An Offer Of Dirty Sex

I was on Argyle Street a few weeks ago doing a bit of window shopping when it started pissing down and the rain was getting heavier by the second. I was about a twenty minute walk from my office so decided to take shelter in a shop doorway until it passed.

I was sharing it with a Big Issue seller and she was dressed head to toe in black robes and a headscarf. I’d say she was in her mid fifties. I ignored her as I didn’t want her to start asking me to buy the magazine. She called out to some man across the street and I took it to be some eastern European language. He trundled across the road dressed in his battered suit jacket and into the shelter.

Then the strangest thing happened. A homeless guy walked up. He had a dirty old rucksack on his back, a dark blue parka jacket, hood up against the rain and a huge, wiry, dirty beard. He stopped in front of us and proffered a small bundle of coins to the woman, about £1. He put it in her hand and waved off the offer of a magazine. Then he just walked off.

What a bloody lovely bloke. He’s homeless, or doing a very good impression of it and he’s handing out his money to others.

After a few minutes the rain wasn’t letting up and I decided to try door hopping. Spending a minute or so in each doorway and walking a short distance in between to avoid getting wet. On thinking about it now, it’s not going to work, as I’ll still spend roughly the same amount of time out in the rain. However, I did it.

I moved off and then the rain came on heavier suddenly so I ducked into a lane which leads to a bar/restaurant. The lane is near the Argyle Street arcade, the L-shaped indoor jewellers haven.

I saw as I walked in there were two people further in the lane. The lane opens out to a courtyard about 30 metres away from the street. I turned to face the street so I could watch the people walking past. I heard footsteps behind me and voices getting closer to me but I couldn't make anything out. A few seconds later the guy walks out the lane into street and she followed. I heard her call after him. It was mumbled but I heard her say "Twenty pounds!" He was looking over his shoulder at her but he walked off and she stayed in the shelter of the lane.

I didn't want to be seen to be taking an interest about what that might have been about so I turned to my right slightly and took an interest in something else along the street. But then I felt a presence at my left shoulder.

"Scoose me mate have you got any change like, for me bus fare?"
"No, sorry" shaking my head.
"Aw please mate"
"No"
"But I need something extra for me bus fare". She unclasped her hand and I saw about eighty pence there. It was at this point I noticed her Newcastle accent, and I thought where's she wanting to get the bus to?

She said she needed to get to the hospital and I then noticed the blood on her face - smears on her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, even her teeth. Her teeth.... she had four on the top row at the front and the rest were hiding at the back somewhere. The rest of her mouth was just dark spaces.

She lifted up her matted fringe of dark brown (dyed dark red) hair and showed me a huge gash in her forehead, just in the hair line. It looked about half a centimetre deep. It was red and inflamed and a wide open wound. As she'd reached up to brush her hair our of her eyes her fingers caught her roll-up cigarette and bent it almost at a 90 degree angle.

I thought this is only getting worse for you isn't it?

She kept saying she was in a strange country and that she was a Geordie. Newcastle is only 300 miles away and she had managed to source booze and cigarettes already so she was far from helpless.

I said I only had notes on me, hoping to deflect her thoughts away from my money.

"You can afford to give away a note"
"Not a £10 note I can't" In truth I had a £5 note and a £1 coin on me.
"Aw, c'mon, you've obviously got money. Look at you, with your suit n that"
"Well, I've got more money than you that's for sure" I said. I was standing there with my small Primark poly bag containing my £4 jumper.... yes, I am loaded.

Then we spent around two solid minutes going back and forth about my 'money' while she told me I had more money than her, to which I agreed numerous times. She then offered to walk with me to get change from my bundle of £10 notes she then said...

"Look if you give me some money I'll do anything you want..." my eyebrows raised "...as long as we can keep it a secret, cos I don't normally do that kind of thing". She stared at me. Her eyes were almost pleading. Cheap blowjob...on Argyle Street...on a weekday lunchtime?

I looked at at her dirty, bloodstained face and the thought crossed my mind I wouldn't want to put my cock in there for any reason. Number one. Disease. Number two, those four teeth would grate right along my shaft. And then there's the number three...blowjob in broad daylight on a city centre street... etc.. arrest, jail, divorce, bedsit.

As if to persuade me to start throwing my money at her, she sought to show me exactly how much blood she had on her.

She started to pull up her grey hooded top and I soon saw that it was only one of three she had on. I glanced out towards the street and saw people looking at me. A man in a suit in an alley while a manky homeless woman began pullng her clothes open. Christ almighty.

She pulled the first one open, then with one hand pulled at the zip of the second one. They both had blood on them. She third one came open and she pulled up her white blood stained t-shirt to show me her belly. Bloodstained. What the fuck had she been doing?

When she had pulled her t-shirt up I actually thought she's going to show me some titty here.

It was at this point she stumbled and dropped some of her change. Her head swung loosely round as she heard the clink of the coins on the ground. I helped her out by pointing with my toe towards a shiny 20p lying in the cobbles and she swayed her head back and forth tryng to locate it.

She saw it and bent down to pick it up and (very) unfortunately overbalanced and pitched forward onto her face spraying the ground with her small coins, her poly bag over her wrist rustling. She made no sound at all as she battered face first into the ground. No sound of pain. Nothing.

I grimaced at the thought of her manky bloodstained clothes against my 100% woollen suit and drew back instinctively. She was on her knees, forward on her face. She hadn't even managed to break her own fall.

I looked down at her and quickly realised it could be a while before she resurfaced from the wet cobblestone and within about two seconds I had made my decision.

I stepped over her into the rain. Leaving her where she lay, almost motionless.

Because she had fallen several passers by were looking at her, and looking at me. I realised that they might think I'd pushed her, but there was no way I was going to help her up. I walked off rather briskly, without looking back. If I looked back, I would have looked guilty of something. I stopped again in another doorway 30 metres ahead and there was no sign of her wobbling around in the street trying to find me.

I waited there for a few seconds, then buggered off.

Buckfast Boy

I was on the train going home from work the other night. It was just after 8pm, so clearly late enough for me to be verbally accosted by a drunk clutching a bottle of Buckfast.

I was dressed in my suit (grey with light pinstripe...nice) and sat myself down on the first set of seats at the door, but facing the door, as I like to see who comes on and watch them. At the next stop, Partick, a man got on and sat opposite me. He was about 40 and dressed in jeans, fleece top and had a small rucksack which he put on the seat next to him. Directly behind him, two guys got on. Younger and speaking to each other. The first one seemed to stumble slightly and the one behind literally bounced off the wall as he battered straight on.

The two of them sat beside me, but across the centre passage.

The second guy was very well built, dressed in dark jeans and a tight black t-shirt. He was covered in muscles. Shaved head as well.

The other guy was in a blue waterproof jacket and jeans turned sideways on his seat , placing his rucksack between his knees. He had turned so much his knees were almost hitting me across the passage, which I thought was an odd position.

I realised that they weren't actually together and the rucksack guy was trying to keep from touching the other guy.

The huge guy dumped himself down in his seat and swung forward in one fluid motion to place something on the floor. I risked a glance across and saw it was a small bottle of Buckfast. A very nearly empty bottle of Buckfast. He was very careful to place it against the foot height heater so it wouldn't fall over with he movement of the train, then he sat up again slamming himself hard against the back of the seat, and I could see as I averted my eyes back to my book that he was glaring at the guy opposite him.

