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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The Talking Dug

A dug's for Christmas, not just for its wise life advice. That's what they always say. Don't marginalise your dug on Christmas Day just because you don't need its advice anymore. Respect the talking dug. Make it part of the family ya swine. This dog got no Turkey. No perfectly wrapped gifts waiting under the table for our wise wee crusader. Fuck all but half baked promises and shoulder shrugging. The dug was fucking done with it. Why should you care about anything when the humans who monopolise yer food intake cant even be bothered giving you a formal name. Condemned as "the dug" forever.

"Ye believe that? Fuck all for christmas again, aw that advice I gied the cunt about taking oot a second mortgage and getting the roughcasting done tae raise the property's value before the upcoming fluctuation in the market, and this is how I'm repaid? But that braindead spawn of theirs does nuhin but shite aw err the hoose, and the wee cunt gets a mountain bike" at this point dug was sounding off, but his pal Myrtle the turtle couldnae be arsed.

"Yer sposed tae be a talking dug mate, no a fuckin blethering dug, wantae weesht?" Myrtle was not amused.

Dug was in nae mood for simmering.

"No I most certainly will not weesht, I am a talking dug, and rare thing in this day and age, and I deserve to be heard. I deserve at least my ain wee bowl full of gravy, wae a single roast tottie in the middle, or whit exactly am I fighting for?"

Exactly mate. That's the question ye need tae ask yerself at the end of the day, if that talking dug isnae getting fussed over on christmas day, then does it really matter if you didnae get the gifts you wanted in the end? Is your Uncle Jim going for a nap in your room, preventing ye from playing Halo 16 on the PS9 or whitever the fuck the score is in the future. As bleak as your festive future might be, ye'll never have it as bad as the talking dug who disnae see even one single sausage. Not a link in his future.

If yer Uncle Jim insists on going for a Christmas Day nap, usher him towards that weird corner behind the door in yer kitchen that nobody ever ventures towards, smile and tell him the wee door stopper thing is a new age springy pillow ye bought, where the comfortable part is fully invisible. Still feel bad that you had to lie initially to have your ultimate goal met? Thats fine. The guilt you have over that will never match the guilt the Fraser family (natives of Arbroathshire...not a real shire) had towards never appreciating your talking dog enough, and having to deal with the pain of him moving away and never wanting to speak you you again.

Moral of this story? Don't let yer Uncle Jim come the cunt. Christmas Day disnae mean ye just sleep everywhere. Up and at em Jimbo.

The Bae Who Cried GIF

This 1s 4 BAE xox

What makes a world class top quality GIF? Its all in the timing. Comedic timing, storytelling timing, its all timing baby. Its all science to Bettiezz. Aka Liz. Aka Bettie. Aka Imperial Dark Lord(ess?) Of The Sharpnailed Realm.

Its about being able to fight fire with fire. Anything anyone says to you, be it spoken word, typed word, or word conveyed to you via sign language. Disnae matter, there's a GIF for everything and she has them all. She also had the answer to the question "should I be capitalising the word gif?" but she isnt awake right now, and I'm no googling it, so I will continue to blindly capitalise that shit in the name of ignorance. Anyway. Liz built an empire on based on GIFs (the more i dae it in capitals, the less it feels 'right') and having a first name that lends itself involvement in empires. Mainly the GIF thing though. She wanted to live as a GIF more than anything else in the world. An existence based on something that pleases people on a loop. A funny wee clip, a pretty face, a racist falling down a well, a cool reaction to your stupid as fuck query. Whatever your GIF poison, she had it. Locked and loaded. She believed in GIFs. She believed they'd outlive us all, and thats why she wanted to become one. Mrs Doubtfire style, she went to a right good makeup artist. "Make me a GIF!" she demanded, and despite having it explained to her in great detail how you can't immortalise someone with eyeliner. She went to various leaders of industry. Creative experts. Guys who could animate inanimate objects and wave them in yer face. Real superpowers. None of them had answer. None of them could make her a GIF.

