A Christmas Story, so et es tae!

Jings! Who the fuck is that at thish time o’ night. Hey Hen! Wid ye get yon door an at? Whit de ye mean “Ye’re no feelin so weel”? Yez had the bairn an oor ago an all yiz done is lie aboot the place since then, an Ah’ve no had ma tea yit, an youze expect Me tae git yon door. An it’s probably Yir Maw, the ol’ coo. Well she’s no comin in tae Ma hoose agin. Ash’ll skelp hir like ah did last time. Tellin me am a “Violent beast”. In ma ane hoose an aw. Jist cause hir precious wee gerrl went tae a convent school, it disnae make hir a Saint an hir dauchter a Nun. Bloody Papists yir aw the same. An ets Ma rules naw ye ken? Ma hoose, Ma fambly an Ma feckkin rules.

Mind, Ah’m still no sae sure ets Ma Fambly. Yon Wain dis’nae look like Me ataw. So he’s a bonnie wee lad fae sure, an mebbe when he get’s a bit of a gut on ‘im and gets his nose broke a couple ay times, ye micht see a fambly resemblance. But A’hm no sae sure ken. An wits wi this disco light roond his heid aw the time! Ah cannae mind anyyin in oor fambly hayin one ae thaem. Except the nicht when Uncle Disco Davey used hair spray when he had a lighted fag in his gob.

Ken Ah cannae mind shaggin yiz in the first place. Ah’d hed a few bevvies like, an in the morn’s morn there ye wiz, so Ah naturally presumed like. You Catholic gerls an that no Johnies rule. Yiz up the duff effir yiz can say “Hail Mary” an since then, no sae much as a sniff o’ the fishmongers’ apron that Ah kin remember. Sure, you telling me in the morns aboot whit a stud Ah wiz the night afore like. But eftir 9 pints, Ah cannae mind a thing. Fir awl Ah ken yiz could be shaggin yon old gadgy wi the big white beard who’s alwiz sniffin roond the place.

Wid yiz leave it oaf with that feckin door?! It cannae be the Polis. Ah’m sure that wifey nevir saw Ma face.

Are ye no gonna move ataw woman? Whisht, ahs’ll git it maself like. Awright ye shites ye! Ah’m commin, ah’m commin! This doors awfy stiff. Jeez woman, wull ye let it alone wi yer “Ah thoat yiz wir supposed tae be a Carpenter” bit. We oanly moved in the morn’s morn afore, an ah’ve no got me tools an ah’ve gott his heid oan me frae yon fermented ass’s milk. Ass’s milk fae feck’s sake! This God-forsaken dump cannae manage a decent malt, nor e’en a gless o’ that pish that yon tennant makes. An when I esked fir a wee drop o’ Irn Bru tae geez the heid a wee clear, he geez a mug ae rusty water. Get oaf wid ye! Stop yiz feckin bangin! Ah’ve a wife and wee bairn in here.

There ye bastit! Ets feckin open. Who the feck? Ah cannae see a thing oot thir. Ets awl black, wi jist the one feckin big star shinin right in ma fizog. Who’s oot thir? Come on yiz eejits. Yiz hiv bin bangin on wis door hof the feckin nicht. Jeez it’s a Darkie!… No Hen, ah dinnae mean it’s dark oot. It is dark oot, aye. Bit ah mean thirs a 6 foot darkie stanin in the close. Ah cannae see much aye him but. Jist these twa big yelly eyes. Hang oan. Thirs twa mair… No, not big yelly eyes ye wee hussy. Twa mair gadgies. Big hairy gadgies an aw. Onless one aye em es yir maw. Naw yir maw couldnae git oan a camel like that yin. Not wi her girt fat erse.

Oi pal! Whits gannin oan an at! Do they no hev barbers wir yiz come frae? You speaka da lingo Jackson? Ah kin see yir no the Polis oan account o yir camel disnae hev ra black ‘n white chequer but. So come on. Whit are yiz wantin at this oor yiz hoors yiz. That is some sort ae Tam o’ Shanter yiz has oan thir pal. Whit’s that? …Yiv come tae see the Messiah? Diz this look like the feckin Albert Hall ye hoor?! It’s a feckin shed! Are yiz takin the pish! There’s no feckin concert programme here the night. No bingo an no strippers neither so off yiz go an away tae fuck.

Oi! See you pal. That is bang oot ae order. Jist marchin straight in like yiz own ra place. Oi! Feck, the three o’ yiz noo is it, but? Dinnae mind me chief. Ah jest feckin live here. Es any o’ you gadgies the Landlord like? We are no squatters pal. Yon bloke tells aye the shed’s oors fae the night an I paid the bastit fair an square. Ef yiz hev issues, tek it up wi him, no me. An that windi was broke when we got here, I swear.

…Hen, ah hev no feckin idea who they are. Et’s no use askin aye. Ah dinnae think they speak the Queens like. That’s the Queens Scoatish pal. Mary like. The last yin,… fair they g’id hir yon ruby necklace… See, he’s no getting it hen. Aw smiling like and mutterin something aboot the Messiah…. Ah’ve telt him there’s nae chantin here tae night hen. Ah’ve telt him bit he widne lissen.