I was sitting with a book in my lap and trying to avoid making any eye contact with the drunk.

I was half reading and half watching him in my peripheral vision. I couldn't really concentrate on my book at all.

It didn't take long.

I could see he'd changed his position and his body was facing more towards me.

"Ch' reedin".

"Ch' reedin".

"Haw!! ...... ch' reedin!?" Louder. I looked up. "What?" I said quietly.

"Whit r ye reedin?". I didn't say anything, but I simply held up my book a little from my lap. Only a little, so he had to tilt his head to see the front of it. It was a book by Karin Slaughter.

"Karin! Ha!" He almost fucking exploded with laughter.

"Karin?!. Hahaha". I gave him a slightly quizzical look and lowered the book and put my eyes back down to it, trying to figure out what was so funny about that. And then he enlightened me.

"That's a wummin's book!" He was leaning forward slightly towards me.

"Karin.......hahahah....that's a wummin's book!".

I could repeat this numerous times but you'll have to believe me this went on for about thirty seconds, with his voice getting slowly louder.

The other two men were silent. We all were. Except for Buckfast Boy.

Then, thankfully he turned to the guy opposite me, who had picked up his paper.

"Ch reedin?"

Taking his cue from me as to how to respond to this query, he tilted his copy of the Metro newspaper to appease the man.

"Uh, that's pure intellilec.... intell... intelli... lechoo.... intelligent... uh.. reading there pal."

Metro Man nodded. Saying nothing. Wise.

That was short lived. Back to me.

"You're readin a wummin's book! A fuckin wummin's book."

I stared at the page, reading nothing at all. He may have seen he was getting no reaction and he changed tack.

"That's a fanny's book. A fanny's book. Karin! Hahahaha!, you're readin a fanny's book".

He was pointedly looking at me, leaning forward on his seat at an angle with his elbows on his knees to get his face closer to me.

Still, I gave him no reaction.

I wanted to. I wanted to look up and tell him to his face to fuck off. But there were two other men there and I had the feeling they were just as sceptical as me of his response as they were completely silent and I didn't want to be the one to stand up....and take the beating.

So no reaction from me. He changed tack again.

"You're a fanny. You're readin a fanny's book. You're a fanny....etc etc etc etc" (a long time).

Again. No reaction. Again it was repetitive, and for much longer. I didn't really mind the comments on reading a 'wummin's book', but to start calling me a fanny, well, that was simply uncalled for. And it was constant. And again his little mind found something else to call me. Ingenious.

"Haw, speccy! You're readin a fanny's book. You're a fanny. Speccy! You're a fanny.... etc etc etc etc"

It was at this point he decided to make some enquiries as to the plot of my 'fanny's book'.

"Whit's s'aboot?"

"Whit's s'itsay? Whit's s'itsay?" I looked up at him. I turned my book round so he could see all the words. No pictures. I was very fucking angry at this point and took this opportunity to take the piss a little.

"That's what it says. It's all words. You want to read it?" He slumped back a little, and I turned the book back to myself.

And he continued calling me a fanny and speccy.

You know when someone gets to that stage of drunkenness, when everything they say is louder than it should be, sentences are shorter, more like brief statements, their upper body swings in short jerks back and forth, and their head lolls and does numerous nods as it can't hold itself up any longer. He was at that stage.

It was with gladness I realised my station was coming up, so I closed the book I wasn't reading and tried to unzip my bag to put it in, but the bloody zip wouldn't open, as the bag was crushed slightly against my body. I pulled and pulled at it but it wouldn't move so I gave up on it, and picked up my paper and grasped it tightly with my book.

I didn't want him to start on my 'manbag'. Christ, can you fucking imagine the abuse if that had clicked in his little mind?

I stood up, confidently I must say and stepped the short distance to the door as the train approached the station. I laughed silently to myself as the two other men happened to follow suit as were getting off at the same station.

As I stood at the door with my thumb against the Open button, I looked in the reflection in the glass which I could see clearly as it was dark outside. In between the two other men, he had turned in his seat and was still calling me a fanny as I stood there.

I did contemplate turning to him and giving him a farewell 'fuck off' as I stepped off, but it flashed through my mind that this would be the unlucky time the driver held the doors open for someone and he would have enough chance to lurch out of his seat and leap out the door, onto me and beat the shite out of me.

So I refrained. I could feel myself buzzing a little though as I was so fucking angry at him for feeling it was okay to abuse me like that purely because I wore a suit (light grey with pinstripe....nice).

However, I would throw in the argument that I could have quite easily have abused him for his drunken state, the fact that he was drunk on Buckfast, which is the accepted poor person's drink and the fact that he was getting off the train well after me, as he let slip loudly just before he stumbled onto the carriage.

He was going to Dalmuir.

"Ye Up Tae?"

I was sitting on the train last Thursday morning when I felt the need to eavesdrop on the most tedious conversation between a couple who just noticed each other and she had forced her way through the crowd to talk to the guy.

"Ye up tae?" he said.
"I'm just going to work" she said nodding with pursed lips as if resigned to her day.
"Aye?" he said.
"Yeah" she said with pursed lips.
"Been up tae?" he enquired.
"Nothing much, just working away, you know", she said nodding with pursed lips as if resigned to the fact her life is crap.
"Goat plans fir the weekend?" he said.
"Nothing much" she said, still nodding with pursed lips. And there it ended. They both nodded a little, then stopped. Then one of them felt the need to break eye contact and looked at a spot out the window.

The silence were excruciating. I felt like saying to them just to make something up to make it more interesting than this shite.

Laugh? I Nearly Pissed Myself

I was at a show in Glasgow a few months ago to see the comedian Rich Hall. It was in the Garage nightclub and like the comedy club they shut the bleedin' bar while the act was on.

I was only about 4 rows from the front and at one point I disappeared through the heavy curtain they had up to go to the bar and was amazed at my luck because of how empty it was. Very empty. Empty. The barman told me "bar's closed". Bugger. I had to walk back through the curtains and back to my seat. A lonely figure with my empty pint glass. At the interval my brother and I got a couple of pints each and some Bacardi Breezers for the women, as that's the only thing we could stuff into our trouser pockets.

Rich Hall was very good. So glad I never sat in the front row though. There was one woman who was there with an empty seat beside her and had her and her daughter's jackets piled on it. Rich asked who the empty seat was for as there had been nobody sitting in it after 30 minutes after the show had begun.

"It's for my husband"
"Well where the fuck is he, in the toilet?". Laughter.
"No, he's dead"

"He's dead?". Silence. Rich stood still, looking down at her with a slight look of what the fuck do I say now?
"Yes"
"And the seat?"
"I like to keep a space for him"

There was another unfortunate woman in the front row who had her life torn apart for any nugget of information that could be ridiculed, and it was. She had some trouble containing her laughter and was roaring louder than anyone else. After the barrage of abuse stopped she took her chance to have a break. she stood up and walked off towards the curtain, and spoke to a member of staff who directed her to the toilets.

The curtain itself hung about 6 inches off the floor and the light from the bar area caused a shiny area on the floor at the angle I was seeing it from.

