The Tartan Bar.

The Tartan Bar.

 Big Joe chalked his cue and leaned over the pool table in the Tartan Bar in Wishaw. He drew the cue slowly back, and in one fluid movement he potted the black. He walked over to his opponent and shook his hand.

 “Good game mate, yie nearly hud me that time.”

 “Nah mate, I don’t think I can beat you at pool. That’s twenty quid yi've taken aff me the day. A’m no playin yie at pool fur money any mair, it’s obvious A cannae beat yie at this gemme… Wid yie give a man a chance tae get his money back mate?”

 “Aye always. Whit’s yir gamble?”

 “A’ll bet yie a tenner that my tadger is longer and thicker than yours?”

 “That’s a bold statement tae make mate. Yir language and yir confidence tell me that yi’ve made this gamble before and yie have quite an impressive piece of equipment tucked away in yir drawers there. A virgin’s nightmare nae doobt, A’ll no take that bet... if yie don’t mind.”

 “Yie said yie wid always give a man a chance tae win back his money. Your words no mine big man.”

 “Okay mate that’s whit A said and A’ll stick by that. A’ll have tae tell yie though that A wiznae blessed with a huge penis. On saying that, I've always been asked back. The reason is."

 Joe's eyes glazed over and he began to take on the demeanour of a university lecturer; his thumbs gripped his shirt near his armpits, and with his feet shoulder width apart, he began his ‘spiel’.

 “I must say I have never disappointed a lady who has ever given me the honour. I don’t put my success down to the size of my appendage, however, I’m of the opinion that size plays a very small role in the business. Confidence is the thing in sexual activity. I believe that the vagina, with its mass of nerve endings, is much like the eye. When a foreign body enters the eye the accumulation of close nerve endings sends the signal to the brain that the invading item is massive, no matter in reality how small it may be.”

 Joe shifted his feet and took a drink of lager before appraising his audience’s reaction to his theory. The gambler was standing with a tenner gripped tightly in his hand. He was nodding his head, apparently mesmerised. Joe continued.

 “The result is.”  He coughed,

 “When I am with a lady and we reach that stage in the proceedings, I’m eager to present my instrument. The size matters not, in reality, the biggest and most expansive entity in the whole affair is my confidence. With this attitude, I become a passionate and attentive lover…”

“Haud oan big man.” The gambler interjected.

“A’m no wantin tae huv sex wie yie, nae matter how fuckin confident yie are. A’m jist sayin that A’ve goat a bigger knob than you. Have we got a bet here, or huv we no?”

 “Well that depends if yi’ll take that bet.  Not against me or ma tadger, but against whit’s hidin ahint the zip in ma wee brothers troozers. Huv we a gamble there?”

 “Yir wee brother? How dae A know if he’s really yir wee brother or no?”

 “Diz it really matter?”

 “Aye A hink it diz.”

 Joe called to one of the guys sitting in the bar.

 “Haw Wullie! Jist answer ma question mate. The guy playin cards there, wie the red jumper oan, who’s he?”

 “That’s your Kenny, Joe, Why?”

 “Thanks Wullie, that’s fine mate.”

He turned back to the guy and asked

 “Good enough fur yie mate?”

 “Aye fair enough. We huv a bet. A tenner wiz it?”

  “Aye”

 Joe walked through the alcove and into the bar. He told his wee brother what was happening.

 “Kenny began to open his fly while saying,

 “Send the bastard ower, easiest tenner A’ve ever made.”

 The gambler with his money in his hand made his way to Kenny’s table. He looked at the sleeping python lying along Kenny’s leg, and without argument dropped a crisp ten-pound note beside Joe’s not so wee brother’s pint.

 As the guy walked back into the poolroom he was heard to mutter,

“Last time A’m drinkin in this fuckin shitehole, these bastard’s huv goat aw the angles covered.”

 Joe sat down beside his brother and said,

  “Yie gonnie keep that oot aw day?”

 “Well it pays tae advertise.”

Two minutes later wee Billy Fisher and his sidekick, Brian Devine, wearing conspiratorial grins, walked confidently into the bar. They had an obvious air of impishness about them. This wasn’t unusual, they were both well known as a pair of rascals. If someone had come to any mishap or were subject to a practical joke, odds on, either Billy or Brian was responsible.

 Tommy McArthur, the owner of this free house was very proud of his pub. He maintained a wide range of beers, lagers and stouts and his spirit gantry displayed the popular brands of whisky with a few special brands dotted here and there. Tommy’s pride and joy was to keep these beverages at their peak. Anyone with the temerity to criticise Tommy’s produce did so at his peril. Tommy was an ex amateur boxer and still trained twice a week.

 He self-indulgently decorated the bar with prestigious boxing posters following the career of his hero, Smokin Joe Frazier. These were preserved behind glass panels displayed around the walls. His pride and joy was a double sized poster of the famous 'Thrilla In Manila'. Tommy had attended the fight and afterwards had bought at auction, for two thousand dollars, the gloves Joe Frazier had worn in the contest.

 The gloves were displayed in a reinforced glass cabinet on the wall behind the bar. It was kept locked and was illuminated at night. Tommy would reminisce emotionally with anyone who cared to listen, and on very rare occasions he would take the gloves out and hold them to his heart.

