IN THE FUCKING HOLE! – Part 1

I woke up one fine summer morning in Caird Park to find a voicemail on my mobile. I stretched the last remnants of sleep out and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on my face as I left my tepee. I noted the message was from Jocky. He’d called at half three in the morning.

‘Hiya Leigh! Hiya pal! By Christ, eh’m fair pished here, like. Just oot the Fairmuir. The Pope invited iz oot fur a quick pint, ended up gettin’ right on it and haein’ a few gemmes o’ Hungry Hungry Hippos wi’ McLean. Arab bastard wiz cheatin’ like fuck, nae danger his Hippo wiz hungrier than mine. Meh hippo wiz stervin’! Anyway, eh’ve got a proposition fur yi’; fancy bein’ meh caddie at a charity golf tournament in Spain? Charity’s teckle, golf’s teckle and a’body kens Spain’s fucking teckle. That’s a hat trick o’ teckle there, Leigh. You ken the score, mongchops. Gies a bell. Cheery!’

The message disintegrated into the roar of his jetpack and ended. A few days in Spain on the golf course? A bit of sunshine? A bit of Jocky-action to help pass the time until pre-season training got underway?

It had trouble written all over it. That said, it was likely to be good fun.

A week later I was in the bar at Glasgow airport waiting for Jocky to turn up. I’d checked in and had ordered myself a pint. As I sat enjoying the start of my holiday Jocky arrived in fine style.

‘WHAAAA’S IN CHERGE IN SUNNY SPAIN? AND VIVA EL JOCKY!’ He was singing his heart out. He’d added a sombrero to his usual trackie bottom/topless look and by all accounts appeared to be looking forward to his holiday.

‘Leigh ya mad vagina! Hiya pal! On the sauce already eh? That’s the gemme! We’re a’ goin’ on oor summer holidays! Like that gay fella wha’s ayewiz singin’ when it rains at Wimbledon, Dave Grohl.’

He stormed up to the bar shouting for a pint and demanding an audience with “that bam wha gave the terrorist a sneaky boot. Boy wiz on fire fur fuck sake, there wiz nae need ti’ kick the cunt tae”. John Smeaton was otherwise engaged but the Special was on tap.

We had a few pints then headed through customs. Jocky held things up slightly due to the fact he had cans on Tartan Special stashed away on his person. They found the one under his sombrero pretty quickly. Using a hand-held detector they found the one in his pants next. When they asked what was in there he replied, ‘Just meh cock and ba’s, big aine. Hae a look if yi’ like, but be prepared for the of wave o’ inferiority that’ll wash ower yi’. Surf’s up, cunto.’ They persisted and he eventually gave up his can. The detector beeped one more time as it passed Jocky’s rear-end. He grinned shamelessly. ‘Prepare ti’ launch aft torpedoes! Better put some newspaper doon or something, big aine. This is gonnae be slightly less than teckle.’

The flight was uneventful. Jocky occupied himself with his ouija board, holding an animated conversation with his Gran before lambasting the Glasgow Airport bomber for not putting up more of a fight against Smeato. When the plane hit Spanish tarmac Jocky ignored the instruction to remain seated until they taxied in to the terminal in order to walk up and down the aisle with his up-turned sombrero collecting a whip-round for the pilot.

A couple of hours later I was poolside at our hotel. The golf tournament, a charity affair organised by Jim Leishman, started the following morning, so we had time to soak up some rays before the event took place. I was stretched out on a sun lounger. Looking up at the hotel I noticed a big Dundee flag with the words DERRY RHUMBA printed on it hanging over a balcony. Jocky’s room, no doubt. That thought was confirmed seconds later when he flew out and started descending towards the pool. He’d changed out his trackie bottoms into the smallest pair of Speedos imaginable. They were at least three sized too small, making his not inconsiderable crotch highly, highly prominent. He was still wearing his sombrero. He landed next to me. ‘Hola, cunto! By Christ, it’s fucking roasting, eh? Eh huvnae felt heat like this since Jim Duffy set fire ti’ the caravan eh wiz pumping his wife in. Wee love nest on the street ootside his hoose, like. Probably should’ve been mair discreet, but the dodgem eh wiz drehvin’ at the time didnae hae the oomph ti’ carry it ti’ the Red Lion Caravan Park in Arbroath, which is the spot whaur maist cunts shag Jim Duffy’s wife.’