As this woman walked off I was aware of something spattering on the wooden floor, and realised there was something dripping on the floor. Christ did I forget about the guy on stage. I stared.

As she was walking away from this person, all I could see was the liquid splattering on the floor. As she walked it followed her. I couldn't believe my fucking eyes.

As she walked it came in more of a rush so there was quite a pool created on the floor. Imagine if you will a half pint just emptied straight on the floor.

I looked around quickly and people in front of me seemed oblivious to this and even she seemed oblivious to the fact she was pissing all over the floor at the front of a 300 strong audience. She showed no signs of embarrassment or trying to disguise the fact.

She came back to her seat a few minutes later and walked right past the new lake on the floor, which remained there for the rest of the show and was even spread around during the interval as a couple of hundred people walked through it to the bar.

The Uniform Is The Only Style

Recently I was travelling home from work on a Saturday lunchtime on the train about lunchtime.

When I got on the carriage was kind of half full. Opposite me at the other window was a couple sitting across the wee table from each other.

The man was in full Celtic regalia. Celtic shirt, dark green trackie trousers, white trainers. The girl had on white trousers with a silver belt, a thin white hoodie top with a silver design on the back. I could see the back as she was bent forward with her chest against the table edge and her arms hugged around her.

He started whistling some tune and after a very short time I noticed it repeating. It was either a very short song or that's the only bit he knew. I think the latter.

As well as whistling he was singing a line, again the same thing over and over.

"The uniform is the only style.....whistle whistle whistle...the uniform is the only style.....whistle whistle whistle.....". I've Googled this phrase and found nothing on it. I thought it must be some well known song but it seems not. It was a new composition.

He was slouched back in his seat while entertaining the troops with his right foot up on the seat opposite beside his girlfriend. Suddenly he sat up and said to her...

"Shut the fuck up, you fucking invited the cunt intae the hoose, you fucking invited Archie in, don't gie me any o' your shite, shut the fuck up".

He leant back again, and was silent.

I was scared to look across in case I caught his eye and he turned on me, as I had the feeling he may do that.

She was silent.

He then leant across the small table and put his arms around her.

She was crying. She was wiping her eyes. She leant back in her seat which exposed her stretched belly. She was pregnant. About 6 months by the looks of it.

Now that's how to properly court a girl in Glasgow. They probably were still courting. The baby's probably not his.

All Five Wore Tracksuits

I picked up a free paper from the stairwell of my brother's flats in Partick recently, and I can't remember if it was the Glaswegian or not. Usually in these local papers they have little 'news' snippets, strategically placed around the pages to draw your eye to the less interesting parts of the paper. The snippets of news are normally reports of the various crimes that have been committed. There's alot of them.

This week must have been particularly busy as a whole third of a page was dedicated to the various assaults that had taken place at the weekend. I shall repeat them here, for they amuse me a little.

"Gang fighting. 17 year old boy arrested on Dumbarton Road at 1.50am on Friday. The teenager detained was wielding a large piece of wood above his head and had bloodstains on his clothes. When officers tried to arrest him he became violent".

I like to imagine that as the Police closed in, he shouted "c'mon ya bunch of fannies". Here's hoping.

Next up. "A man with two knives hidden in the waistband of his trousers was arrested on the same evening in Apsley Street. As police approached they noticed a black handle sticking out. They found it was a large kitchen knife. The second knife was smaller. The paper quoted the Police "As he was unable to provide an explanation for having the weapons, he was detained".

Really? So if he'd been able to come up with a plausible reason, he'd have been let go? What is the world coming to when the Police will let a man go who has two knives down his trousers just because he told them he was going to help the man in Chapati 3 to carve a particularly large kebab.

And this is the gem.

"Police were hunting five men who attacked and hospitalised a 39 year old man in Partick in mid July".

"The victim was attacked in Fordyce Street just after midnight. He was punched and kicked repeatedly before being knocked unconscious, suffering head injuries. Police say his attackers were white, 16-20 years old and all five wore tracksuits". A direct quote from the Police.

"All five wore tracksuits". That's all you need to know.

A Wee Bam Ned

This little occurrence was witnessed by a colleague on Tuesday evening in a B&Q store in Clydebank. He described the subject as a "wee bam ned" and being from Faifley himself he was more than acquanited with this type. His opinion not mine.

This wee bam ned was at the paint mixing desk and said to the girl behind it in his endearing Glaswegian dialect.

"Haw, whits that pure chocolate chip colour I waant mixed up fur me? That wan rer" he said pointing.

She couldn't figure out which colour he meant so he leant across the counter whining and pointing "That wan rer.....rer...cun ye see it?"

He leant back and stood up and to his horror realised the edge of the paint desk he has just leaned across was covered in.......paint.

He stepped back, arms out, looking down at himself.

"Aw naw, shite man, ya pure bastard". There was a straight line of white across his crotch of his dark blue trackies. Lacoste, Adidas, Nike.....doesn't matter.

"Fuck man, fuck man, ma new trackies man. Ther pure pentit". He had the pockets of his tracksuit in his fingertips pulling them out to the side, maybe trying to prevent anymore of his tracksuit becoming contaminated with the paint, but it only seemed to push his painted crotch forward.

New tracksuit. What a happy day.


for our non-Scottish visitors again, see here for definition of "bam"
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=bam

Honk If Your Horney

It was a Sunday morning back in April this year and I was driving along Maryhill Road on my way home. My journey had already been screwed up on the way out because of some bleedin' charity run where they have thousands of people running/jogging/strolling on the road where the cars are driving, rather than the pavement supplied. I'd already been on a big detour through Possil.

It had quietened down by midday but there were still a few stragglers around and people resting beside the road...on the pavement. Some were walking home or back to their cars.

I saw some teenage girls at a bus stop in running gear of sorts, t-shirts, shorts etc. I had a look as one might but it wasn't their thighs that caught my attention. No, it was the sign that one of them was holding up.

It was a painted t-shirt with the slogan hand-painted onto it...

"Honk if your horney"

I couldn't honk. I was too busy pissing myself laughing, crying to myself. "Fuckin hell, spelling and punctuation. Dumb bitches"


Disclaimer:- any punctuation or grammatical errors within any of my posts will be found by me ..... at some point in time. Sometimes the spellcheck doesn't work, or I'm a bit pissed.

A 21st Party. What To Take? Bottle? Food? Gun?

I heard a disturbing story a few weeks ago from a guy I work with.

One of his pals went to a 21st party in a house on the southside of Glasgow. It was a joint 21st for two friends.

One of the families was there, over from Africa, and what a contrast. He said the house was packed full of wee Glasgwegian neds, and huge black guys.

The night was going well with plenty of bevvy consumed as you'd expect, people dancing and everyone on a high, until one of the little neds decided to move things on a level and glassed one of the black guys in the face. Reason? Unknown.

Chaos breaks out. Girls screaming. People banging into each other to get away.

One of the black guy's friends steps up beside him. He was well over 6 feet tall, built like a brick shithouse, and he squares up to the ned who was still acting the hardman with all his mates, strutting around on his toes like a boxer waiting for someone to try something with him.

