous two bumpin yer gums aboot, eh?’ their boss said, walking in with a roll and sausage and a cup of tea.

‘Joost politics an that, Boaby.’

‘Aye, nuttin you’d be interested in.’

‘Aye, yer right there. Politics …’ Boaby shook his head.

‘Bunch ae crooks. They’re aw the same, they politicians.’

‘We’re talking aboot leavin the EU. Wit’s yer thoughts oan that, auld yin? You for or against it?’

‘Eh, och, ah dunno.’ Boaby sat down on the floor and pulled his roll from its greasy paper bag. ‘Ah’ll no be voting anywey.’

‘Well, it’s awready been voted fur. It’s happenin.’


The two apprentices looked at each other. ‘We voted in the referendum like two year ago, Boaby.’

‘F*ck sake. Ah hud nae idea. So we’re leavin this, wit’s it called?’

‘The European Union. How dae you no know aboot this?’

‘Och, ah told ye, it’s cause ah don’t care. Any yous seen mah measurin tape by the way?’

‘Aw aye, ah’ve goat it.’

‘Good. Ah’ll get it back aff ye later.’

One of the apprentices laughed to himself.

‘Wit you laughin at noo?’ Boaby asked.

‘Ah cannae believe you’ve never heard ae Brexit. That’s fried as f*ck, man.’

‘Brexit?’ said Boaby.  ‘Wit’s that?’

The apprentices laughed out loud.

‘Wit is it? Is that a politics hing as well, aye?’

‘So you didnae know that we’re leaving the EU. You didnae know there wis even a vote. Noo yer tellin us you’ve never heard the word Brexit? You’re at it, man, surely.’

Boaby looked flustered. ‘Naw, ah mean, aye, of course ah’ve heard ae the word Brexit. Ah’ve no been livin under a rock.’

‘Use it in a sentence then,’ one of the apprentices said.

‘Right then, eh, Brexit.’ Boaby wracked his brains. ‘You’ve goat mah tape measure aye?’ The apprentice checked his pocket.

‘Aye, it’s here.’

‘Right, well, don’t gie it tae him incase he fuckin Brexit. There ye go. Arseholes.’ Boaby grabbed his lunch and went to eat it by himself in the van.

HWFG by Chris McQueer is available from 404 Ink