She never needed them though, ye see. Bettie was a GIF all along. To become a GIF you have to become a moment. A frozen snapshot of time, momentarily unfrozen, and played on a loop for all eternity. She closed her eyes and wished really hard. She wanted to become that time she drew a shady look to that guy in the post office, asking how much it would cost to send his sack full of christmas cards to each individual location, even though they were all the same postcode. He had to make sure. Of course he did. The fuckin dick. She wished so hard to become that moment of silent derision and it actually happened don't ye know. It fuckin happened. She was immortalised in GIF. A moment on a loop, being projected on to a giant whiteboard in Bettiezz's kitchen from now until the end of her days. She could never die now. Even when her human form aged and began to rot. That look would remain. As the worms ate her earthly corpse, she would live on as an internet phenomenon. Her wae they eyes.

As the years ticked by, she began to notice something, whilst her perfectly pert mid 20s independent female frame remained perky, and her perfectly dark hair remained untainted by greys, the GIF wis gettin auld. The GIF was making that classic auld person "ughhhhhhh" sittin doon noise. The GIF wis sick of it. Livng that same moment repeatedly for the duration of yer days? A grind. Bettie understood the struggle, but didnae understand why the GIF was aging and she wisnae. Unless.....did we topsy-turvy that muhfucka?

I think we topsy-turvied it! GIF repertoire so carefully built that it became a law unto itself. A GIF game so tight, her entity transferred into GIFdom, and the physical shell that remained stayed young. It stayed flawless. The GIFs beauty captured in a moment, but like most moments in time, it rotted. Soured by things unrelated to the moment itself. The shell was unblemished, it no longer felt the pain.

The auld burd in the GIF was still a ride though. Definitely wid.

They Be Down For Whatever

Its all about Dave, its all about Diddy.

Its all about what they be down for.

Which is whatever.

All day. All night. Holiday Mondays, weekday Barmitzvahs. Whatever. Thats what they down for.

"Most prolific player in comedy babaaaay!" Diddy bellows, as Dave follows behind him, scooping fag douts oot a big ash tray. Not even scooping them out with a view to using them productively. All he was doing was picking them up, sniffing them and throwing them away. They were down for whatever, but in the case of David John Curren. He was down tae get weird.

"Gon ger real peculiar up in here Diddy, can I get an amen" said Dave, as he filled a sock full of pennies and broken promises.

"AMEN MY BRUTHA!.......HERE'S TO SHENANIGANS!" claimed Diddy loudly, beating his chest with the charred remains of a coupla snitches.

They partied on in to the night. Snorting industrial strength drain cleaner, and flicking playing cards intae electric pencil sharpeners. Living the fucking big life. Down for whatever.

One thing they were not down for, was having their constitutional rights challenged. They wandered down 45th Street, New Bostonshire and came across a pencil pusher with a right bloody agenda. No longer could they sing the merry song of two dudes down for whatever. A couple of beat making, record breaking and record taking muhfuckas. Being denied the right tae sing My Girl Wants To Party All The Time at 4 in the morning on ANY street is a fuckin liberty. Some negative nelly wae a right bloody attitude says its not possible. Dave and Diddys next move was simple and concise. They did one thing. One sentence. All the emphasis.

They busted a move.

That changed the game forever. The D and D allstars showed the world that order was overrated. Show the world the way forward through movement. Busted movement. 

The world progressed as a more forward thinking planet, the busted movement accounting for over 60% of the worlds profits from the arts, the other 40% coming from the gross profits from Diddys movie career. Everything revolved around Diddy. Like it always has, and always should be.

Diddy Davey Money. Gettin all the hunnies.

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Anton Rogan, The Beastie Boys and a Soda Stream

No story is worth reading without a hero. No story is worth telling without a villain. And no story is a story at all without Anton Rogan. That's the rules to storytelling right there. Anton Rogan was a man. Anton Rogan still is a man, but back then he was a Northern Irish man. A man of great virtue. A man of limited, but very specialised skills. A man who owned a soda stream.

