8am, a very large breakfast consisting of ripened green figs, lapsang souchong health tea and thin slivers of warm olive oil drizzled over cold water salmon direct from the poachers pouch. Not quite as authentically Scottish as it sounds, the poachers pocket is what we call the Tesco Express inside the BP garage behind the library car park. I could hear my oul granny turning in her grave as I stripped off the plastic wrapper and entered 2 minutes into the microwave.
God bless her hairy oul chin.
Today I shall be meeting up with my old school friend Jimmy for a glass or two of something malty and a good blather about how shite the world has become since we first turned 40. Jimmy and I are very close, we were once together in a band called 'Pubic Hair.' We were very big in the 70's. Sadly our other wee pal Map cannae make it. This morning on the way to work a guy drove into the back of his car at some lights, whilst not really paying attention.
Wee Map got out and he went up to the guy.
He said, "I'm not happy."
The guy replied, "Well, which one of the seven are you then?"
I shouldn't mock. My first girlfriend left me for a dwarf. It nearly broke my heart, I couldn't believe she would stoop so low.
I can't stay too long reminiscing with Jimmy, the wife's getting all excited because it's our 24th wedding anniversary this weekend. I must remember to phone her just before the fitba kicks off and tell her to have a good time. We went shopping yesterday and got separated in the crowd. When we eventually found each other I said to my wife, "Where have you been?"
She said, "Shopping in the sales. I bought my mother this dress for a ridiculous figure." I looked at her mother and said, "Aye, you're no joking hen."
It all started with a ride-on lawnmower with a buckled blade that I took in for repair to Christian (yep, another heid-the-baw Christian) the local handyman in the village. A spectacularly boring man who has found the secret to universal peace, prosperity, and happiness in his ability to quote passages from the bible. Now, I'm no really big on religion. In fact, if there was such a thing as a dog I may no be quite so dyslexic.
While Christian is humming 'Rock of Ages' under his breath and tinkering with his spanners he begins to recite to me the delightful tale of a couple of real eejits from the good book that he carries around in his head. The two plums go by the name of Titus and Levi. Titus, it seems, is the Bible’s sneakiest wee assassin. He is on a mission to deliver a 'message from God' to his pal, smarmy King Levi. Titus waltzes in off the street, probably fresh fae a drinking and whoring session somewhere down Gomorrah way, to meet your man, the gluttonous royal. He pulls out a long chib and stabs poor oul Levi in the stomach. At first he can’t get it in, but he pushes harder and eventually reaches his intestine. Levi is no as fit as he could be, too many pies, too much hearty ale no doubt, och it happens to us all eventually. He is so overweight, I learn, that his fat belly actually covers the hilt of the chib, pushing it further into his stomach until only a foul gas escapes and the blade is no even visible.
It’s at this point that Levi loses control of his bowels and begins to defecate mercilessly all over his new desert sandals. Not funny at 30 sheckles a pair. The King’s attendants, bearded eunuchs no doubt, you know what that lot are like eh? Eventually they come back but having no balls they hesitate and do not enter the royal fellas bed chamber, assuming he is relieving himself. After waiting 'to the point of embarrassment', his attendants burst in to find the auld fella dead on the floor, covered in his own fecal matter. Meanwhile, Titus has escaped to the local bars of Judea and gone on a massive bender after ditching the chib in a Roman storm drain and changing his shite covered toga for clothing stolen from some other poor fella. A pair of Levi's perhaps?
The moral to this wee tale...
Never run over a rock and let a religious zealot, who drinks his own pish and names his children Cyprian, Hippolytus, Irenaeus, Polycarp, Didache and Barnabas, fix your lawnmower and tell you poop tales after you have breakfasted on green figs, laxative tea, petrol station fish and soured olive oil. Especially if he won't lend you the key to the outside karsi in case you, the big oul heathen that you are, run off with the biblical brick it's attached to.
See you all in hell, I'll be the tall one water skiing on a lake of burning fire. We'll do lunch!