24 Reasons To Fall In Love With A Scottish Person

1. Apathy

 

 

Think this guy might be Tommy Dreamer

2. Rain 

 

Nuhin worse than bumping some geeks bike, this ye realise its aw wet. Check how wet that bike is. 

3. We have heroin, hunners of it. 

 

Peter McDougall, 24, fae Castlemilk, has been on the gear since starting Primary School. Look at him now. Silver fox. Tie on n that. Proof that heroin DOES work if you let it. 

 

 

4. Apathy.

 

 

5. We hate the Tories. When they come here, we boo them and sometimes pee in their shoes. 

 

See this scar on my heid? That's fae Gordon Strachan biting me. 

 

 

6. Wrestling

 

I'M A SIDEYWAYS TREE!

 

 

7. All the good comedians are Catholics

 

Ye hink Father Boyle's gonnae gie his talk on how masturbating will send ye tae the burny fire? Thats ma favourite

 

 

8. You're legally allowed to stick yer thumb in a neds eye if he's eyeballing ye on the bus

 

Poor Santa, posing for one of his famous candid snaps and KAPLOW. Bus hits. Deid.

 

 

9. They filmed a thing here, mind that? Zombies n that.

 

THE SASH? IN GEORGE SQUARE? NO IN MA NAME! LETS FUCKIN KILL THE BASTARDS

 

 

10. We'll show you some truly beautiful places. 

 

 

 

11. Indifference to everything (or 'apathy' if ye prefer)

 

 

 

12. We consider any kind of formal toenail or fingernail clipping to be "poofy as fuck"

 

This is a micro scooter wae nae wheels. Certain of it.

 

 

13. Apathy

 

Why wont the bald bits of my goatee fill in? Wish I was deid

 

 

14. We all know James McAvoy personally. Seriously...we dae. Here's me and him in The Garage causin it last week

 

Who knows aw the words tae Toca's Miracle? YOU...thats who

 

 

15. We're dead good at snooker. 

 

Fitbaw crazy, snooker daft.

 

16. This is fuckin difficult, unless yer churning out cliches and 4 of them are variations on "Scots like a drink! LOL!" Here's some fuckin haggis.

 

Pacman's deid corpse, rotting away on a bed of salad. 

 

 

17. We'll be very honest about how mediocre we are at most hings. Such as financial prudence and sexual intercourse 

 

 

 

18. Its perfectly acceptable to accuse the people of Aberdeen of shagging sheep. They actually love it. It pure defines them.

 

I'll huv her wae the moustache first. Then the wan wae the gammy leg. 

 

 

19. We HATE vegetables. And Liars. And people who like feet. Mainly vegetables though. 

 

They gied me 4 valium so I look like I hate vegetables. I dont ataw.  They're lovely. I wis totally melted

 

 

20. Apathy

 

 

 

21. No matter if its a friend, loved one, enemy or stranger on the street. "Fuck up" is an acceptable retort to someone talking utter shite.

 

 

 

22. Fuckin.....WRESTLING

 

Ma boaby moustache you a question Mr Polo..hawhawhaw

 

 

23. Auchtermuchty is the name of a real town. Here's some people walking around in it. 

 

Startled doggers after a local photographer spots them having a post match warm down.

Last but not least......

 

24. WE VOTED NO! We depend on YOU! 

 

What's not to love eh? A bunch of scummy, shitebag bastards, but we're occasionally nice to ye if we can be arsed.

Don't come here. Its cauld, and people let the fitba teams they support make vital decisions for them.

Only kidding. FREEEDOM and all that.

Hands Up For The Grand Finale

I've got fuck all left. 

Imagine I wrote a story here about two warring factions from the future, populated by humans and robots. But they're fighting over a shoebox. Which is significant. For some reason.

Imagine I wrote a story here about a seahorse who could play the violin, but found it mundane and laid aff it for a while.

Imagine I wrote a story about all the triplets and quintuplets in your local area starting a fight club. Imagine that. 

Imagine there was some stuff here about how Rick Martel was weirdly overrated considering the fact that he was quite shite.

Imagine there was a story here about a world where everyone had dreadlocks. Regardless of race or gender. 

Imagine I shut the fuck up. 

Thank you for donating. Its been awrite. £255. No bad at all. 