What’s that? Some other fecker at the door? Whit’s goan oan? Oi! Jackson! Ef that is the Polis or thae Immigration gadgies, then you are oan yiz oan. Ken? Whit the feck? Who let all these sheep in hir? See you pal! Ah hev sole feckin rights tae this shed. Ah hev paid an yon Landlord sayed nowt about sheep. Aw c’moan, this yin’s jist pished oan ma foot! Awright, that yins jist volunteered fae ra barbeque. Ah little skelp wi me mashie niblick and …. Oh dear, the poor wee mite seems to have broken his neck. Still waste not, want not, as the Laird says. Jist break a wee bit aff the end o’ that stall yon and pass us some dry straw wull yiz pal and we wull be hevin roast goat in no time at aw. Jackson did yiz bring any alcohol wi yiz?

Ehem! Em ah the oanly fecker whit is daein onthin aroond here the night? Excuzey feckin moi! How is it that all yon feckers are sittin roond gawpin at the wee man? Awright, he’s got the disco headlight an at, but c’moan fir fecks sake, gi the bairn a brek. Whit the feck? Did the wee man jist smile at ma barbeque meat, before it got up and walked away? Oi, son ah’m yir Da! Thit wiz the oanly bit ae scran fir 3 days. How ahm aye supposed tae keep the corporeal bean alive if yiz keep up wi them party tricks.

Whit’s that? Pressies? Hoad oan Jackson. Onythin tae eat ay drink? ….Gold! Hen wid yiz look at ‘at. Jackson, you beauty! Aye, ah know it’s fae the bairn. Jist a wee shillin or twa fae some malt tae wet the bairn’s heid and a shillin or twa fae some scran. Fancy a Chinese Hen? Ah cuid fare go fae a kebab misell. Aye, Aye, ah ken Jackson. The rest ah it wull get melted down fae a Hibs medallion fae the wain. Ah wull wear it aroond mah neck till his 21^st birthday ken. Best keep it safe like.

Whit else is there? Let’s have a look….. Frankincense. Great! Look Hen, Frankincense. Whit wiz ah sayin oany the ither day? “ Hen, whit ah widnae dae fir some o’ thit thir Frankincense”. An look whit the nice Dago prince brought fir oor wee Jesus. Christ pal! Whit am aye supposed tae dae wi’ Frankincense? Cannae eat it. Cannae drink it. Cannae feckin spend it. An I defo can not gi it tae the wee man. Yon welfare slapper wull be roond in a heart beat. “Whit’s this yiz putting oan his nappy rash? Frankincense? My, my Mr. McArimathea we seem to be treating young JC to some of the finer things in life. You are obviously not declaring the full booty and I do believe that yir Giro will be withheld until further investigation.” Naw pal it’ll nivver do. Are ye sure yiz dinnae have a wee boatlle o’ Bells in there? Whit dae ye mean, yeiz dinnae drink? Christ Awmighty, who let these people in?

Oi Chinky Boy! Whit’s in the box then?. C’mon hand it ower. Can yez noat see that the wee man’s all exited like. Ah hope it’s something he can share with his Paw. No a pair o wee bootees or a feckin Zebedee mobile. Whit hev we goat here then eh?….. Myrhh!

What the feck is ‘Myrhh’? Jeez it smells like shite! Whit is it yez bampot? Some kind o’ feckin aftershave? Are yez right in the heid Pal? He’s a feckin bairn! You mun ae well as bought him a feckin pipe ‘n slippers or a nice Paisley tie wi matchin shirt. He’ll no be shavin fir anither 17 years! An when he does, it’ll be ‘The Great Smell o’ Brut’. No some nancy boy Calvin Klein shite called ‘Myrhh’. It mings bonnie lad, it mings.

Whit’s that look fir? Whit are yiz mutterin aboot? Are yez sayin that a wee splash oan masell wuid nae gae amiss? Are yez sayin ahm smelly like? Are yez wantin me tae smell like Danny La Feckin Rue? Are yez callin me a poof?

See you Jimmy. Oootside right noo! Ah dinnae gie a shite ef yiz been following yon star fir 40 nights. Yiz are no callin me a fudge packer in ma ane hame. Come here ye wee bastit! Yiz want tae follow a star?

SMACK!!!!!!!

There yiz gan ma fren. There’s several stars fir ye tae follae. It’s called a ‘Glasgae Kiss’. Now who else wuid like one o’ yane, but? Thit goes fir asses and camels the like. Haud oan Jackson. No sae fast Pal. Just leave the pressies oan the table but. An then away tae fuck the loat ae yez. See you son? That wee lamb es mine. He deed oan ma premises. Aye, ah kin see he’s aw frisky the noo, bit that wir the Lord’s work and the lord must hae done it in ma hoose fir a reason an that reason bein a kebab fir me and the wifey.

Oaf yiz all go the noo. Bye bye. Bye bye. Get tae feck!

Jeez! Whit a night. The nerve ae they gadgies. Jest merchin in as if they owned the place. Look at the state…. Naw Hen, ah am no gonna gi the place a wee tidy. Ah am totally fashed. Ah am gonna hev a wee bit lie doon an go doon the Brew in the morn an register the wee man fir his Giro. Ah jist need to get some sleep.

Jesus! Cuid yez turn oaf that light?!

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