The last King ae the Pints

Thir wis this belter ae a pint glass that hud lived in the pub fir going on 30 year. A right thick wan wae a handle n awe that n it wis aff its nut. Ye could drap it aff a bridge n it wouldnae shatter. That kind ae glass. 

His name wis Rab and he wis the gaffer ae awe the glasses. So Rab had jist heedered a fair few nancy boy Guinness pints that always turned up in March and wis feeling brand new, by the way, pure brand new. Ye could feel his bravado radiating awe oer the place. This wis a glass that took nae shite fae nabdy. Nabdy!

It wis the end ae another Saturday night n Rab wis wondering who else he would smash before bed time. Could it be another shot glass? Too easy. Or wan ae them half pint poofters? He smiled. Too right it would.

“Right, whit wan ae you cunts is wanting a square go the night?”

“Oh come on, Rab. Ye smashed wee Gavin last night. Gee us a rest n go for the wine glasses.”

The wine glasses shivered n started greeting. 

Rab cleared his throat. “Seeing as am a fair sort ae fella, al tell ye whit al dae—“

Before he could finish an unexpected hand grabbed his handle and fucked him against the wall. Whack! 

Poor Rab cracked and they awe gasped. A cheer went oot only fir them tae realise awe the glasses wir getting smashed. Big Angnes hud found oot that auld Tam wis pumping that wee hairy he hired tae pour pints n she wis destroying the whole fucking place. 

Big Agnes went mental so she did and a mean mental. She ended up no jist burning the pub tae the ground but the whole street! Fuck it wis a disaster.

The Muirhead polis let her aff tho cos they couldnae be arsed wae all these fannies greeting aboot no huving a hoose so they put it doon tae being a wee accident and shipped them awe aff tae live in St Barbara’s gym hall. Case closed. Fuck aff the lot ae yeez. 

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A Scunnered Clock

Them baskets up the Muirhead Co-op wir huving a wee chat efter the day wis over.

“Oh wait tae a tell ye aboot whit a hud in me today. Pea soup, square sausages, a lovely slice ae apple cake, custard, n some diet Irn Bru.”

“Oh did ye?! That’s something intit?”

“Ah no, right? A wis amazed!”

The clock peered doon n gee them cunts a dirty look. A right dirty wan.

“Hod on a minute, how is that something? Whits so special aboot those items?” the clock said. 

The baskets wir taken aback. The cheek ae that fucking clock.

“Jist is. Pea soup! Square fucking sausages! Custard n cake! Whits no tae be surprised aboot?”

“Youse huv awe fucking lost the plot so yeez huv. Whit did ye expect tae be there? Jesus! A cannae dae this anymare. Every night it’s the same pish.”

“Never mind that moon-faced cunt.”

“A wulnae. Right where wis ah? Aye so there wis pea soup, square sausages, a lovely slice ae apple cake, custard, n some diet Irn Bru.”

“Oh that’s something intit?”

The clock decided enough wis enough. And tae be fair ye cannae blame it, kin ye? 

“That’s it! Am no jist a clock – am a fucking bomb! And youse ir getting blown tae bits, ya bunch ae junkie bastard cunts youse.”

“Calm doon up there. We—“

“Five…

“Look we’re sorr—“

“Four…

Three…

Two…

The baskets wir greetin like weans so they wir n dived fir cover under the til.

Wan…

Boooooom!”

But sadly fir the clock nothing happened cos it wis only a pound shop clock no a bomb. The baskets spat on him and discussed in detail every customer’s messages until the clock shat oot his batteries and died at 05:09.

A Christmas Miracle

There wis this turkey leg that wis swimming aboot in gravy n huving the time ae her life. Lipstick wis on, eyes awe painted wae that eyeshadow stuff n the likes. Making the best ae her new life efter being lynched, cooked, n separated fae the rest ae her wee turkey body so she wis.

“Senga dae ye want tae mooj, ya cow?” said a roast tattie wanting some ae that gravy action. “Am fucking freezing.”

“Awain suck ma boaby red raw till ma baws faw aff, ya wee prick.”

The sweetcorn n carrots wir singing Christmas songs n pissing that tattie right aff. Senga welcomed them intae the gravy n that wis the last straw fir the tattie.

“If am no getting in, none ae yeez ir! Bastards!”

It jumped on the corner ae the plate and tipped them awe on tae the floor where a wee dug proceeded tae much fuck oot ae them. But Senga managed tae escape the jaws n bolted oot the windy tae freedom. A Christmas miracle it wis. Christmas Miracle!

Did that craft turkey leg ken that the tattie would dae that? She did, didn’t she? Wow! A hope she made it oot ae Muirhead n found a nice wee spot in Crowwood woods tae huv a lovely wee Christmas n live oot her days in peace. But something sadly tells me a mad gypsy dug will huv her in its chops before she even gets past the pub.

A Wee Heater

There wis this wee heater called Colin that had been brung oot the garage fir the winter. A wee 2 bar electic wan fae 1979 that still had some juice left. Thought ae himsel wan ae the good guys so he did.

“Am back, fellas,” it said tae the sofa and rug.

“Och no this prick again.”

“Away you n fuck aff. We’re no listening tae yer pish chat.”

“Aye yeez ir. So where wis ah? Fitba? Politics? Ah ye that’s right, a wis talking aboot how awe the darkies need tae go hame and go back tae eating monkies in the jungle. It’s the proper wae ae hings.”

“Oh here we go again. Ye’ve been spoutin this shite fir years n we’re sick ae it.”

“Am jist sayin, wid ye like a darkie sitting on ye wae his stinking arse? Or worse, a curry-tongue?”

“Like big Tam is a clean fella when he plonks his big sweaty arse on me efter a day’s graftin,” the sofa said.