Whilst reminiscing on one of his many unsuccessful forays up the park with the ball at his feet, he contemplated what he might do with this soda stream. The two things are entirely unrelated, but lets weave them together anyway. He sat and listened to his favourite hip-hop collective The Beastie Boys and contemplated his next move. Would he produce fine sodas for worldwide consumption? Would he continue doing the question thing till he came up with some creative ideas for this story? Will there be another referendum in my lifetime? SHOULD ANTON ROGAN USE HIS SODA STREAM TO PRODUCE A BRAND OF BOWLER EXCLUSIVE COLA CALLED BOWLER COLA?

Yes. Yes he should. And yes indeed he did. The cola went fuckin viral tae. And by that I dont mean it got very very popular, I mean it was actually laced wae a deadly virus. Everyone who drunk it died instantly, but because it was trendy folk kept on drinking it. Voluntarily shovelling their own death down their throats. Theres a lot of referendum subtext in this yin eh? Nothing else seems important really. Anton Rogan was always very important. 18 caps for Northern Ireland disnae just happen. Unless yer name's Ivan Sproule. 

Failed miserably to weave The Beastie Boys into this tale effectively. I mean really, would Anton Rogan be intae The Beastie Boys? He seems like more of a Daniel O'Donnell typa cunt tae me. 

So Anton Rogan made a billion off this Bowler Cola. Thats nice. Thats nice for him.

The Miz Smells What The Rock Is Booking

I got one finger, I got one tongue, and I got your mommas best pleasure interests at heart

Imagine Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson was the chief booker at WWE. Imagine that for a moment if you will. An other worldly scenario. Having a world class movie athlete working a regular 9-5 type of job. Crazy. Dwayne lives by this motto you see, a motto that sets him apart from the common man, the motto of "eat...sleep....multitask.....mess around with traditional slogan structure...conquer...repeat" and with that in mind he decided to combine making a new one hour TV Special called "How I Met Your Brother"  (which is the story about two guys meeting at the bowling, and one guy telling the other guy's sister about it) with being the decision guy at wwe. Head of creative. Chief imperial master of booking. He strolls in, day one, writers...road agents, the whole team. Conference room...NOW.

They all pile in as Rocky hastily changes into a bright blue suit, asking everyone "is the wig overkill? a little too much?" Aye Rocky san, the wig is too much. Unless it was some outwardly comedic Don King lookin shit, but thats just a bog standard wig mate. No good enough. The subject of the meeting was simple

"How quickly can we get The Miz, dressed in a full suit of armour, being led by a stable of Sheiks who all own one quarter of him, calling themselves 'We Own The Knight' "

Up piped Dean Malenko, as he loudly proclaimed "I'd say we could get that done fairly quickly boss!"  settling back into his chair giggling like fuck, muttering "fuck the fuckin Miz" under his breath. So it was settled. The Miz's new gimmick. The only thing left to do was to tell the man himself.

Telling him was mainly a question of which part of his schedule do you feel it would impact the most. The Rock wanted to this to ruin The Miz's day as much as possible, so he surveyed a schedule that include "6am reps....6.15am selfie......6.20 back to reps" and decided that the 2 hours Miz sets aside every day to watch recorded episodes of Countdown, memorise all the best words and the solutions to the numbers game, then re-watch the show with friends and dazzle them with your mad numericals, and slick word game. 4pm-6pm. Every day. Without fail. The Rock wanted to deliver this news in person, so he showed up just as Miz was setting the VCR and delivered the bad news.

"But......I cant......We Own The Knight? would I ever wrestle?"

"That's what you've been doing all this time? Nah man, no more wrestling for you. Just you being owned by a bunch of Sheiks. They dont even wrestle either. The whole thing is geared towards humiliating you as much as possible"

"Oh" The Miz paused for a second to consider his next move. Does he voice his displeasure at this turn of events? Does he refuse the gimmick? Or does he remain a "team player" take his medicine, and do the job. He didnae even have time to think on it for long when Rock landed one "POW!" right on his kisser. Knocked Miz the fuck out.

"What the hell was that for?!" Implored The Miz, and blood trickled down from his nose, being caught by his trembling bottom lip.

"Well Miz...it was to teach you a lesson, sometimes even when you accept your fate with good grace, Dwayne Johnson punches you the fuck out anyway"

Fin.