I tried to avert my eyes from the monstrous package that was pushing the elasticity of his trunks to their absolute limit. He settled down and sunbathed on the lounger next to me. The hip-hop beats from the earplugs of his “ehPod” providing distant-sounding background music. As I dozed off a little I heard Jocky singing along to himself. ‘Oh-oh-oh, woah-oh-oh! All the teckle ladies! All the teckle ladies. All the teckle ladies! All the teckle ladies. Fucking yas. Get them telt, Beyonce.’ I sat up and realised a few recognisable faces had started to appear around the pool and bar area. The rest of the golfing party was congregating. Jocky sat up and spotted them. Unplugging his earphones he whistled and motioned for them to come over to say hello. Former Scotland manager Craig Brown was first to approach.

‘Well Jocky, how are you? Long time no see.’

‘A’right Broon, no’ bad pal. Question fur yi baldy: di’ yi’ like it?’ Craig looked baffled but gave an affirmative response. ‘Then yi’ should’ve put a ring on it ya daft cunt! Beyonce kens the score! Eh wiz at her and Jay Z’s wedding perty at the Woodlands Hotel in the Ferry. Fucking class, like. Some cunt says ti’ iz “yo J-Dog, shizzle my nizzle muthafucka”. Eh says, “wha’s in cherge here? Crack is whack, cunto. Increase the peace.” Craig sunk deeper into confusion. Jocky continued. ‘How’s Hen gettin’ on? Huvnae seen that lanky cunt fur ages. Tell him big Jocky wiz askin’ fur him. Daphne tae!’ Brown had completely lost the thread by this time and could only mumble, ‘aye…erm, fine, aye…’ by way of a reply.

The rest of the party said hello. Craig Levein was here, as was ex-Liverpool star Alan Kennedy and event organiser Jim Leishman. We sat chatting away for a while, discussing the previous season of Scottish football and the golf tournament that kicked off the following morning. As Jocky was in the midst of telling a story about the time he beat Seve Ballesteros at crazy golf on the course by Broughty Ferry beach, an athletic, tough looking guy strode towards us. Leishman jumped up to greet him then introduced him to the rest of us. It was Welsh boxing legend Joe Calzaghe. As he went around the group shaking hands I saw Jocky steeling himself. He puffed his chest out and raised his chin as he waited his turn for formalities.

‘Hello Jocky, I’m Joe. Nice to meet you.’ Jocky took his hand to shake it but said nothing. Joe looked down at their clasped hands, seemingly surprised at the force of Jocky’s grip. His fighter instincts kicked in and he met both Jocky’s steely gaze and the pressure of his handshake. They stood in silence squeezing hands. The muscles in their arms tensed, and their eyes burned holes in each other. When the grip was finally broken Jocky spoke first.

‘Hiya Joe Calshaggy, hiya pal! Whaur’s the Mystery Machine parked? Zoinks!’ He turned to me and whispered, ‘bit o’ Scooby Doo fur yi’ there pal. Scooby Doo’s fucking teckle! Cartoon doag, like.’ He turned his attention back to Joe. ‘Here, Joe Calshaggy; question fur yi’, boxer cunto: wha’s in cherge here?’