The black guy stripped off his shirt and his muscles were practically glistening under the lights. at the sight of this the ned immediately backed up, but was still shouting abuse, his hands stretched out behind him, either to check if was up against the wall or if any of his mates were still there.

Seconds later, the black guy reached behind him and pulled a gun from the waistband of his trousers and started waving it about.

This guy said he was standing at the edge of the room when this was happening and he had never seen a room empty so quickly. And so quietly. He ran with everyone out to the street and he even saw the ned at the front of the surge of people. Wee shitebag.

You Will Respect My Authority

I knew a guy a few years ago who worked as a security man in Safeway in Partick, and he told me he had to stand in the alcohol section for his whole shift, and he was kept very busy. He had no mercy when he caught someone running for the front door from the aisle with their hands full. He wasn't very gentle with them. I believe there was an emergency exit at the front of the shop at the far side from the main entrance and I think they used to try and bolt through that, and it was conveniently situated right beside the booze. Once when I was in the shop I met him at his work, and I wondered why he was standing in the same aisle when I was leaving. "Booze. That's all the cunts round here go for".

I was walking around Morrisons in Anniesland earlier tonight and the security guard was marching up and down. A thin boy with a goatee beard and an oversized hat.

He was walking up and down with purpose and my first thought was 'oooh, blog', so I followed him. He soon found some other supermarket workers and voiced some concerns...

"Christ, why do people just walk around the shop lookin' pure dodgy?". To piss you off?

Repeat after me... "Next time, I will try to look dodgy in the supermarket..."

"....to give someone something to do". After all, they have mortgages to pay....or payments on their '08 cars.

It Should Only Happen To A Cleaner

A few months ago we moved to a new office and therefore the office cleaners changed. Before they used to come round after 5pm and do their stuff, but now they there just after 9am, cleaning, dusting, hoovering and cleaning the toilets.

Just like the old office the cleaner has been seen using the same cloth to dust the tops of cabinets that she'll use to then clean your phone and your keyboard. Doesn't bear thinking about.

Another thing is the bins. They collect the bins about 9.30am each day and take away the paper for recycling and the food waste, which I'm sure all goes to the same place eventually. So if you eat a banana at 10am, it'll be stinking by the next morning, and if you eat one on a Friday morning, the bin sits and stews over the weekend to provide a ripe aroma for Monday.

A favourite of mine is when the cleaners do the toilets. The old office had a wee old man who was a bit manky looking and all the women thought he was disgusting. And rightly so. He smelled, he looked dirty, he was unshaven, he had little or no teeth and those he did have weren't any kind of shade of white that I knew. No woman would go near the toilets if he was in as they hated the thought of him walking in.

This is double standards surely. I was in the toilet once standing at the urinal and a female cleaner walked in and I expected her to walk out but she started mopping the floor along at the cubicles and then the floor behind me...while I was still pissing. She was no pretty thing either. That might have made it bearable. Zipped up. Washed hands. She was still there.

It even happened to me in a nightclub once. I walked in and there were three girls talking to a drunk guy leaning up against the wall. Nothing could have stopped me taking a piss by that point anyway.

A few months ago, the new young female cleaner who I believe was Polish was working on our floor. I had been in the toilets and heard one of my unidentified colleagues groaning, straining, splashing and causing the most almighty fucking smell. Christ it was rotten.

I was finished before him and was leaving the toilets, just as the female cleaner was walking in. I excused myself and walked past her and almost ran back to my desk to take a seat for the show.

It took about seven seconds until the toilet door was yanked open and the young blonde walked out with her hand over her mouth.

Aaaahh. What satisfaction. That'll teach her. She should have knocked first.

At least he was wasn't having a wank.

Sign A Petition And Do Some Good

Two of my pals were at a bus stop outside The Bombay Palace in Glasgow on a Monday night a few weeks ago.

A young woman staggered up to them and stood in front of them, swaying slightly. Either under the the influence of drink or drugs.

In the typical nasal voice of the Glaswegian scum, she asked if they could maybe help her. They thought she was going to ask for money or cigarettes,

"Can yous maybe sign a petition to help me get my wean* back?"

She was swaying about, her skin was in a shite condition and they said she looked a perfect example of a smackhead. One of the guys just ignored her and started to walk away and she began to crowd the other guy, really getting in his face, saying that she really needed to get her kid back. He tried to back off and get away from her but she kept coming at him.

He didn't want to tell her to fuck off as he didn't want stabbed so he just kept telling her 'No' until she left him alone.

Have you ever heard anything like that?


* "wean" is a Scottish word for child, see...
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=wean

If Noah Had Been This Pissed...

Yesterday we took the kids out for a little treat and went to an indoor softplay area for kids. It's big inside and has a cafe area for the adults to sit and watch other kids be nasty to their own from a distance. My children have come back over to me sometimes saying that some other child has stuck the finger up at them or even told them to fuck off. Nice.

We sat down. And I watched.

The place is called Cheeky Charlies and I can recommend it. It's a decent price for entry and the food supplied is decent and not expensive, I sent my boy up with a £5 note for a bottle of water, and I followed him, mainly to make sure he got the right change, which was just as well, as after he got what he asked for and handed over the £5 note......he walked away. I said.."Whoa, whoa, whoa, money son, money son, your money, your money....my money".

My heart fell when I saw he'd bought two bottles of Volvic. Crap!, I thought that's going to skin me about three quid.

She said, "That's three eighty change". What, are you crazy?? You're not ripping me off?? I cheked my change to make sure she hadn't charged me three eighty. But sixty pence for each bottle, and it was chilled as well. What more can you do?

Time passed and I watched my fellow parents doing what they do. Some were talking at their husbands while they read the paper, some women chatted with their friends while supping the coffee.

After a little while, the inevitable happened, some kid started screaming. Excellent!

It became clear quickly that it was the little overweight four year old girl in pink. Among the wails I could hear her screaming some words, and to this moment I cannot say definitely what it was and you will understand why, but after several times hearing it, it sounded like she was saying...

"Granny Noah, Granny Noah. Wher ur ye?"

After a short period the kid started wandering around. It was blatantly clear very quickly that there was no adult there that could claim association. It took about two minutes, while the screaming increased until a woman came in from outside, with a fag between her lips. She retreated for a moment to chuck the cigarette out the door.

As she came back in I was watching her. It was obvious straight away that she either drunk or on something else. She was swaying around as she made her way back into the children's area and her speech was slurred.

Another woman appeared from outside as well, and seemed to be this woman's friend, but she was quite sober. 'Granny Noah' came in and sat down with the other woman and the two children with them joined them at the table for some chips and juice. A good healthy combo. The other child was only about two years old. Granny Noah was gripping the arms of the chair like she was about to fall off but after only a minute or so she disappeared outside again. The sober woman took charge in feeding them. Nothing much happened and I began to wonder if had imagined her being drunk.

Outside as I crossed the carpark back towards the place, having been into the supermarket, I crossed paths with Granny Noah. She had the youngest kid in a pushchair, and as we came to pass each other, she stepped back and said for me to pass.

Nay, I lie. She stumbled back two steps and slurred at me "Oan ye go pal, nae bor, oan yees go" nodding loosely to confirm I could pass. I was right after all. She was steaming. I said out loud as I walked past "Fuck me.... fuck me". I almost willed her to hear me and ask what my problem was.