Jo Venglos Must Be Some Kind of SuperCentaur

Dr Jo Venglos was going the Jamelia concert. He was going to the Jamelia concert because old people don't hear very well. This is the story about that.

"Its about me! I have to go" Exclaimed Jo, as his daughter once again tore into him with questions about his motivation for wanting to see a lassie who barely had 3 hits, only 1 of which folk actually remember. For some reason he seemed convinced the whole thing was about him, and when asked to explain why he held this theory he'd wink and go "thats for me tae know and you tae find out hen"...so off he went, heading to....I don't fuckin know, what kind of venue would even haud a fuckin Jamelia concern in 2014? King Tuts? The toilets in the Barras? Anyway, so off he went. To the toilets in the fuckin Barras, to see Jamelia live. Upon arrival he ordered a rum and coke, wae a twist of lime. "Anything for yer horse?" laughed the barman...."HAHAHAHAHA GOOD YIN MATE, CAUSE I'M HAUF HORSE, HAUF MAN....FIRST TIME I'VE HEARD THAT PAL...YOU'RE A BELTURRR...Just gies ma fuckin drink dickheid" Oh aye, I forgot to mention, Dr Jo Venglos is a centaur in this story.

So the barman made his drink and off he went tae the toilets tae see some Jamelia. There was one other spectator who Jo immediately recognised as Renee Dupree excitedly letting out a yelp of "Renneeeeeeeee!" 

"Yes sir? You know of my world class professional wrestling work?"

"No sorry, that's what you do? I just really like the name Renee. I google it a lot, and when I do, your face shows up....you had a lot of cool hair cuts...around 2008 maybe"

"Uhhhhhhhm....so you're a big Jamelia fan huh?"

"Not really, but she sings a song about me, so I come for the self indulgence...you?"

"Renee Dupree just loves him some Jamelia baby! Which song is about you?"

Dr Jo raised his eyebrow, glanced at his horsey back-end, and let out a sigh. 

"Seriously mate? Look at me. Its obviously SuperCentaur"

"Whit? How does that wan go like? Don't think I've heard it"

"Oh for fuck sake...this again, its her most popular tune ya clown.....goes lit this

People always talk about (ey oh ey oh ey oh)

All the things they're all about (ey oh ey oh ey oh)

Write it on a piece of paper,

Got a feeling I'll see you later.

There's something bout this,

Lets keep it moving,

And if its good lets just get something cooking.

Cause I really wanna rock with you,

I'm feeling some connection to the things you do.

(you do, you do).

I don't know what it is,

That makes me feel like this,

I don't know who you are,

But you must be some kind of supercentaur,

Cause you got all eyes on you no matter where you are,

(you just make me wanna dance)

Baby take a look around (ey oh ey oh ey oh)

Everybody's getting down (ey oh ey oh ey oh)

Deal with all the problems later,

Bad boys on their best behaviour.

There's something bout you,

Lets keep it moving,

And if it's good lets just get something cooking,

Cause I really wanna rock with you,

I'm feeling some connection to the things you do,

(you do, you do).

I don't know what it is,

That makes me feel like this,

I don't know who you are,

But you must be some kind of supercentaur,

Cause you got all eyes on you no matter where you are,

(you just make me wanna dance).

I like the way your movin' (ey oh ey oh ey oh)

I just get into the groove and then (you just make me wanna play),

If you just put pen to paper (ey oh ey oh ey oh)

Got that feeling I'll see you later.

Make your move, can we get a little closer,

You rock it just like you're supposed to,

Hey boy I ain't got nothing more to say,

Cause you just make me wanna play,

I don't know what it is,

That makes me feel like this,

I don't know,

Gotta be, gotta be a supercentaur,

All eyes on you.

Like that! Ye know the one!"

