A Monkey Fae Gibraltar

There was this wee monkey that was up on a winter holiday in Muirhead. Mibby it wanted tae see those beautiful fields wae those half-starved horses and that roundabout that looks like big tits that nabdy used anymore.

“Fae Gibraltar,” it said tae the wumen in the post office when it went tae send a postcard tae its da.

“Aye, that’s good fir you, eh? Hope ye huv a lovely holiday in Scotland.”

“Cheers fir that, hen. Here, know whit? A fucking hate them Spanish cunts, you?” the monkey said.

She raised an eyebrow at the wee wank and fucked aff away intae the back.

“Well, are we no awe British here? A hope oor empire bombs the fuck oot ae those spics. Those cunts say ma island isnae British? Fucking hell. We ir awe loyal tae queen and country there. It is British soil, same as here!”

He swaggered oot the post office feeling proud. On the mainland. Yaaasss. Proud and British. Yaaaaasss. Couldnae get a better combination.

It headed towards the Orchard Lane, as it heard fae a prawn cracker it met in a tree that the Chicken Satay was no bad, when oot ae fucking nowhere a big fuck aff crow landed on the monkey’s head, grabbed it by the ears and flew right up intae the sky.

“Haw, whit ye dain?”

They went higher and higher. Way above the clouds. If ye wir scared a heights you’d be shiteing yirsel.

“Am wan ae youse. Am no a spic,” the monkey said. “I’m British through and through.”

“Ir ye, aye? Kin ye fly?”

“Of course no – am no a bird. How dare you! But ir we no awe British?”

“Naw wir no.”

Drapped that monkey and it fell like a sack a tatties before splattering on the pavement.

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