Then ah sees Jenni rubbin the hoarse’s back wi the comb. This yon black cock starts tae telescope oot ay its sheath; like yon Darth Vader’s light sword, ya hoor. There wis me standin thair wi a daft wee smile oan ma face tryin tae git some attention, but thir’s nae wey a dwarf laddie like me could compete wi thon!
As guid as the stalkin at the Cahill ranch is, ah quite like taking Ambrose oot. The problem is thit walkin the dug stoaps ye fae indulgin in the key pleasures ay the socially marginalised; namely the lunchtime pint ay black gold doon the Goth. But then ah think, one swallay does not a summer fuck up; a quick yin, then wi kin mibbe head doon the coast.
The lads ur aw in, n thir pretty wary ay the dug. N ah’d like tae see Big Monty Fuck come ahead whin ah’m hudin this boy’s leash. — S’awright, ah says tae the Neebour Watson, — this boy widnae hurt a fly, eh no, Ambrose? Eh’d take your hee-haws right oaf but, wid eh no though, ya hoor sor!
The Neebour stands back n the Duke’s no gittin that loud in the mooth, tell ye that fir nowt.
— See that boy got done the other night there, that Mason felly, Neebour Watson tells ays.
— Whae? the Duke asks, keepin ehs eyes oan Ambrose.
— The table-fitba supremo, Neebour explains, then turns tae me n says, — Jist as well eh overturned yir ban first, Jase.
— Aye, right enough, ah goes, tryin no tae sound too concerned, bit ah feel ma haun tightenin oan the leash ay Ambrose, whae’s lyin doon, assumin the pub-dug position.
Neebour’s switchin intae sweetie-wife mode as eh cannily regards Ambrose. — Surprised thit Tam Cahill never mentioned it tae ye, neebs, wi you spendin that much time up thair thit yir vernear pert ay the faimlay!
— Specific tasks though, ya hoor, ah swings Ambrose’s leash, bit no enough tae disturb the boy oan ehs choke, — animal husbandry. Thir’s a wee oinker n a pony n a durty big hoarse wi the sort ay tackle ye neevir see made ower at Central Perk, if yis git ma drift. Gelding though, nae use tae um, but it doesnae look like that fae whaire ah’m standin!
Ya dirty big fower-legged long-faced hoarsey bastard that ye are!
— Aye, thir hung awright, they beasts, the Neebour says.
Ah’m tryin tae change the subject here, bit the Iron Duke’s oan yin, n eh goes, — Aye, that dirty Mason cunt wis grassed up by a couple ay wee laddies fae the skill. Eh used tae pey thum tae dress up as lassies n then eh’d go and huv a wank ower thum. Apparently some mair came forward eftir the other yins blew the whistle.
— Mingin hoor. The Neebour shakes ehs heid.
— Aye, says the Duke as ah keep ma cooncil, jist like auld Ambrose whae’s lyin thair quiet, nostrils gently expanding, making soft wee wheezy noises, almost like a cat purrin, — spun thum this story thit eh hud loast ehs daughter in a car crash n thit they wir the right height n weight n size n could they dae him a favour n dress up like her. Well, the gullible wee bams felt aw sorry for um, n went along wi it. Eh peyed some ay thum n aw, so eh wis at it fir ages! Took photaes n made films tae! Aye, Andy the polis, yon big Hun fae the craft: he telt ays they found tons ay material.
Fuckin hell. Uncle Davie’s a grandmaister up thon lodge. He’ll surely keep a lid oan it. Faimlay. Surely.
— They types are ey weird though, ah goes, — ah eywis thought thir wis a touch ay the Tam Hamiltons aboot yon yin, ah elaborates, feelin disloyal tae perr Olly, bit wantin tae lit the trail go cauld.
— Dirty bastard, exploitin naieve wee laddies like thon. Ah ken whit ah’d dae wi the hoor, the Duke goes.
