The Rampant Horse was a bustling hive of activity. That was until Vinny made an entrance. Then all eyes turned his way. He bent down and unclipped Scrapps lead and everybody gasped. Vinny was wearing a kilt with bugger all underneath. Old Sandra in the corner drinking her snowball nearly fainted when he bent over.
Dave, completely unfazed by anything Vinny does just waved his empty glass at his friend. Vinny got the round in, after receiving a stern telling off from Ken about nudity in public.
"Evening Vinny. That was quite the entrance. Some things cannot be unseen."
Vinny sipped his pint.
"Oh the kilt you mean?"
"Yes, the kilt. I didn't even know you had Scottish blood in your veins."
"I don't."
"Then why the bloody kilt?"
"I came straight from my new girlfriends. She's into roleplaying. I had to be what's his name. Braveheart fella."
"Mel Gibson?"
"No William Wallace."
"Same difference. Did you wield a claymore?"
"I offered but she said one massive weapon was enough for her to handle."
Dave spat out his beer.
"A mental image I did NOT need Vinny."
Vinny grinned and stood up then went to the gents. Two minutes later Lecherous Lee emerged from the gents shaking his head in disbelief.
He remarked to Ken, "Some things you can't unsee."
Vinny came back sat down and sipped his pint.
"So what do you think of Scottish Independence Vin?" Asked Dave.
Vinny thought a moment.
"Can't say I blame them. Those greedy cunts in Westminster should not control the life of Morag in Inverness. I'd go further.'
"Oh?"
"I'm for Yorkshire independence too ."
"I'll drink to that!!"
© Darren Sant 2023
Blagger
They think they know me in this boozer. Think they know all about me. Wankers. Look at him selling Lynx from a carrier bag. One-fifty a tin, that’s proper big time that is son. The cunt’s made about fifteen quid and he’s swaggering about like some fucking celebrity gangster. It’s not like he’s even a snotty nosed kid either, the fucker’s about thirty an…
Go Call The Vigilante...
Rob Lawrence knew he’d had a crap upbringing. He wasn’t stupid like people thought he was either, despite not going to school since he was thirteen years old. He knew for instance that a five pound bet on a five to two shot would give you twelve pound fifty plus your stake back. He knew that screaming about your human rights whilst under arrest would usually get you out of the nick fairly quickly or at worse a telling off and a slapped wrist. He knew that working forty to fifty hours a week for shit money was a lot harder than burgling houses, particularly ones he could be in and out of in ten minutes, and he knew for an absolute fact that even if he wanted to, which he didn’t, he couldn’t cross the mighty Falcus and stop working for him or he’d be on the end of a savage beating, maybe even death. He knew as well that his granny worried about him, she told him all the time so it was an easy one to work out. He often went to hers for food as there was usually no one about in his house; his dad was still inside and his mam, well, if she wasn’t ‘entertaining’ then she was in the boozer spending her commission on her previous night’s ‘work’.