With good reason, Joe looked at him like he was utterly mental and couldn’t muster a reply. Jocky shook his head in disgust at the lack of response. ‘Eh heard you were an undefeated champion. Just as well yi’ never turned up at the Fairmuir’s celebrity boxing night. Barry McGuigan barely made it oot the taxi before Tam McGinty battered fuck oot him. Frank Bruno got signed in but left ten minutes later wi’ a handful o’ dominoes up his arse and a look of despair in his mince pies. Nae cunt messes wi’ the Fairmuir, Joe Calshaggy. A’body kens that. Eh hud a cunning plan ti’ get Mohammad Ali up so we could tak’ the piss as he tried playin’ darts wi’ that shakey Alzheimer’s hand o’ his. Eh would’ve got awa’ wi’ it if it wisnae fur that pesky Boaby Brannan.’ Jocky turned to me and whispered, ‘that’s a wee line fae Scooby Doo, pal. Honestly, check it oot on the Cartoon Network, it’s fucking teckle!’

Later that evening we all went out for tea and a few drinks. The fancy restaurant we went to had a dress code that Jocky’s swimming trunks and sombrero ensemble didn’t come anywhere near satisfying, but after a lot of shouting and threats to have Tam McGinty and various members of the Wu Tang Clan (“the good aines, no’ the dingy cunts that get sent oot on tour”) over on the next flight to wreck the place he was allowed in. He spent most of the evening asking Joe Calzaghe who was in charge and eventually disappeared into the kitchen to try and teach the chef how to make stovies. ‘El corned beef and el tatties, Pedro. It’s nae bather. How the fuck did yi’ get a Michelin Star if yi’ cannae mak’ stovies?’

——————

I was up at the crack of dawn for the charity golf tournament. I made my way to the nearby course and found most of the group already there. Mercifully, Jocky had finally changed out his Speedos. He was wearing appropriate attire for the occasion. Well, sort of. He had on a pair of tartan plus four golf trousers which were in line with standard, if not slightly out-dated, golf clothing. Unfortunately he’d matched them with a pair of white Donnay socks and muddy old Umbro football boots. He was still wearing his sombrero. As always, the man was topless.

‘Hiya Leigh! Has a’body met Leigh? Jocky kens him fae the futba, like. Good cunt. Lives in a teepee! Get a hoose, Crazy Horse. Fuck sake.’ He thrust a golf bag in my direction. ‘Grab that, cunto. Follow Jocky roond the course, it’s nae bather.’ Jocky strapped on his jetpack and hovered over to the first hole, shouting abuse at Joe Calzaghe as went. Joe had been paired off with Jocky for the opening round. There was still a bit of tension between the two after yesterday’s shenanigans. Well that wasn’t entirely true. Jocky was still getting a bit wound up by the Welshman’s presence, but Joe was as cool as a cucumber and generally just ignored him. As I approached the tee of the first hole Jocky was there doing press-ups on his knuckles. Making sure Joe was watching he bounced up and did a threw a few tight punches into fresh air. ‘See that, Joe Calshaggy? Float like a butterfly, sting like meh pee. Got a bit o’ cystitis like, it’s nippy as fuck. Zoinks!’

Jocky finished off his warm up routine with a few stretches then he was ready to play.

‘Right Leigh, gie Jocky his drehvur. Time tae show cunto here how it’s done.’ I removed the driver and passed it to him. Just then I heard a rustling in the golf bag. Something was moving about in there. I was a bit freaked out and stepped backwards away from it.

‘Jocky, there’s………there’s something in your bag……..’

‘Ken there is Leigh, they’re called testicles. Grow a pair, mongchops.’

‘No, I mean your golf bag…’

Jocky looked puzzled and wandered over. Just then an engine fired up in the bag, and the source of our puzzlement showed it’s feline, moustachioed face. Jocky the cat hovered out into the Spanish sun.

‘Sweet hairy Tosh McKinley, eh’ve got a stowaway! Hiya wee Jocky! Hiya pal!’

‘Miaow.’