I wondered as I walked away. 'Granny Noah'. Where was the kid's mother? Did the mother know the kids were out with their drunk granny? And how ironic, Noah looking after two.

But if the first Noah had been this pissed, we'd all have been screwed.

Impressing The Locals

I had stopped off in Partick on my way home having left work an hour early and strolled up and down Dumbarton Road for a while before I settled upon the Clyde Valley. This was before I used to frequent it with my brother in recent times. It was about 5 years ago.

It was just after 4pm on a weekday and it was relatively busy. I drew a few looks as I walked in. I don't think it's a normal watering hole for men in suits. I ordered a pint and stayed at the bar, standing with my back against it to view the customers. I felt good standing there in my suit. Smart, tidy. I felt quite cool.

The bar area was busy and there was little space. I soon attracted the drunken attentions of two women standing next to me. These weren't nubile blondes. Remember it was half four on a weekday in Partick. Any nubile blondes are either at home or walking along Dumbarton Road with their prams, possibly standing in groups with a few neds standing close by (the fathers?) and giving renditions of their social loves to the passing public ie. "Haw yous.." "Ah says tae him, and he says tae me..." "Ya cunt..." Ya fanny..." etc etc etc.

I think any nubility in this pair vanished several decades ago, if it was ever there.

"Aright pal?"
"Hello" I said nodding courteously to acknowledge their presence...in my presence, sort of thing.

I then directed my eyes back to the high television screen hoping to hell they wouldn't talk to me again.

"Yer lookin' awfy smart rer in yer suit 'n that"
"Uh, thanks...thank you" nodding courteously again.
"Very attractive"
"Oh..uh, thanks" Please fuck right off I thought.
"Aye, yer lookin' awfy smart rer in yer suit 'n that. That's a nice tie you've goat oan"

I thought I was about to get fucking mugged and searched about quickly for the group of accomplices to start furtively looking around and move in on me. Nothing though.

"Thanks very much." I said, still nervous.

"D'yd dae?"
"What?" I said
"D'yd dae?" one said nodding as if to emphasise the question.
"Sorry , what?"
"Whit dae ye dae?". She said louder in that whiny Glasgow voice. It wasn't her accent that I couldn't catch as I like to think I can understand most of the Glesca vernacular. It's just that she was mumbling like a drunken hobo.

"Oh right!. What's my job?" Why the fuck didn't you just say that?
"Aye"
It's not important what I do, or what I told them, but I made up some shite to make myself sound more interesting, and they appeared impressed.

I'd had most of my pint and I was weighing up my options of ordering another and drinking it fairly rapidly and having to visit the bog before I left, and possibly losing the suit and the wallet in the process or just finish up and leave.

One of the women moved closer to me, about as close as she could get without actual fornication taking place.

Suddenly she reached out to the front of my jacket, grabbed my tie, and I thought Christ, this is it, I'm getting mugged, watch for others coming in, watch for the hand going to the wallet, don't let them get my watch, watch my pockets.....wallet, wallet, wallet!!

She said...

" 'Next'....silk....that's a nice tie"
"Thanks", heavy breathing. Watching her grubby smoke stained calloused hand stroking my silk tie. I could just imagine the rough skin ripping the hell out of the silk and grimaced at the thought but kept watching for any sign of movement towards my inside pocket.

To this day I still thank God she never pulled open my jacket to look at the label there.

George from Asda. That would have killed it right there.

Seat Sniffer

Many years ago I was on a works Christmas night out with my girlfriend at a pub in Shawlands. It was her work night out. She worked for the council... as a joiner. A joiner. It did come in handy on occasions.

It follows then that all of her colleagues were men and I don't think they had ever seen her in a dress and were quite amazed, as she usually wore a boiler suit at work. I'm setting the scene. These guys weren't polite and reserved chaps.

The night wore on, the drink flowed. About halfway through the night my girlfriend was at the toilet and there was a bit of moving about between out group and the group next to us. About half of us were sitting round a couple of tables and there was a spare seat.

One of the guys went to sit in it and one guy held his hand up to stop him and said "Oh no, you cannae sit there, there's a lassie sittin' there". Very courteous.

The other man then did something I had never seen before and have never seen since.

He bent very quickly and with his nose to the material of the seat, ran a line from the front of the seat to the back, took a long deep breath in and stood up and breathed out slowly, and said "Aaahh".

The reaction was that everyone laughed, including me. What the hell was I going to do? Call him a pervert? In front of all his friends?

He Takes A Good Picture

I was walking on Argyle Street in my lunchhour and I saw an old man walking along clicking his white cane back and forth on the pavement. He had a camera slung around his neck. Quite a large one with a big lens. Probably cost a few bob.

A camera around his neck.

He's blind.

Personality Transplant

One of my colleagues overheard this gem on a bus at 5pm one day recently. It was full with commuters.

There were a few people standing and at the front was a man holding a small baby. Someone pressed the bell to stop the bus at the next stop, but stood where they were, holding on to stay safe while the bus was still moving.

The bus kept going at the next stop and the man with the baby said to the driver there were people wanting off. The driver said...

"Well there's no-one down here waiting to get off and I can't fucking stop in between stops"

So the passenger had to stay where they were. Going round George Square there was a car parked at the corner which gave the driver a bit of trouble turning so he sounded the horn then let rip with a torrent of abuse at the parked car...which was unoccupied.

The man with the baby said to him "I think you should calm down a little"

The driver turned to him and said "I think you need a fucking personality transplant, what the fuck are you doing telling me that?!!"

Some re-training perhaps?

Half Price Hand Jobs

Some years ago I was working overtime on a Saturday at my office. My routine was to get in as early as possible, do a full 7 hours and get home for the early afternoon. This meant I would be up around 5am, train at 6am, in for 7am. You'd be amazed at the type of people that are around the centre of Glasgow at that time.

You can see the people still drunk from the night before, the homeless, the neds who can appear anywhere at anytime with seemingly no reason to be there, early morning travellers with the suitcases and the excited chattering, the people going to work, the people at work sweeping the streets and picking up the crap the drunk people dropped the night before, and then the others.

On one particular Saturday morning a few weeks ago I was standing at Central Station in Glasgow at the exit on Gordon Street. I had gone into the newsagents to get a newspaper and was going to walk the short distance to my office but realised I had about 15 minutes before it opened and looked round and saw a few people who caught my interest, so I stood against the wall and watched.

The people that caught my eye were a couple. They looked as though they had been on a long night out. She was dressed in a mini skirt as and other skimpy items. He was dressed relatively casually. An odd couple. They were talking to each other, but after only a minute she walked away from him, turned towards the station exit and started walking towards me. There were a few people around and I thought she may be trying to get a cigarette from someone.

This is the conversation as best as I can recall it word for word.

"Hi there"
"Hi"
"What are you up to?"
"Just reading the paper for a while, before I go to work"
"You going to work?"
"Yup"
"You work in town?"
"Aye, just a couple of blocks away"
"When you do you start?"
"Around seven"
"That's good you're going to work"
"Mmmm"
"I work as well"
"Oh right"
"I'm a working girl"
"Oh right......oohhh, right"
(pause, while she looked around, and I watched her)

"Are you looking for business?"
"No, I'm not, I am going to work in a few minutes"
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure, I'm sorry I'm not interested"
(pause while she was considering options)

"Look, I've finished for the night, but I need some money for the bus home"
(finished working as a hooker after a whole night and no money for the bus? pimp?)