"Mate...first of all, you've got some pipes on ye brother, seriously impressive vocal display there...but she's saying Superstar mate...its no SuperCentaur...that isnae even a thing, or if it is, its certainly no you. You're an average centaur at best pal. Pretty auld. Probably not making great time in a foot race. Shite at football managing. Yer no a catch. Also don't tell anycunt Renee Dupree's Scottish, aw the France stuff pays the bills know whit I mean? Snd" 

Jo's heart was broken. But he had to be exposed to the truth. He couldn't continue to delude himself like this. Travelling up and down the country, listening tae Jamelia in pub toilets. Living a lie. It was never him. It was never about him. He was a mere pawn in her popularity contest. A pawn wae a tail, opposable thumbs and most importantly....feelings. He trudged off into the sunset, and Renee felt bad. Partly because Jamelia hadn't started yet and he was depriving Jo of a perfectly good Jamelia gig, but mainly cause of the heartbreak. He decided to throw him a verbal bone. 

"MATE...YE ACTUALLY URR A SUPERCENTAUR THOUGH! STAY STRONG BRUH"

With those words ringing in his ears Jo smiled warmly, took a moment to reflect, and trotted off into the distance. A heart filled with the compassion of humankind. Where he was eaten by a bear.

Moral of that story is, even if you turn a negative into a positive, and leave the whole experience with a better outlook on life, and the people you live it with, ye still might run into a bear. And bears eat centaurs. Every fuckin time. Textbook. 

The Giant Gonzalez Basketball Conundrum

Some questions need answers. If you aspire to be something, and you fall short. Ask the people who deemed your efforts not good enough why? Why did it all go wrong? What could I have done to make it better? Saul Samuels thought he had all the answers. Saul Samuels thought he had a voice. Until he aspired to be something different. Something more.

He aspired to be the guy who found out why Giant Gonzalez never ventured into professional basketball.

A task of great distinction. Be the man to bring the information to the people. A crusader for a different time. A better time. A time where every man, woman, child and jakey knows exactly why Giant Gonzalez chose wrestling in a hairy naked caveman bodysuit instead of a sport which awards tall people by having the smaller ones throw the ball towards the basket, and having the big guys tap it in. Surely big Gonzo would find an easy career in the profession eh? So why chose wrestling?

Saul asked everyone. From Harvey Whippleman, to Giant Gonzalez's da, to my da, and even Harvey Whipplemans da. Pretty much asked all the dads, and Harvey Whippleman, and got fuckin naewhere. Eventually he decided to interview the big man's former best pal, TAKFA Greg "The Hammer" Valentine, now known as 'Greg Valentine' and wee Gregor had all the answers. Much to Sauls surprise.

"He just didnae like basketball mate...preferred wrestling, so he became a wrestler"

"Oh.....well that's a simple answer, I've dedicated my whole life to this btw"

"Right....that was fairly stupid, its a bit of a pointless question. The reason he never ventured into professional basketball is the same reason why most of the population don't do it, he had no passion for the sport and didn't have enough natural ability to counteract that, so even having the height on his side never swayed it" explained Greg, in a blunt, casually erotic manner.

"Right Greg, wantae shut up, I've no got all day, fuck sake" Saul sighed, and gave his big brerr Sha a phone for a lift hame. Impossible cause Sha lives in London, and Greg Valentines house was in Alabama. Public transport it'll need to be then. Fucking came all this way for that boring as fuck answer. Is anything ever worth it?

If Saul learned anything from this whole saga its that no matter how pointless the task, no matter how many hours you sink in to completing it, even if you reach that goal, there's still ALWAYS a chance that you'll need tae endure another one of Greg "The Hammer" Valentines boring as fuck speeches.

(see...this yin's gid cause the big man actually was a pro basketball player, so its entirely based on a lie...deception is fun)

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Oh I Just Cant Wait To Be Free

"Why can't our people be free papa?" Jacob wondered, not for the first time.

"Ah my child, our people do want freedom, they just dont know what freedom is yet.....they're scared" said his father, cradling his young son.

"But why would the people be more scared of things going from bad to worse, than hopeful about things going from bad to good?" said a bemused Jacob. Wiping the sleep for his eyes. At 15 he was probably a bit big (or nearly adult) to be cradled by his father, but its fine. He's Da's a basketball player, so he's pure massive and proportion wise it would look fine if Jacob didn't have a moustache. Don't worry about this at all. Minor detail in the story. Adding some "colour" to it. Seriously. Read on. This bit's pointless.