Wee Jocky flew over to say hello to his master. Jocky stroked him and gave him a wee kiss on the head. The cat then came over to see me and I did the same. He’s a braw cat, is wee Jocky. I’d grown rather fond of him over the past few months, and lest we forget he saved me from a hiding at the hands of Bob Brannan and the goons who work as stewards at Dens. As Jocky smashed his drive up the centre of the fairway and screamed ‘IN THE FUCKING HOLE YA CUNT!’, Calzaghe took a long, hard look at the flying cat, rubbed his eyes then looked back.

‘Is that a ………..is that a flying cat?’

Jocky answered him. ‘Nah pal, it’s a swimming fucking budgie. Shut yir pus and get golfing.’

Calzaghe gave Jocky a cold look for a second then managed to drag his gaze away from the cat to concentrate on the matter at hand. He hit his drive long and straight then started heading down the fairway. Joe and his caddy kept a bit of distance from us. Things weren’t too convivial considering it was a charity event. Jocky hovered by my side, took his next shot then hovered on again. Jocky the cat followed on obediently, and seemed to be having as good a time as a cat with a jetpack can on a golf course. Jocky had reached the green in two and had a birdie opportunity.

‘Pass Jocky the putter, Leigh. Eh’m pure deadly wi’ the putter, a’body kens that.’

I raked in the bag for a putter but couldn’t find one. What I did come across was a snooker cue. ‘Jocky, you don’t seem to have a putter. Why is there a snooker cue in here?’ He looked exasperated, and replied, ‘the cue is the putter, pal. Unconventional, aye, but you ken as well as any cunt that Jocky’s no’ a man wha abides by convention.’ Turning to wee Jocky, he said, ‘isn’t that right, wee aine?’

‘Miaow.’

‘Fucking right. Get Leigh telt, wee Jocky.’

I handed Jocky his “putter”. He got down on his stomach, laying flat out on the green. Calzaghe and his caddy looked on, astonished by the latest development in their time with Jocky. He lined up his shot, addressing the ball as he did so. ‘Right wee man, nae fucking aboot here. In the hole, a’body’s happy, best o’ the teckle. Ken what eh’m on aboot? That’s the gemme.’ He drew his cue back and made a firm connection with the ball. He remained flat on the green as it made its way towards the hole.

‘It’s goin’…….it’s goin’……..ya cunt, it’s……..it’s……..IN THE FUCKING HOLE!! YAAAAAAASSS!’ He jumped up and swaggered over towards Calzaghe with his arms outstretched. ‘How’s that ya leek-munching, Tam Jones-listenin’ dragon-shagger? Eh? Big Jocky sterts proceedings wi’ a birdie! FU-CKING OOFT! Woot woot! That’s what eh’m talkin’ aboot!’

He was absolutely delighted. He swaggered back over and handed me the cue.

‘Wha’s in cherge here, Leigh? Did yi’ see that putt? Belter!’

‘Aye, great stuff, boss.’

Calzaghe had made it to the green too. As he lined up his putt Jocky started noising him up by going, ‘ooooooooooohhhhhhhhHHHHHHHH!!!’ Joe stopped and looked around at him with a mean look in his eyes. Jocky shut up and apologised. ‘Sorry, big aine. Jocky’s just kiddin’ yi’ on.’ As Calzaghe went back to his putt Jocky turned to me and laughed silently, his shoulders bouncing, mirth in his eyes. Calzaghe took his putt. It crawled to the hole and looked like it was on the way in, but it stopped less than inch short.

‘YAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSS!’ Jocky wasn’t shy in roaring his approval at his opponent’s misfortune. He started singing and pointing at Joe. ‘Whhhhhat the fucking hell was that? Whhhhhhhhhhhat the fuuuucking hell-was-that?!’ Joe looked like he was boiling up inside. He was doing well to keep it in check, but it was unlikely to last if Jocky kept riling him.

Jocky sent his second drive of the round off with the same cry of ‘IN THE FUCKING HOLE YA CUNT!’ It wasn’t quite as accurate as he might have hoped, so he flew off in front to check the situation out. Calzaghe drove and we headed up the fairway. Jocky had disappeared out of sight. I couldn’t see him or his ball. I heard a shout from the nearby bunker.