"Sorry, I'm really not interested."
"I really need some money for the bus home."
"I'm really sorry but I can't help."
(long pause while we both looked around. a rather awkward pause)

Suddenly intrigued I said... "Umm, what exactly could you do?"
"Handjob fiver, blowjob twenty, full sex forty" reeled off as quick as you like.

I never realised it was so cheap, but I suppose it's like the stock market and supply and demand causes fluctuations in prices.

I said "No, thanks anyway", and then she said the immortal words...

"I'll do it for halfprice"

A handjob for £2.50. Fuck me. That's a bargain.

I didn't.

The Spar Shop Beggar

The Spar shop is a wonderment.

On a very recent travel up north this week I found it very difficult to find mainstream shops like Asda, Morrisons, Tesco, etc. All I saw was Spar shops. I'm talking north of Inverness.

Anyway, I have a Spar shop not too far from me, and one Sunday morning about 6 weeks ago I had reason to go there on a Sunday morning. I usually drive there. It's fucking sad I know. It takes just over five minutes walking, but...I drive there. It's about 50 seconds in the car. God, this is shocking actually. I must change.

Anyway. A few weeks ago I go to get milk for the in-laws who were over, and I walk past the chemist on the way to the Spar shop, and there's a man sitting on the low wall outside the chemist. He's in a tracksuit. Need I say anymore at all.

I look ahead and some of the staff of the Spar shop are outside for a smokebreak.

As I pass, the man gets my attention and asks me if I have any change for food. I give him a very quick up and down appraisal and say "No, sorry" and walk on. The man wasn't badly dressed. He sure as shit wasn't homeless and if he was that poor for food he was in some serious shit to be begging for it outside the Spar shop on a Sunday.

I bought my supplies on the Spar shop and on the way out the staff asked me what the man had said.

"He just asked me for some money for food"
"Aye, he always does that. Every Sunday. It's no' food though. It's drink"

It then seemed so blatantly obvious. Apparently he was also waiting for his methadone from the chemist when that opened. It seems he sits on that wall every Sunday morning and begs for cash....for drink. Cans of Tennants. (a small point - you can't buy alcohol before 12.30pm on a Sunday in Scotland. I know. I've tried.)

The staff told me one morning 'a little old lady' passed him and was completely oblivious to his ulterior motive, as I was. When he asked he for some pennies for food, she went into the Spar shop and bought a couple of pre-packed sandwiches and went back out and handed them over. According to the staff he was mighty pissed off.

I might take along some leftovers from my Saturday night curry in a wee box and offer that to him. I'd just love to have a shouting match with him...

"No, you fuck off"
"No, you fuck off"
"No, you fuck off"
"No, YOU FUCK OFF YA CUNT" etc etc etc.

The Spar Shop In A Hula Skirt

Tonight as I walked to the Spar shop to buy a Euromillions ticket to get me out of this hole, I saw a rather startling sight.

In the queue to get money from the autoteller was a girl...woman, late teens I would say with blonde hair, a tight white strappy top (no bra - I mention purely for information so you get the whole picture...it was a bit cold), strappy white/straw effect high-heel sandals.....

..and a grass hula skirt.

She also had on a large necklace of fake flowers. Fuck know where she thinks she was going. She didn't look lost. Beside her on a low wall was a slightly drunk woman counting her money, legs splayed, low cut top...lower than it should be showing off her pink flowery bra to any bloke who wanted to look, and there was a few (inc. me), given the girl in the hula skirt at the autoteller.

I wish I'd had reason to stay. And watch.

A Tear To A Glass Eye

It's good to know that people are still reading this and to receive a comment only a few hours after posting for the first time in over 3 months is certainly encouraging. I literally have only looked at my own blog a handful of times in that period. As a wise man once said "That would bring a tear to a glass eye". I say wise, I think he was mostly pissed. It was my pal, Belzo.

I had a look at my stats by way of onestat.com, a site which tells me how many people look at it on each day/week/month etc, and their locations.

Even today I have people reading my blog from Chicago, Valkenswaard in the Netherlands, Calcutta (Calcutta!), Cardiff, Dundee and Glasgow of course. Even in the 'dead' period, it has still been looked at every day with an average of around 7 hits a day. It's not quite at Bloodbus level yet but we're getting there.

A while ago I registered this site on a kind of ratings/blogger award site which I came across by chance in my internet travels.

Basically bloggers register their blogs, people vote for a blog, and something happens at the end of the year. I don't know what. So far I have 2 votes. Me and my brother.

I added my site in March this year and deliberately didn't advertise the fact on my blog to see if anything happened via that ratings site. Nope. So I'm advertising it now. Vote for me. At the moment I have one more vote than Bloodbus.com, so that's something.

Go to www.bloggerschoiceawards.com, search on the word 'Glasgow', go under the category Best Humour Blog, and then vote. I think you have to register in order to vote but don't let that put you off, you're not handing over bank details or anything.

I see, even now, the top blogger is about a woman with Cystic Fibrosis, and she only has 953 votes. Doesn't sound alot. I'm not particularly keen on knocking a woman with CF off the topspot, but needs must. So if you can, vote.

Tests and Testicles

I've had a little while away from blogging. I lost the drive to do it daily for a while as there was some other things hanging over me like potentially losing my job and going for hospital tests in my nether regions.

Anyway, after a period of some uncertainty at work, we are moving to another location so that's a load off.

On the other subject I've mentioned before about some tests I had done at the hospital. The one I had recently. I received a letter for a testicular ultrasound. I started reading up on it, to find out what was involved and what exactly would be done to me. It did sound very simple.

I had to let my boss know that I was going for a test. My new female boss. I mentioned I was going in for a scan and she told me to bring the letter in as proof, so I did. When I gave it to her the next day she asked casually "What type of scan is it?" I said "Umm, have a look at the letter." She did, and I think she wished she'd never asked. Her eyebrows lifted and she just said "Oh". No more was said about it.

At the hospital a couple of weeks ago, I was kept waiting for a while in the room while other people went in the be scanned. Every time a patient was taken into the room by the male nurse, a suited man in his late 50s would drift in a few minutes later, then come out after about 5 minutes and leave. I deduced very quickly this was the doctor who was just in there to do the scan and leave.

It was late on a Thursday afternoon and the clinic was running late. I was last to be taken and the nurse apologised for keeping me.

When he eventually took me in I shed my suit jacket and he advised me to lay back on the low cushioned bed. He said just to push my trousers and underwear down to my knees and he very courteously tore off a large section of the paper roll and draped it over me to protect my modesty while I whipped down my tweeds. When I was done I lay back and tried to relax.

He said the doctor would be in shortly. About 60 seconds later this female walked in wearing blue scrubs. "Hello, the doctor's busy at the moment, do you mind if I do the scan for you?"

Female, late 30s, long brown wavy hair, pristine hospital scrubs, sexy as hell, asking if she can do some work on my balls for a few minutes.