"Because they're Scottish son...that's how they're built"

Welcome to the land where pessimism previals.

When things are bad for the majority, and you have a chance to change that, don't be a fucking shitebag. Don't wuss out. It's nae good that wee Jacob has to ask his da why he can't be free. Its nae good that Jacob might not get his tuition paid for when he goes to Uni, so he has less student loan money to spunk up a wall on new trainers, and fruit rollups, or whatever the bairns are intae these days. Scotland had a chance to change. To change for Jacob, his moddycoddling Da, and various other hopeful cunts. We voted against that change because of fear. Because of self preservation. I'm sure most peoples reasons for voting no are good ones, that make sense to them as individuals, but anyone who voted Yes or No based on religion or yer fuckin fitba team, you're the kind of cunts that will continually derail the future. Cause you're living in the past.

Don't demonise the old folk either. These are folk who traditionally rely on newspapers and tv for thier information on current affairs, so if you believe these mediums to be corrupt, and feel strongly enough about indepedance that an alternative source of info should be available. Give them one. Visit each and every over 70 and shout "YES!" in their face till they either agree to join ye, or they drop deid. Either way, thats them out the equation. Not even pretending this is a story really am I? I'll return to the narrative now...anyway....

At the breakfast table the next morning, Jacob decided to annoy his auld da with more questions about the bloody future of all things!
"Will the people ever see sense papa?" Jacob posed thoughtfully, whilst carefully adding the words "kaleidoscope with horns" to his christmas list.

"Awrite, first of all, I'm yer da...stop calling me 'papa' like yer some weird Beret wearing Etonian cunt, and secondly...naw...naw they won't...."

"Why not?"

"Cause they're Scottish son...told ye that last night, ye really need to take notes from these wee brainstorming sessions we have...now eat yer cereal"

There ye go Scotland. Eat yer cereal. Its Frosties btw. All the patter they give ye up is about the Vitamins and Calcium ye get from eating Frosties, and its only afterwards when yer teeth start rotting and the doctor diagnoses you with "super diabetes" that you realise Frosties were a terrible choice. A very bad choice.

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The Confusing Case Of Steve Blackman

Steve Blackman was always a very serious character. From a young age he would take his nunchucks to the jaw of any weans giving him jip on the playground, and whenever his principal would ask "where the fuck did you get nunchucks? you're only 8" he'd reach in and pull their larynx clean out, telling them "if you want this back, you're gonna have to learn how to use it properly" but it was such empatic statements that would prove to be his downfall.

Along with having a pretty serious view on all things in the eh...world I guess? Aye we'll go with world. Blackman took great pleasure in inserting in his own surname in any vaguely threatening statements he might make, but as a result, thats all those words ever meant to him. Anytime he heard "black" and "man" combined, all he saw was his own, perfectly square heided image staring back at him. We'll call it a "blind spot" or "incredibly fuckin stupit" if you prefer, but he was caught up in his own hype. First ever guy to wrestle in spacious suit trousers, and first ever guy to show less emotion on his facial expressions than Lance Storm. I think he was the intercontinental champion for a while anaw. He was at least brought up in some manner of creative meeting involving the IC Belt, so he was big shit for a while. Blackman needed taken down a peg or two at the hands of one of his own people.

So he pulled up outside The YMCA, with the baton he stole from his Police Officer pal, because he was "being a fucking sissy..standing there like a goddamn sissy ass" his pal thought about reporting Blackman to the police, then he realised he was the police, and walked around the pub chanting "I am the the law!" in a demonic high pitched voice. This gathering might have included some acid, or at least poppers. Anyway. He had the baton because it was Thursday night, and thats the night Blackman set aside every week to jump in to the local YMCA, and leather some fairies with a baton. Don't mistake the for homophobia either, he just really hates guys who dress up in outfits that dont suit their proper vocation. As he was inside, he left his old pal Ice Cube in the car, urging him to "watch my car, make sure nobody mess wit it" but what he forgot was that he owed Ice Cube 10 grand from a poker game the week before. I know what yer thinking...how the fuck is Steve Blackman forgetting about 10 grand debts? Acid mate. Mind earlier I said he was taking that acid? That MDMA? The party pills. Mind? Anyway. He'd gubbed some of them and forgot who he was for a while. So when he allowed Ice Cube to hang out on the passengers side, he saw no problems with it. Ice Cube did. Ice Cube stole Blackmans Ford Capri and rode off into the sunset with it. As Blackman wiped the blood from his top lip after taking his weekly doing from the YMCA lads he tried to bully, he realised his car was GAWN. Nowhere to be seen. Nae Ice Cube either, so he could only assume a gang of Mexican druglords, or Kurgan had commandeered the vehicle. No other man, or group of men could topple Cube. No in this lifetime.