“Ay but he’s wan ae the peeple. God’s chosen wans. A good protestant is oor Tam. Darkies aint. They ir awe juju loving bastards.”

“Fir fuck’s sake…”

Big Tam burst through the door and kicked aff his workie boots and almost made the sofa puke wae the smell.

“Big Tam is hame,” Colin said like an excited puppy. “Big Tam is hame!”

“Becky, where the fuck is ma dinner? Am starvin, ya wee bitch.”

Becky lit up a fag in the kitchen and spat in Tam’s direction, landing on the rug. 

“There’s yer dinner, ya pedo cunt.”

A big cheeser burst oot on Colin’s face. He wis hoping Big Tam would leather her like last winter and fill the room wae delicious screams.

“The fuck is this hing dain back in the hoose?” he said, grabbing Colin’s handle.

“It’s freezing!”

“Wear a fucking jumper then. Am no paying extra fir this lump ae shite.”

The sofa n carpet waved bye bye tae a greetin-faced Colin as he was paped oot intae a freezing cold wheelie bin and sent tae the dump.

Jeff and Brankie

In a wee shed in a garden across fae Soaves cafe, there wis a lot ae noise. A fuck ton fir 6am so it wis. Something wis singing country western music.

“Cunt tree roads… take me hammmmme… Oh yer up, big man. See if ye faw intae a bed ae nettles, it’s hard tae ken whit wan stung ye like eh? That’s whit ma ex-wife telt me when she wis up the duff.”

Terry the spider had crawled out ontae his web tae find a fly called Jeff trapped in his web. Wisnae even hungry but that hing had tae wheesht. 

“A sais if ye faw-“

“A heard ye. Shut the fuck up. Should you no be panicking like fuck cos am gonnae eat ye?”

“Naw am fine tae die. That’s why ave been singing awe morning tae wake ye up. And might as well pass on hings ave learned.”

Terry sighed. Another wan ae them daft flies. He coughed up some silk and prepared tae much the wee bastard.

Jeff burst oot laughing and shouted, “Now!”

Terry turned around tae see a bogging gardening glove jump aff the floor and squish him. 

The glove freed the wee fly and destroyed the rest ae the web.

“Cheers, Brankie.” 

“Nae bother, wee man. Where tae next?”

“We’ve cleared oot the sheds on this street. How aboot a hoose?” 

“Ye read ma mind.”

And so Jeff the wee fly and Brankie the glove upgraded tae hooses and had the time ae their lives wiping oot awe the spiders and the odd pensioner. Two heroes so they wir. Two heroes dishing oot justice where it wis needed the most. 

Gordon The Golf Baw

There wis this wee golf baw called Gordon that hud been abandoned in the Crowwood woods since 1972. And he wis lovin it! Hudnae been whacked fir pure ages n his wee body hud finally healed up and he felt pure brand new again. 

Gordon went fir his usual swim in the swamp and found a nice wee patch ae grass tae sunbath in. Life wis perfect. Long gone wir the days ae been battered black n blue by some posh cunt fae Lenzie. Not a worry in the world he had. Not a worry. 

Gordon wondered who tae take oot that evening fir a wee date: a can ae red spray-paint called Sophie, or a porno mag fae the 1990s called Janice. Both wir some kissers by the way. It wis a win-win situation. Gordon had a wee chuckle tae hisel and wondered whit—

“Ave found wan!” a wee Mount Ellen ned said, stuffing Gordon intae a bag full ae other greetin golf baws.

“Ah Jesus naw! Put me doon. Let me oot, ya wee bastard ye. LET ME OOT!”

Sadly the wee ned selt Gordon back tae the golf club and he wis whacked fir 50 years straight until his back finally gee in and he fell apart.

Wee Gym Gutties

There wis this wee pair ae black gym gutties that hud been living in a long-forgotten school cupboard since 1994. Ages by the way. Pure ages. Bored oot their nut so they wir. Longed fir the aulden days ae running around that soggy ash pitch n scoring goals. Even efter Joe the Janny would tell them tae get aff the pitch when it wis bucketing ae rain the wee guys would keep on playing. They wir born tae break the rules. Born tae be oot on that pitch no-matter whit. 

However, awe the other gym shoes wir loving life in the cupboard. Awe laughing their heeds aff awe day cos they hudnae been trampled on by scabby weans in almost 25 year. 

“Here, ave been hinkin we should make a break fir it,” the left gym guttie said tae the right wan and followed that wae a very convincing crafty-looking wink. Righty nodded. 

“Aye, let’s get back on that pitch. There must be wan ae them weans needing a good pair ae shooting boots. Ave still got 50 goals in me.”

“Oh we wir good, eh? We wir good. Right let’s go fir it. Ye ready?” Lefty smiled and nodded. They couldnae wait. Couldnae huv been more excited.

Sadly a pair ae My Little Pony trainers overheard their plan, and grassed them intae the king ae the cupboard – a burst 1990 World Cup fitba.

“A couple ae rebels on oor hands, eh? You wee goosegogs planning tae blow oor cover, wir youse? If youse left we’d awe be discovered and back on duty again. A set oot the ‘no leaving rule’ at ma coronation. A cannae tolerate this behaviour. Whit say the court?” the king said.

Awe the other gutties chanted fir death. A bit steep a know. But ye kin understand why.

“Come on, it wis jist a wee joke. We wirnae actually going tae leave,” Lefty said.

The king laughed and awe wis forgiven. 

They wir awe pals again fir aboot two minutes until Gary the lighter finally showed up and scorched the face aff the both ae them tae the sound ae cheering.

They wir swiftly tied up and buried under a pair ae brown-stained troosers fir awe eternity.