— Eh nivir touched thum bit, jist hud a wank ower thum, Neebour sais, turnin tae me wi a big grin splittin ehs coupon. — Mind you, Jase, what did you huv tae dae fir um tae git that ban overturned fir ye? Your size ah’m bettin ye could’ve fitted easily intae they lassie’s clathes! Did eh huv a wank ower you n aw, ya hoor ye? Eh laughs, but eh’s starin at me and the Duke’s lookin wi serious intent n aw n ah’m thinkin: muh whole credibility and future in the Kingdom is determined by muh next response. It’s like huvin the baw in the shooting area oan the football table, the game’s tied n thir’s jist time fir this yin shot. Stey cool, Jase. — Nowt like that, ah goes. — Ah jist sucked ehs cock, that’s aw.
The Duke lits oot a volley ay laughter n Neebour does n aw, then pats ays oan the back n sais, — Ah widnae fuckin well pit it past ye; anything tae git that ban rescinded, eh!
— Ya hoor, ah wish ah’d hud the option ay suckin ehs cock or gittin dragged up, insteed ay haein tae listen tae the hoor gaun oan aboot proceedures and protocol and standards ay behaviour. Wid’ve been a loat less fuckin demeanin, ah kin tell yis.
Thir cacklin away n ah gits the round in. Bit that wis a narray escape, n ah wis tempted tae make another joke bit it’s best no tae owerplay the auld haund. It’s time tae look forward wi focus, and the main thing is thit ah’ve goat that Perthshire cunt Derek Clark in the next round. A hame tie n aw fir the laddie Clark, the venue bein the Salutation Hotel in the Fair City. St Johnstone v the Blue Brazil; mair thin a clash ay two individuals, toons or coonties. Nothin mair thin a desperate battle fir supremacy between two diametrically opposed philosophies ay life!
Bring it oan, ya cunts!
Neebour sterted gaun ower auld times, talking aboot the Horse ay the Year Show at Wembley Arena, when wi baith worked doon thair oan the caterin. — Caroline Johnson oan Accumulator; now there was a filly worth ridin.
Of course, ah’m moved tae reciprocate the inane grin oan the hoor’s coupon.
— Accumulator of course, wi bark in unison.
It fair gits me in recall mode. — Ya hoor ye, thaire’s me tryin tae dae muh best wi the grub n aw they posh cunts ur giein ays it tight. Ah mean ah ken the Hoarse ay the Year Show’s thir big bash n that but thir’s nae need tae git as wide as thon. The old colonel boy wi the tash started bellowin at me like eh wis muh auld man n it wis last orders at the Goth, ya hoor ye!
— Aye, some gey nippy fuckers thair, Neebour agrees. Ah nivir said nowt, ya hoor ye, but ah kin fuckin well tell yis ah wis straight tae that packet ay rat poison thit they’d pit doon in the stockroom, n ah goat chefin fir the Kingdom, did ah no, but.
Couldnae believe the read in the paper the day eftir:
Commander Lionel Considine-Duff, OBE CBE RN (ret) was discovered dead at his home in Belgravia in the early hours of this morning. His maid, who alerted police and ambulance services, found his body when she went to wake him for his morning breakfast. Considine-Duff had been complaining of chest and stomach pains following an enjoyable evening at the Royal Horse of the Year Show at Wembley Arena. Formerly a keen equestrian himself, he retired from political life after having suffered two mild strokes.
Political correspondent Arthur McMillan writes: ‘Buffy’ Considine-Duff was a knowledgeable, compassionate backbencher whose distinguished military and sporting careers meant that he was disinclined to climb to the top of politics’ greasy pole. Having previously been satiated with the demands of high office and the spotlight, Buffy was happier to stay in the background and serve. A tireless lobbyist for the oil industry, he also strived ceaselessly on behalf of his Wessex constituents. His personal life was colourful. Thrice-divorced Buffy was prone to admitting that the type of filly that gave him most pleasure invariably had four legs. When having quaffed a little too much of his favourite tipple he was prone to loudly exhorting ‘two legs bad, four legs good’ at anybody from the two-legged variety who incurred his displeasure…