People round here, they’d drink out of a sweaty clog. I’d have given this town a right good bottoming and slung me hook ages ago if I’d proper dosh. Chance would be a fine thing. I’m as fit as a butcher’s dog, mind, it’s no’ that I scurry from work, but all I get round the place when I smack the stones complaining for an honest eight hours is go polish your metal somewhere else, we all have it hard. The lot of ’em act sharp enough to cut themselves while the most interesting thing about ’em is they’ve got feet at the end of their legs. Wish they’d shut their laughing gear and just get on wi’ it.
So th’ day it’s back to the pub for a quick sip of mother’s ruin, or maybe splash out a bit, throw a large Scottish wine down the neck and clear the brain area. It’s always noses to nipples in here, even the nooner, which keeps Kenny the ’tender grinning all over his boat and me with no stool to choose but one beside the lass with a face like a slapped ass and a smile like poison coming to dinner. I know the next bird over, quite a fancy piece, though she’s all fur coat and no knickers. They call my shout, and how can I refuse these pigeons aught? You never know what’s for afters. There’s only been a coupla skirts me whole life that’ve been worth the hangover, but friends, aye, friends you must gather close to your soul and wrap them tight with hoops of steel, as the dead bard says. Besides, I’m no round-shirker, even on the dole. It’s no’ some deep secret why, just a pa’s lesson to his whinging son a good while gone that stuck. The gab lit up

Cory on the Bash Awhile 1