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Papa Shango And The Plastic Whistles

Papa Shango sat on a wall.

Papa Shango had a great fall.

He stood proudly aloft

Taking in some free soccer

Risking life for Partick Thistle?

He must be off his rocker

As a bonnie lad, he never had the chance

To reject the fitbaw, become a lord of the dance.

With his hobbies and interests determined from youth

He stood up on that wall, and screamed "Durantys a poof!"

No facts to attest, it was simply just rumour

But that wall's not a soapbox. 

For agendas to maneuver. 

As he stood up on that wall.

Karma struck wance. 

And he took a great tumble. 

Doomed to never become

 Lord of the dance. 

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LL Cool Jams

What if LL Cool J opened a jam factory? It's not too difficult to picture. A simple transition from jams to jams. Hits to condiments. It was what he always aspired to be, but until the millions were made and the mic was firmly affixed to its holster for keeps, he couldn't pursue it. Music is more stable they told him. Everyone makes money from music! Jam is a flash in the pan. People will be downloading their jam's from torrent sites before we hit 2020, and where's yer 5 year plan when that happens LL? What happens then.

All he wanted to do was make jam. Logistics were never his strong point. He chased the dream regardless. "Got this Elderberry recipe that the world has to taste" He'd tell anyone who'd listen. He put the feelers out and got a hook up with a notorious jar guy. Connection made. Containers for his art. Can you ever contain art though? Such an organic thing so it is. Unlike these terrible unhealthy jams. Unless ye count liquidised pigs eyes as an organic ingredient. The containers were set, the recipes were on point, all he needed now was distribution.

LL had a plan.

"So I'm thinkin we overtake some of these Korean laundromats around here....we make them pay us protection money, and commandeer their vehicles...and boom, we got our distribution!"

"Mate' ye've got a garage full tae the brim wae transit vans, whit the fuck ye puttin folk outta business for?" asked Paul Lambert...wondering how the fuck he'd got there in the first place. Aston Villa were actually just about to kick off away at West Brom, but this joker was lounging about in LL Cool Js den, trying tae veto his plans to build an empire on jam and illegal activity.

"For jam baby! we do it all for the sweet sweet jams"

LL couldn't get a team together to ransack these Koreans though. Only guy he eventually managed to convince wis Ray J, cause what the fuck else is that cunt doing other than sticking jaggy nettles up the arse of his Kanye West voodoo doll? Ride all. Soon as they entered the first shop they were hitting up, the manager recognised Ray J right away. "Awwww thats the guy thats comes in here and masturbates while he watches his silk linens get ruined in the tumble dryer....MR MASTURBATOR...YOU'RE BARRED, WHIT YOU DAEIN IN HERE?"

So Ray J made like a banana and split, and since they hadn't actually began overthrowing the place yet, LL Cool J decided it was best to abort the whole thing, pretending he'd never met Ray J, and coming to an agreement with the Koreans for him to use their distribution service for a monthly fee of 2 grand. To be paid regardless of how much jam LL slings. Returning to the shagpad content that he got what he needed without resorting to crime, LL opened up his garage, to see Paul Lambert standing in there, pointing to the row of transit vans LL owner, and making that face ye make at somedy when yer thinking "for fuck sake man" This cunt got himself locked into multi year contract for a distribution system he didnae need, and we've definitely lost Ray J for good.  He's never gonnae stop running now.

"Paul...I'm gettin sick of the attitude man....I'll ask you one more time...why do we do this Paulie?" LL was exasperated now. He didnae feel that Paul Lambert was being a team player at this point, but Paul proved him, and all his detractors wrong when he stood on the bonnet of one of LLs transit vans, raise his fist triumphantly towards the sky and said "JAM! WE DO IT FOR JAM!

That elderberry shit is mad tasty yo.

Donate to SAMH pls.

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The Misunderstood Spider

He'd never hurt a fly.

Cunt just eats them.

Sustenance but int it? People will eat all sorts of weird shit to keep them living. In the case of the friendly spider, he needed to eat the odd fly to keep that heart of his beating. Sick of getting shit for it though. A constant barrage of cunts telling him what he's doing is wrong, what would you if your family was starving and the only option was to rely on the fly? 

"I've ate some of my best friends you know...this fly thing has torn me apart, but when it boils down to it, its an eye for eye, we both lose our sight, but two wrongs dont make a right...know what whit I'm saying?" 