"No, that's fine" I said.

She sat down on a low swivel stool beside the scanner and explained she was going to apply some gel to my testicles to help the scan. Don't get hard, don't get hard, don't get hard.

She lifted the torn paper sheet back and then picked up my cock in her right hand and very casually said "Can you hold this back please?". I looked down and there it was...looking no' bad. At that moment I thanked a higher being. I was not shrivelled to a point of non existence but I was looking quite 'full'. We did the handover of my penis and I held it against my belly. This is not weird at all.

"This may be cold" she said as she started smearing some gel over my balls. I'll remember this for some time.

Well, I can tell you - she worked those balls. It took about 15 minutes while this female played around with my testicles...while I held my cock in my left hand...while a male nurse watched. I wouldn't have been so uncomfortable with it all if the nurse was a 20 year old blonde. I spent the time staring at the ceiling. With no pillow it was a bit awkward to lift my head and watch what she was doing to me, much as I would have liked to.

So after the scan she said there was nothing to worry about. She gave me some information and I asked a few questions. Unfortunately the question and answer session was going on while I was trying to get dressed.

Getting dressed wasn't too easy as, if you recall my testicles were smeared with gel. It was my job to get the gel off. I don't think that's part of the service. So the nurse handed me a wad of tissues and I wiped, all the while standing up having a conversation with the doctor and trying to hang on to my trousers so they didn't fall completely around my ankles.

There was a slightly awkward moment when I was trying to talk to the doctor about the tubes in my testicles and I held my hand out for more tissues from the nurse and he grabbed the damp ones from my hand and put them in the bin thinking I was done. My balls were still wet and sticky and he goes to leave. "No no no, can I have some more" I said holding the waistband of my trousers so they didn't fall down and the hem of my shirt so it didn't fall against me and get gel all over it.

He gave me some more but it was very awkward to get everything off and it got to a point when I thought 'fuck it, I'll just leave it" and I gave up the fight for a gel-free scrotum.

My last moment of embarrassment happened as I went to leave. I thought I'd done quite well up til that point considering I'd had to hold my own cock for 15 minutes in front of two strangers and then clean my testicles...in front of two strangers. I picked up my messenger-style work bag and went to casually sling it over my shoulder as I was walking out, but it caught on the handle on the end of hospital bed and jerked me backwards. I felt a complete arse as I stood there trying to untangle it as they watched.

But it's not all bad. I've got to keep my job and my testicles. So that's a bonus.

Falling Down

A colleague of mine is a big fan of either going to the pub at lunchtime or KFC. Never McDonalds for some reason. Maybe it's shite. At the beginning of February one of his pals told him as they were heading out that he’d eaten a steak a couple of weeks previously and had felt a bit sick from it, so he was off meat for a while.

They went down to KFC and they got a table. Eventually this guy came to the table after nearly ten minutes, and one of them asked why he took so long. He said he'd asked for a Zinger Burger without any mayo and without the chicken. This clearly confounded the staff as the woman had no idea what to put through the order as, and it was this that took so long, and also what to actually give him.

When they asked him what he actually wanted inside his meat free Zinger Burger, he settled for a hash brown with some salsa sauce in it. It’s amazing how a simple thing can cause huge confusion. It’s like the scene from the film Falling Down when he asks for a breakfast item minutes after 10.30am.

Blame Your Shoes

I've known for years that the floor on Central Station is very slippy, especially if I'm in my suit and black shoes with the smooth sole. It's the same at St Enoch Centre and Buchanan Galleries. As soon as I walk in I slip all over the place. I have to slow down, it's as if I'm walking on ice.

I was walking into Central Station at the Hope Street entrance this afternoon just after 5pm and a middle aged guy in a suit was in front of me. There's always a newspaper seller at the entrances and for the last few months there is also the people who give away the free Daily Records as you walk by.

Mr Suit decided that fraction of a second too late that he wanted one, and as he'd already walked past into the station, he turned quickly and strode back to the guy, but too late, his speed, his shoes and the smooth floor were the making of his superb acrobatic manoeuvre.

As he turned his feet went away from him and he pitched forward so much he had to put his hands out and then he overbalanced so his hands went to the ground as he twisted round, and with the quickness of this move his feet flicked up in the air so for a moment there was this middle aged guy in a suit doing a twisted half handstand. His feet were about four feet in the air.

Just as quickly as this all happened he composed himself, stood up a bit dishevelled with his suit bunched up around his shoulders, and casually leant around the newspaper guy and took a free paper, then set off at quite a speed into the station, clearly a bit embarrassed at having made an arse of himself in front of around twenty people. He made a bit of a show at looking at the soles of his feet and muttering 'tch'. That's right, blame your shoes.

It's 1.30am And This Just Happened

I was typing up my last blog there when I heard some screams from out in the street. Now it's 1.30am on Sunday morning.

I flicked the lights off in my wee blogging room and ran up the stairs to see if any wee bunch of cunts was vandalising my car. I slipped a couple of fingers into the gap in the curtains and gently created a gap, covertly, so as not to create a sliver of light, hence enlightening the aforementioned wee cunts to my presence. I'm a dab hand at this.

I could see nothing, so I opened it up a bit further. My eyes flicked left, my eyes flicked right, then my eyes flicked left again. And I saw a figure beside one of my neighbour's cars. I crunched my eyes and peered into the darkness, but there was a streetlight feet away so the person quickly became clear to me.

It was a woman sort of crouched over the front of the car with her right hand resting on the bonnet to give her balance. I wondered if she was being sick, then.....

I saw her bend down and grab a handful of white..stretched between her ankles, which when she moved I saw in the light. She grabbed her knickers and then I realised she had been squatting in the street to take a piss. I looked closer and realised I could see a faint sheen on the road below her.

She was wearing quite a skimpy short dress as it was, but she'd hiked it up around her thighs and the split in the skirt was riding up to her waist.

She grabbed her white knickers and wriggled them in wide circles left and right to get them back up her legs, and staggered a little against the car. Her friend was standing beside her all this time while the guys in the group wandered off around the corner, clearly not allowed to see the process of one of the girls pissing. There's no need, there's websites for that.

As I realised she was finishing up with her little visit I thought, she's doing this under a streetlight, she must be crapping herself in case someone sees her but she must be that pissed to do that in the first place she can't care too much anyway.

So I thought to myself, I remember in my drunken younger days when I used to pee up in alleys I was always wary in case someone saw me or caught me. I did have the Police shine a torch on my cock once in Sauchiehall Street in some bushes. But I couldn't stop peeing and they kept the torch on me until I came out of the bushes. Thanks for that.

With this feeling in mind , I battered my knuckles against the window quite ferociously and as loud as I could, as I thought she's a wee bit away and might not hear me. Oh she did.

As soon as I started knocking on the window, her hand moved faster to get her knickers up around her snatch and she set off running with her friend in their high heels.

I was pissing myself as I watched them running and looking over their shoulders. In hindsight I should have creeped out the front door, down the driveway, and flicked on my big torch right at her face, blinding her, so as to really confuse her, and make her shit herself in the street as well.

It's amusing to see them all run away laughing at 'just being caught'. I bet she wouldn't be laughing if I got some prints lifted from the bonnet of that Honda and a swab of DNA from the street.