 Wee Billy had picked the lock on the case and had replaced the much-loved gloves with a pair of toddler’s pink and flowery mittens. Surprisingly the theft wasn’t immediately discovered. It took Tommy almost ten minutes before he noticed

 The look on his face when he finally found his most loved possession was missing was priceless; Tommy became apoplectic. He stood in front of the case staring at the wee pink mittens with the wee blue forget-me-nots. His head was slowly shaking from side to side. Saliva drooled from his jaw as he silently mouthed,

  “Bastards, bastards, yiz urr nuhin but durty thievin fuckin bastards."

 Wee Billy started to panic; he had the gloves under the table in a Morrison’s bag, but it would be suicide to admit to the act now. Tommy’s mind wasn’t in a good place at that moment. Billy had to find a solution. He sneaked into the pool room, here, two pool tables were separated from the main bar by a large alcove. Billy sat down and desperately tried to think of a way to escape his predicament. After a few minutes the destitute Tommy left the bar and slouched into his office, he closed the door.

 Billy taking advantage of this window of opportunity ran to the bar and placed the carrier bag on the counter, as he ran out the door he shouted,

 “A’m sorry Tommy; it was only for a laugh."

 Surprisingly Billy was only barred for a week. I think Tommy was so relieved to get his gloves back he would have forgiven anybody, anything.

That was two months ago, and now, wee Billy in tow with his wee pal Brian were again up to their old tricks. Billy stood at the bar and ordered, a pint of heavy for himself and a pint of lager for Brian. Tommy served the drinks and as he turned to put the money in the till, Billy took a sniff at the pint. He turned and held the glass up to the light. He swirled the beer from side to side before he put the tumbler to his mouth and drew a long draught. Then he sniffed the pint again.

 Tommy stood with both hands on the bar, staring at Billy.

“Haw wee man, if you're pullin wan ae yir daft, fancy wee tricks, A'll punch a fuckin hole in yie. Whit’s wrang wie the beer?”

 “A hink it’s aff Tommy.”

 “Aff, whit the fuck dae yie mean by aff?”

 “It tastes weird Tommy, honest A’m no kiddin.”

 Tommy, who didn’t drink, held his hand out and said

 “Gimme the pint tae I have a look at it.”

 He took the glass and held it up to the light. He called to the bar,

 “ Can wan ae you fanny’s who drinks heavy, come and taste this pint. It looks okay tae me; if A fun oot this wee smarmy arse is at the ham, I’m gauntae kill him and half his fuckin family.”

 Billy held up both his hands and pleaded,

 “Tommy for fuck sake the pint’s aff. Whit can A tell yie? Look, gie me another taste. It might have been ma mooth that wiz funny. A’ve been eatin dug biscuits this morning, and they’ve maybe affected ma palette.”

 “Dug biscuits, yie were eatin dug biscuits that maybe affected yir fuckin palette? For fuck sake here’s the pint, for oany favour try it again afore A lose the place aw the fuckin gither.”

 Billy took the pint. He examined it again. After shaking his head, he drank deeply. He finished the pint and placed the empty glass on the counter. As soon as he did, he groaned and doubled over moaning,

 “Oh ma stomach, oh naw A feel terrible.”

 He began to retch noisily. A brown liquid shot from his mouth and splattered in a two-foot wide pool, consisting of peas and carrots interspersed with potato and sweetcorn.

 Wee Brian, smiling, reached into his parka and pulled out a tablespoon, he shouted,

 “Ya belter, A’m fuckin starving.”

 He dropped to his knees and began to spoon the vomit into his mouth, slurping noisily as he did so. Tommy along with most of the punters in the pub began to turn green. Some joined Billy, who was still vomiting, with some of it falling on Brian’s back and head. One punter was on his knees with his head down the side of the one-armed bandit, emptying the contents of his stomach quicker than the jackpot payed out and while making similar noises.

 Tommy leapt the counter, as he landed he grabbed Brian by the hood of his parka. He hauled him to his feet and punched him square on the chest. Brian flew back on his heels; he went through the alcove and barged into the gambler, breaking his nose. The gambling man held his bleeding nose and shouted,

 “Aw fuck this.”

 He lifted his jacket, as he did, two long and thick rubber penises fell out and onto the floor. He turned quickly, and while still holding his broken and bleeding nose, he escaped out the door.

 Meanwhile, Tommy was squeezing Billy’s throat and yelling,

  “Ya durty wee bastard, sick is it, sick. A’ll have yie pewkin oot yir arse, ya fuckin wee animal. A’ll fuckin kill yie.”

 Tommy was shaking Billy like a rag doll. In between gasps Billy was croaking,

 “It’s soup Tommy, croak!.. It's only soup, fur fuck sake man, cough!... It’s only fuckin soup...It wiz only jist fur a laugh.”

 “A fuckin laugh... here’s a fuckin laugh.”

 Tommy, in his boxing days, was famous for his right uppercut; he hadn't used it in years. He let one go now. It came from his toes and caught Billy square on the chin. A hot water bottle flew from inside Billy’s jacket and landed on the floor among the ‘vomit’. Billy landed unconscious beside it.

 Tommy looked at the hot-water bottle and booted it across the floor. He  turned and looked into the poolroom. Pointing his finger at the quivering Brian, he shouted;

 “You! Ya snivelling, smelly, wee worm, git yir arse over here and clean this shite up. Yi’ll git a mop and bucket in the toilet there. When yi’r finished, you and yir wee pal are barred fae this pub for fuckin eternity."

 Tommy calmed himself and watched the 'worm' clean up. When Brian put the mop away and helped his mate out the door. Big Joe approached the bar holding a half filled pint tumbler. He sniffed the glass before saying,

 “A think there’s something weird aboot this lager Tommy.”