"Whit?"

"SPIDERS ARE SUPPOSED TO EAT FLIES AWRITE....fuck sake man, big inquest  cause I ate my best pal due to him being physically the closest fly to me. Never even liked that dick anyway" 

"Mate...I don't speak spider, yer just making weird noises at me" explained Harry the Hippopotamus, before he turned round and got back to the game of checkers he was having with Lenny the Leopard.

There used to be a time where spiders could project how they felt about things and people would understand, but this guy was doing nothing for the cause. People understand spiders need flies to stay alive right. People dae. They grasp that concept, but no one can get on board with a man eating his best pal out of convenience. No one. Thats where Sergio the Spider fell doon, wae his breeks roon his ankles. He ate his best pal, his accountant, the guy who was in the middle of valeting his car. He ate the whole team. Turns out it was mainly greed motivating him. He didnae need to eat any of those spiders. He made a comfortable wage. Fridge was always full. 

Turns out the spider wisnae misunderstood at all. He was simply a bit of an arsehole. 

Dragons Den

"You're going to pitch an actual Dragons Den....to Dragons Den?"

"Yes"

"Isn't that......how is that a business? What are you offering?"

"Offering them a chance to buy a share in some dragons my man"

"Well when you put it like that...."

Two people. One conversation. Lets call the first person who spoke Bill. Bill O'Brian. A thinker. His pal, Molly McMaster, was not that way inclined. She thought pitching a Dragons Den to Dragons Den would be a cool story. Quirky. Forgetting that dragons no longer exist. Even the ones in Game Of Thrones are guys in suits. Might aswell fire it on Craigslist I suppose. If guys can go there to safely and legally ask if any of his fellow citizens fancy swearing honey on his bawsack and locking him in a room with a troupe of bees, surely Molly McMaster would be able tae find enough dragons to populate a den. The ad read like this

Looking for 10-15 dragons

Preferably non-smoking, non ugly dragons only. Dragons should all share a common socialist agenda. All dragons should be comfortable using the same toothbrush, because I'm no made of money. All dragons should be real dragons. Any timewasters will be sighed and tutted at. Also, any guidance of what ye actually feed dragons, and if these Tiger Cubs I found will be any use, is more than welcome. 

She waited for minutes, Maybe upwards of 10 of them. Then she started to lose hope. If you were a dragon on the internet, doing yer usual morning routine of searching S1Jobs meticulously for anything remotely dragon friendly, surely you'd have an alert of some kind set up whenever some weirdo on Craigslist is looking for a dragon. As we crossed into an 11th minute, Molly was ready to call it. Ye tried hen. Fair play, but pitching a Dragons Den to Dragons Den remains a fucking stupid idea.

Or it remains a stupid idea, until that phone rings

"Hello?"

"Hullo there dawl, I'm answering yer advertisement for some dragons...got the very boys for ye right here! We must have at least 10-12 fertile young dragons living in this building"

Molly's heart started racing. The dream might become a reality yet if the dollars and cents were right

"Lets talk brass tax Mr Dragon Keeper...how much for the fuckin LOT" 

"If you've got enough house room for them, they're yours for fuck all. Costing me a fortune keeping the bastards, aw they eat is fuckin leeks" 

"FREE DRAGONS? Aye send them over. Got yersell a deal right there my man. Of course I've got room for them, I purpose built a whole den to aid this quirky story"

"Oh aye...so ye did. Right I'll get them on the next bus over to ye"

Unfortunately the next bus wisnae for another hour, and the caller was actually Swiss. Meaning even when the bus arrived, it wouldn't be able to transport the dragons from Zurich to Glasgow directly, because thats not a bus route ya silly! 

4 days went by, and Molly was getting antsy. Where art thou Dragon? The doorbell rang. Molly realising quickly that she didnae have a doorbell, and she should probably stop burgling this house and get hame in case the dragons were waiting for her. She climbed out the window she panned in to gain entry to the property, and set off for home with a brand new 50 inch flat screen washing machine, and a brand new 6 slice toaster. When she arrived, she was greeted by a squad of confused looking guys in rugby shirts. What the fuck was this shite?

"You said you wanted dragons luv...here we bloody are! 13 of the finest Welshmen you'll ever find" 

Of course it was fucking Welsh folk. 