Colin...To Answer You

Colin, It was indeed the Clyde Valley, a tremendous pub and spot on with the Blue Lagoon.

Oooh, dare I write about it again? Fuck yeah. May I be banished from the pub? They have to find me first.

I was in a pub a couple of months ago and I have to say I wasn't impressed..as I should be in a salubrious suburb of Partick. I think it was the Dolphin. It had a strange set up in the bar, a weird walkway through some perspex screen scenario I think to some very tight seats behind. My memory fails me now.

Don't take this as a slagging of Partick. I lived there for a couple of years, and loved it. I totally enjoyed the variety of shops, pubs and people. I loved the variation of people who had nothing standing alongside people in the pub who could afford anything - refer to scene in film Wall Street when Gekko points to the businessman and the tramp.

I'm out in Partick again on the 18th April, but alas, probably not the Clyde Valley. Probably up Byres Road. No doubt I'll see a whole bunch of drunken fannies then too, and then blog about them the next day.

Thanks for your comment. Please fire my link around any friends you think might enjoy my little view on life in this city.

Chinese Whispers

I was walking down Union Street the other day when a woman with long black hair pushing a child in a buggy crossed in front of me at a corner. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her turn quickly and say what sounded like "coo mee, ca uh teh mee whay da...." (trans; "Excuse me, my good man, can you perchance tell me where the....")

I turned to assist her I noticed with acute embarrassment that she was Chinese and was in fact talking in Chinese to her Chinese kid and not looking at me at all. She had just turned to go the same way as me and I pretended to look in a shop window as she walked past me.

Partick...The Twilight Zone

I was in my new favourite pub in Partick recently. As the night wore on I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone.

Quite early on one guy about 50 years old was dancing on his own in the middle of the floor to an Elvis tune, sort of shuffling and turning around with an occasional swing of hips. Yep, just like the big man himself. He was almost bald but had swept his hair over the top in the traditional combover style of the older gent. He had a very, very thick neck and a huge pot belly, wearing a black shirt, open at the neck to show off his gold chain and as he danced and sort of walked around the pub he was clapping above his head. No one else was dancing. I stared at him for some time.

My brother and I sat in the corner and then this couple sat down beside us. I could see my brother staring and when I looked round myself I could see why. The biggest ring was about 1.5 inches square and covered in "diamonds". The other fingers were adorned with several other rings, many with black onyx, all gold. On one wrist he had three huge chunky gold bracelets, each one bigger than the one below it. Maybe he had an account at H. Samuel.

He had huge sideburns, not bushy, but covering a very large area. Cropped greying hair, slightly balding on top. He was wearing one of those "soft touch" button down collar shirts, almost the same as one I bought in Burton 15 years ago when they were cool, and dark blue baggy tracky bottoms. Quite an ensemble. When he stood up to go to the bar I noticed he had one of his front shirt tails hanging out. And he never tucked it in and it annoyed me all friggin night. He had stuffed a pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket which dragged the front of his shirt down quite a bit making him look even more shambolic. He was a right fucking state.

His tattoos were nice though. 'Mum' and 'Dad' on one forearm and on the other arm a skull wearing a top hat. In one ear he had a small Samsung earpiece to make it easier to handle his many incoming calls. Obviously no-one actually called him. Why would they? All his pals were probably in the pub, sitting beside him.

Both he and his wife sat drinking Smirnoff Ice, through straws. Cool for her, gay for him.

After a while they were joined by a regular in the pub. The blind woman. Quite short and round with a blue and pink Calvin Klein handbag. Genuine I'll wager!.

It's like one of these pubs you only hear about. I remember once me and a few pals of mine went for a drive to go for a pint, to Falkirk. Now Falkirk was about 30 miles from where we lived. Christ knows why we went there or went that far, but when we got there, we found this pub near the town centre, in the pedestrianised area. There was no-one on the streets and we walked in. It was quite a small pub and I was first through the door. I swear on my life, when we walked in, every single person in that pub, about twenty in all, stopped their conversations and looked round at us. It took us about three seconds and a few furtive nods to each other to mutually and silently agree that we weren't going to have pint in that pub.

We walked back out, got into the cars and drove all the way home.

Back to Glasgow.

In Partick on this night, there were a bunch of girls at the end of the bar who took turns going behind the bar to get themselves drinks. I watched them. I assumed one was the manager and was giving her pals free reign. There was an older woman there who looked like the Glaswegian Dot Cotton. She was nipping in behind the bar too and at one point went round collecting glasses.

One woman in a white skirt was behind the bar a couple of times up on the barman.....on the barman, not the bar. She had her legs round his waist, holding onto his neck, humping at him. These women became more lubricated with the vodka and ended up dancing on the pool table at the end of the night. Always a winner. Short skirts, pissed girls, dancing on pool tables. My brother and I watched intently hoping one would fall over and well....you know.

One of the barmaids explained they were all staff who'd just been to a wedding.

After we left the pub, the show didn't stop there.

We went across to the chippy and in there was a guy leaning back on the ledge at the window just singing his heart out. He hadn't bought any chips and didn't look as though he had any intention of doing so. He was just pissed and singing. On the way out I threw 10p to him for his troubles. I was ready to run if he took offence but he never bloody noticed. Waste of 10p.

And at the end of the night I made it home without being violated. Which was good.

Two Mankers in WH Smith

I was in WH Smith in Central Station today and had the misfortune, or indeed fortune to stand behind two absolute manky women in the queue, while purchasing my half price book. I say women in the loosest possible sense.

The first 'female' had on a huge white t-shirt which pulled tight at every conceivable point on her top half, she was partly bearded and her arse was I believe around 3 feet wide. Now 3 feet wide seems like an exaggeration. Get a ruler and lay it out 3 times. That's it. I stared at her ass thinking "That is fucking huge....I wonder how huge it actually is" I then pictured my 12 inch office ruler placed across in ass in succession and I got 3 times, so 3 feet across. Her lower half looked as though she had a large inflatable rubber ring under her cheap leggings. She may have done, but I really doubt it. It was all her.

The second ''female' had on some weird pink plastic looking raincoat, and her bleached blonde hair was combed in one of the most peculiar ways I have seen. It was sort of combed into sections. The fringe was combed down from a straight line across her head about 3 inches back from her hairline. The top middle section was combed straight back and straight back down the back, flat against her head, with a wee hair clip pulling it together slightly. Two sections on either side were combed down vertically over her ears.

She may have thought that looked natural. Maybe the hairdresser told her that, right before he said, "That's you done hen, that'll be £2.99".

In each ear she had 6 gold hoop earrings. I say gold, they were coloured gold. They looked cheap as shit. They must have been if she could afford 12 of them. I was trying to avoid getting seen staring at her while I counted them and just took in the whole ensemble.

Her hands now. On each hand she had several sovvy rings decorating her fingers, except for the two fingers that were held together by the double finger ring that spelled out her name "Shirley" in three quarter inch high dimpled gold letters. For fuck sake.

Her left hand, or wrist was strapped in a blue device, not a plaster cast, but a solid strap that circled her wrist and was held with many bands of velcro. She probably hurt it when she was battering fuck out of someone. Maybe while trying to imprint "yelrihS" into someone's face.