I follow the Dees home and away. Me and my mates take a supporter’s bus to the away games and have a teckle as fuck time. My problem is that my pals tend to leave the match early. If it’s a poor game or Dundee are getting beat they bail out to head to the pub, leaving me, who stays to the bitter end regardless of the score, on my own. I don’t want to fall out with the boys, but I’m pissed off at them for it. Should I confront them?
Hiya Kev! Hiya pal!
The problem here nae doubt lies wi’ the fact the Dundee away support is by-and-large a marauding horde o’ drunken, aff-their-tits reprobates. Nae offence intended, Big Jocky fucking loves each and iviry aine o’ you boys and girls wha follow the Dees roond the country, but it’s like a travelling circus has arrived in town wi’ you cunts sometimes. A circus whaur the clowns are on tenner ectos, the acrobats are fucked on ching and the lion tamer’s trehin’ tae reason wi’ the polis as his lion gets chucked oot fur sparkin’ a crafty doob in the back row o’ the stand. Hud that, PT Barnum.
Eh sympathise wi’ ye, Kev. Eh ayewiz appreciated the fans wha stayed tae the final whistle regardless o’ the score. Die hards. The Bruce Willis DSC. Fair play tae ye.
Eh hae tae admit a degree o’ understandin’ wi’ yer pals tae though. Eh’ve left the gemme early before tae, aye. Bad gemmes considerin’ eh wiz the manager at the time.
We were at Easter Road. Hibs were ripping us tae bits, and when they went 3-0 up efter aboot 25 meenits eh wiz like that, Ken what? Fuck this. Eh’m awa’ fur a pint. Eh wandered doon the tunnel, oot the ground and intae the first boozer eh found on Leith Walk. Wisnae a bad pub, either. Weird jukebox though, there wiz only three sangs on it: 500 Miles, Sunshine on Leith and an audio book o’ Albert Kidd reading Trainspotting. Hiya Albert! Hiya pal!
The scores were comin’ in on the telly.
Hibernian 3 – 1 Dundee
Eh shouted “Yassss!” and made a tick on meh baith teams tae score coupon. Eh wiz only waitin’ on 683 mair goals and eh wiz a billionaire.
Fehve meenits later…
Hibernian 3 – 2 Dundee
Fuck sake! The comeback’s on! Eh tanned the rest o’ meh pint and charged oot the boozer. As eh bolted up Leith Walk towards Easter Road eh passed aine o’ they dodgy saunas and thought, Fuck aye, eh’ll squeeze in a quick rub ‘n’ tug aff some eastern European leisure specialist here.
Say what ye like aboot Edinburgh, but eh wiz mair than prepared tae ignore the crowds o’ tourists when there wiz hidden-in-plain-sight brothels on the go. There’s a bonnie castle tae!
“EH’M NEEDIN’ A SWIFT AS FUCK MASSAGE WI’ A TECKLE ENDING HERE, CUNTO,” says I as eh burst in there. The auld wummin running the laundrette looked terrified. Eh’d went in the wrang door, ken? Eh ran back oot and went in the right door at the second time o’ askin’.
The Romanian burd wha gave iz a chug hud the radio on. Not for the first time, Richard Gordon’s dulcet tones invoked a volcanic ejaculation.
“And there’s been an equaliser at Easter Road!”
Fuckin’ 3-3. Eh’m a tactical genius. Offering Svetlana sympathy fur her plight and a £2 tip, eh made haste back tae the futba. The very second eh barrelled oot the Easter Road tunnel we scored a fourth goal.
Ken they managers wha dinnae react when their team scores, they jist stand there looking nonchalant as fuck? That’s what eh did. Trackies still roond meh ankles, cock still on a semi and dripping jizz like a faulty tap, playing it cool as fuck. It wiz aine o’ the best results o’ meh career, and eh wisnae even there fur maist o’ it.
We’re only here tae drink yer beer and get cheap handjobs aff yer wimmin.
Kev, eh’d suggest ye leave early wi’ yer pals one time just tae see how it goes. If Dundee stage a spectacular comeback, nae cunt’s particularly bathered if you’re there tae see it or no’.
All the best, pal.