"Naw I meant actual fuckin dragons ya squad ah fuckin melters...I should really of asked that Swiss cunt for a photie or something eh"

"LOVE...WHERES ALL THE BLOODY LEEKS THEN!?" The Welshies were already getting impatient, and Molly was running out of options. She promised these cunts hoose room, and they're already shouting about leeks. She made the decision to press on with the plan, as she traded in that 6 slicer I was on about earlier for the biggest hamper of leeks you'll ever see. This container was brimming. Feed the dragons, keep their spirits high, and dae it anyway. Pitch a Dragons Den to Dragons Den.

For some reason the producers fuckin loved the idea. It must be the same thing as X Factor putting through delusional, shite singers. The producers were there to ensure proper business ventures received funding, and people attempting to sell Welsh People to Duncan Bannatyne got the shaming they deserved. 

"Wait....wadda you mean this is a Dragons Den...this IS Dragons Den" implored Bannatyne, as the vein on his forehead began pulsating. 

"Relax with the perplexed pulsations man, I see that vein. Cool out. This is a Dragons Den ye see, because its populated by Welshmen. The truest dragons of them all.....SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT LEEKS FOR A MINUTE, I'M TALKING TAE DUNCAN BANNATYNE FOR FUCK SAKE...sorry, as I was saying. Dragons. In a den. I got it. These Welsh dudes. I got it"

"Ok, I'm just gonnae declare right now, I'm the Cruella Deville looking wuman, and I'm out"

"Yeah, this is Peter Jones, and I own many sharp suits. This venture does NOT look like it could help me increase that tally. I thought a leek was something you dried up with paper towels until today. What the fuck are they on about? Is it food? Know what, I don't care. I'm out"

Theo Bathitis was yet to declare, and Duncan Bannatyne was also still in much to everyone surprise. This is the guy who turned down the first ever pitch for a bicycle because it was "too far fetched, too fast and too liberal" but for some reason, these Welsh Guys intrigued him. Theo was next to declare.

"Listen, I love the enthusiasm. Really do. Its mint. You're a pukka lass. This though? Its stupid. Its not Millwall enough. Welsh people are not a business, and for that reason I'm out" 

"Fair enough, I respect your opinion but its also wrong and I hate you, Duncan....talk to me" Molly was getting brash in her desperation, hoping her confidence might sway big Duncan, but he only held off till last so his rejection had more emphasis than the others. That's how much he fucking hates the Welsh. And leeks. 

"Molly, did you know I tried to open a gym in Wales once? This is a true story right, every morning I'd open the gym, and every morning without fail, John bloody Hartson would saunter in, with a polly bag filled to the brim with various baked goods outta Greggs...every morning he'd demand a free tour of the premises, and every single fucking morning I'd show him around the place, as he scranned sausage rolls and and got the fuckin crumbs all over all the treadmills. I have no idea how he got crumbs on EVERY treadmill either, the cunt seemed to have a talent for it. This went on for months, with every touring ending with him nodding at me, and goin 'Aright Dunc, I'll think about it yeh?' and I'm beginning to think he never did think about it ye know. I'm beginning to think that cunt just wanted somewhere dry and warm to eat his sausage rolls....so fuck Wales, fuck John Hartson, and fuck this incredibly insulting, quirky wee 'idea' of yours. Even if you did get real dragons, whit fuckin use would they have been to anyone? They'd have killed us all ya daft mair. Stop robbing hooses tae. You've came in here with a balaclava on, some weans tamagotchi hingin oot yer back pocket, and a squad of confused Welsh guys, and you've tried to get 100 grand of me for 20% of Welsh Guys? You wanna take a long hard look at yourself pal" 

Rocked by Duncans words, Molly reflected, slowly removed her balaclava to reveal a big huge dragons heid. She was a dragon the whole fuckin time! And this is her domain. No longer would it be ruled by big business, her and this team of Welsh cunts were taking it back.

She set the Welshies on all the non Bannatyne dragons, throwing them all out of the window of the 9th floor studio they filmed this shit in, killing them all instantly. "What shall we do with youuuuu" Molly pondered. Not realising how high up this building was and the fact that she'd just overseen the mass murder of 3 television personalities.