A beggar was hanging about outside the YMCA, and Blackman flung a penny between his eyes and screamed "INFORMATION!" The tramp told him a black man sped away in the vehicle, driving the car whilst somehow pishing out the sun roof, bellowing "FUCK STEVE BLACKMAN" whilst talking to Ken Shamrock on speaker phone. And Blackman heard nothing but the words "black" and "man" everything else faded into fuck all. He heard those two words, audibly gulped, and breathed the words......

"Theres two of us"

He took off down the street full pelt, with a signed 8x10 he carries of himself, pointing to it and screaming "HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN! HE STOLE MY CAR...THEY'VE FUCKIN CLONED ME! CAN YE BELIEVE IT?" even stopping to ask a man who was stapling lost dog posters to a leisure centre tae empathise with the poor guy, telling him "I hear ye boss, you staple the fuck outta that leisure centre....my clone stole my motor!" and all of a sudden he seen it. From across the road, he saw the car pulling away from a wee Watermelon Market, and recognised it as his own. He kicked into high gear immediately, running at a speed of over 50mph. Faster than Andy Murrays second serve. Caught up with the motor and dived on the bonnet, with the impact of jumping on to a moving vehicle knocking him out briefly. When he came to, he looked up to see Ice Cube standing over him. First thinking "I must be in the hospital and here's my pal Cube brought my personal cd player, and a galaxy caramel in for me" but then he remembered some cunt who looked exactly like him stole his motor! He had to get back on the hunt.

"Cube, I've nae time tae read yer get well soon card, and I've certainly nae time to count the money the whip round at my work raised...I need tae find that motor, my clone stole it"

"Whit? Ye talking about yer clone stole it?" said Cube, calling upon his Rutherglen roots.

"I asked the bum, the bum said...'black man stole it'...I'm the only Blackman...the one and only, human swiss army knife, the dangerous dude...I'm the dude...so they cloned me man...they fuckin cloned me, can you believe it?" Ice Cube looked upon the wide eyed Blackman and wondered how he hadn't realised he was still lying on top of the car he was currently looking for, and decided it was best to come clean. Purely cause this zoomer wouldnt remember a fucking thing he said in 5 seconds anyway.

"No...A black man stole it....an African American male...me...American hip-hop artist, actor and entrepeneur...Ice Cube, you owe me 10 grand from a poker game ya dumb mutha fucka..this is collateral...you're still on the fucking car"

"Wait a minute....you don't look anything like me. Did the homeless man lie?" pondered Blackman, still missing the point in the whole thing, because acid.

"I'm trying to tell you man, I did it. I am a black man"

"No you're not"

"Yes I am, I was born in.....ah fuck it, I saw the guy you're after...he went that way!!!" Cube decided the best way to eradicate this problem is to send a probably concussed man running down a busy road, looking for someone who looks exactly like him driving his car. Because Ice Cube is a belligerent muthafucka, who acts out of self interest almost all of the time. Thats why theres never been a third "are we there/done yet" movie, cause he consistently ignores what the PEOPLE want.

So his good pal Steve Blackman continued running down the road. Looking for a clone that never existed. Running until he grew old, and his special flexy dress trousers were no longer suitable wrestling attire. Cause wrestler are holograms now, and all forms of entertainment takes place at a hub we can all plug into via our Iphone 14920. Fucking technology eh. Stifles creativitiy so it does.