"Well you've killed Peter Jones already, so life's no longer worth living.........so my name's Duncan Bannatyne, and since I didnae get the chance to say it properly to you earlier...I'M FUCKIN OUT!"

He quickly pulled a Colt 45 out his back pocket and KABLOW. Blew his fuckin brains out. He'd seen this shit play out one too many times. Dragons get lairy involve Welsh people as pawns in their sick plans for global domination. and all of a sudden they want to burn old Duncan Bannatyne to a crisp. No longer would he stand for it. No fucking longer. Jump before yer pushed. 

The longest story yet, and it ended with Duncan Bannatyne committing suicide. Fair to say this yin dragged on a wee bit eh? (geddit...dragon...drag..on....its wordplay!)

Molly went to jail for orchestrating the murders, but she quite obviously burned the jail down. As is her right as a dragonwuman.

I think I'll just keep typing here if I don't put a proper conclusion on this. So aye. 

Scratched and Clawed

Another tin of Aldi beans goes into another pot, another imitation Twix gets shared between a young lad and his 13 siblings. Another day in our fair land where hauf the folk cannae afford tae eat, and the other half don't gie a fuck. Better together as generations march together in the name of free food. Fuckin freeloading NATIONALIST SCUM.

I saw a wee video last night and it shook me. Its made storytelling a wee bit difficult, when we're nearing full scale riots in Glasgow, because some people are sore winners. Sore WINNERS for fuck sake. People who do not see victory as a chance for harmony, and a chance to move on and create a better Scotland together. Nah. These cunts fired a Union Jack on their back, found out when and where their next local Orange Walk was taking place, and piled intae Glesga to sing The Famine Song. My old man has always been a very tolerant, fair man, but when it comes to The Old Firm divide, there always been a very clear sense of "we're both awful, but they're slightly worse" I always scoffed at that. There's bad eggs on baith sides I'd say. it helps no one to generalise. Lets all move forward to create a better Old Firm together. It was always in vain. Cause ye know what? He was right. They are a wee bit worse. Maybe they weren't before, but some of them are now. Some of them voted with their fuckin eyes closed and that's when your stupidity becomes dangerous. Not when you mobilise the young and the elderly. When you mobilise cunts who stoat about Glasgow City Centre, steaming, screaming bigoted slogans at people who wanted a better future for their children. How fucking dare you. Get back in the queue at the foodbank, get back to scratching and clawing. There's a box of Muesli in today. Make sure ye try and grab that. Eat yer cereal son. Its the best thing for it. Forget about all this and eat yer cereal.

Glasgow needs to stand up to this. If we allow the cretins to turn this in to another fucking Old Firm thing, we'll never be free of it. A rivalry I used to identify with, and at times, I'll no lie, I personally centered my miserable existence on the fucking thing. It absorbs good people and turns them temporarily bad, but the bad people turn intae fucking monsters. Pigheaded idiots who see nothing but their own agenda and see those idiots? They run Glasgow right now. They won. The people spoke, and the silent majority got their way, but now they're not content with silence any more. They want to stand shoulder to shoulder wae their brothers and sisters, who they're not sure if they might actually be their real brothers n sisters. Does it really matter? Blood's thicker than water, but there's fuck all thicker on planet earth than an Old Firm fan who thinks their opinion matters. An Old Firm fan who thinks The Old Firm still matter. In 2014, we have people voting against a better future for themselves and their children, and a chance for this country to be governed by its own, because of football. Having an agenda open up and swallow you. They unite with the real "no" voters, embarrassed at how poorly run the currently gloating "no" campaign was, but still strong enough in their reasoned, educated beliefs that "no" was the right option for this country. As much as a large percentage of our population are good no's and deserve to have their opinion heard and respected, without the bigots voting because football and their religious identity told them to, you don't win. These people made it happen, and they're making as much noise about it as possible.

Maybe the story will be different next time. Maybe if we get this opportunity again, a nation will be divided once again, before being unified again by a more accepting Scotland, or maybe we will continue to "obey our queen" and bow down to intimidation, till the day we draw our last, rotten breath.

Don't look at the man with the painted face son. He'll poison yer mind. Be seen and not heard. Eat yer cereal.

Fuckin Australian anyway int he? Typical immigrant. That script should have been put in a pile tae James Mcavoy was old enough to do the role justice.

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