Ice Cube sold the car on Craigslist, and Steve Blackman kept on running. And kept on doing acid. Until he died aged 56. By running off the edge of the grand canyon, last heard muttering the words "maybe he's down there!" into an imaginary walkie talkie.

I suppose the moral of that story is, don't to drugs with Steve Blackman. And egotism is a sin. That one tae.

https://www.justgiving.com/Martin-Smith46

I Went For A Shite And The Dug Ate My Tuna Melt

They say the best stories are based on true life events eh? Someone did anyway. My da told me, and my maw only ever watches films wae true stories, so I was raised on this ethos, and its one I carry intae my adult life. So anyway. That being said, here's an enitrley fictional story about a dug who ate a guy's tuna melt whilst he was having a shite.. This is not something which literally happened 5 minutes ago. Nope. These are totally made up fictional events of FICTION.

He went for a shite. A day of disappointment. They said no. No to a potentially more prosperous future. Its a sin. Why not raise money for charity to raise everyone spirits eh? Unite a nation in terrible, sleep deprived stories. 24 hours. Mon.

Battered out the first one like "kaplow" its out there. The next ones might be a struggle. Have something to eat, have a shite. Tan some sugary juice. Stick a shot or 4 of vodka in there. Unload waste and take on fuel. Thats the plan. Thats #themessage. So the tuna melt was made. The juice was poured. And the shite was taken. Spotted the dug lying near the tuna melt before making the deposit, but thought "Nah...nae chance, she's no gallus enough" turns out underestimating how much of a fat wee shite yer dug is never ends well. The tuna was scoffed, and the melt was the guy wae his pants round his ankles as it happened. What a fuckin liberty.

Least she left the crust though eh. Every cloud.

Fuckin dug.

Gie SAMH yer money

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The First Yin - IT'S ME OR THE GEAR

The first story. The very first one. A flag planted upon the hill of creativity. As I drop a handfull of eccies intae room temperature original lucozade and get ready to type for 24 hours (not solidly like, i do have SOME minor physical imperfections that ould prevent this) here we go. The first story will be exactly the first shit that pops into my head. I'm hoping its formulating as I type this wee intro, we shall see. Firstly though. This is for charity, and here's where you give SAMH money if you so wish.

https://www.justgiving.com/Martin-Smith46

So aye. The thing. The story thing.

"Its me or the gear!"

Mandy was fucking sick of it. Week after week she'd get herself drunk off the notion that Paul might notice her for long enough to suggest they do something together. A wee meal or something. They used to be such a special couple too. That couple that you look at actually enjoying each other's company in a restaraunt and immediately think "fuck yees" but it was all gone. A distant memory, because Paul loved one thing more than anything else. More than his family, friends, work colleagues, and his significant other. Poor Mandy. Paul no longer thirsted for her. He no longer felt a yearning to have her in his arms. Too busy. Too preoccupied with his mind set on one thing and one thing only.

The gear.

That thing that has you in its sweaty deathgrip from the first minute you try it. Almost feels like a layer of material wedged to your skin. Leaving you a sodden, horrible, hopeless mess. Once you sink underneath and reach the point of no return, its almost like the gear sustains you. Keeps your head above water in a figurative sense, even though the thing keeping you alive is the thing ruining your life at the same time. At least, that was the case for Paul.

This was one time too many though, as he packed the gear into a bag and headed to a mates house to put it to good use, he was met by Mandy in the hallway they shared. Bags packed. Hamster in its cage. Tinned goods in a cardboard box. She was finished. She was too choked up to say much. After all, she loved and cared about Paul. This was a 12 year marraige going down the tubes. So she thought she'd give it one last go.

"Paul...make a choice...its me or the gear"

Paul was frozen to the spot.....he let 30 seconds slip by before letting out a hugely unconvincing "eh....." as Mandy slammed the door behind her. Suppose that's what the gear does to you eh. Slows down your reaction time. Makes you less aware of the impact your actions have.

As Mandy walked out the door, taking the hamster with her.

And Paul went scuba diving.

(ye see...the "gear" is a westsuit and breathing appartus...thats the joke)

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