‘In here Leigh, Jocky’s in the bunker.’ The bunker was a deep, high-walled sand trap. I could hear him but couldn’t see him.

‘Do you need the sand wedge, boss?’ I started pulling the club out. ‘No pal, pass Jocky the bog roll that’s in the side pocket o’ the bag.’ The toilet roll? That couldn’t be right. I strolled over to have a look into the bunker. Good grief. I flinched at the sight that greeted me. Jocky was squatting with his trousers pulled down around his ankles reading a copy of the Beano. He was in the midst of taking a dump.

‘Chuck iz that bog roll, pal. Eh’ll no’ be lang, eh’ll just finish the Bash Street Kids then it’s back ti’ the gemme.’

I took the toilet roll out the bag, threw it to him and walked off to give him some privacy. Joe was at the other side of the fairway. He’d also found the rough and was searching for his ball. After a few moments Jocky came out and told me as his caddy it was my duty to rake the sand in the bunker. I protested, but he said it was “golf etiquette”. Quite a statement from a man who just took a shit in the bunker.

I threw some sand over his pile of shite and raked around it. As I did so Jocky and Joe played their second shots onto the green, which was over the crest of a hill and out of sight. Jocky flew on in front again. When the rest of reached the green he was standing by the two balls which were no more than three feet from the hole. Easy birdies for both players. Jocky approached Joe.

‘Big man, you put your ball in first. It’s meh shot, but as a way o’ apologising fur meh behaviour eh’d be honoured if yi’ went ahead o’ me did the business first. It’s a wee gesture, like.’ Joe seemed to like the idea. ‘Thanks, Jocky. I appreciate that thought.’ The two men shook hands. Jocky walked over to stand with me by the side of the green with a twinkle in his eye. Joe lined his putt up and sank it. Jocky applauded him. ‘Nice one, Joe. Good birdie!’ Joe doffed his baseball cap at him and reached down to pick his ball out the hole. He shuddered and froze. Slowly, he lifted his ball out the hole. His ball and hand were covered in shit. Jocky erupted.

‘FUCKING YAAAAAAAASSSS!!! OH YA CUNT, THAT’S MEH SHITE! THUNDERCATS – HOOOOOOOO!!’

He was beside himself and creased with laughter. He’d taken some of his crap from the bunker and put it in the hole while we were still walking up to the green. The friendly putting gesture had been an elaborate rouse. As Jocky howled away to himself, Calzaghe reached his breaking point. He threw his club down and stormed towards us.

Jocky the cat flew in between Joe and Jocky. He adopted the Karate Kid “crane” pose and hovered at head height in front of him. Joe tried to sidestep him to the left then the right, but wee Jocky followed his movement and remained in position between them. Joe was going bonkers, but couldn’t get past the cat. Big Jocky wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes and tried to cool things down.

‘Settle doon, Joe. Calm the ham ya shitey-handed cunt.’

Joe was raging. ‘You’re fucking dead, you old bastard! Come ahead! Me and you, right here and now!’ Jocky merely chuckled. ‘Square go time, is it? Meh Goad, yi’ couldnae even win a square go wi’ meh cat, nivir mind me. Tell yi’ what, wee ba’s. Meh cat’s a braw Connect 4 player. If yi’ beat the cat at Connect 4, eh’ll gie yi’ the square go yi’re after. Deal?’

Calzaghe looked mightily confused, but after another explanation of the deal he laughed and agreed. Beating a cat at Connect 4? Mental, but easy. If that’s what it took to get his hands on Jocky he’d play along. Jocky went to his golf bag and took out a travel version of his cat’s favourite board game. He handed it to Joe and told him to set it up. Jocky the cat landed at Joe’s feet and awaited the start. Jocky put an arm around me and lead me off back down the fairway.

‘Jocky keeps all manner of stuff in that golf bag, Leigh. Eh like tae keep Connect 4 in there in case there’s any bather and wee Jocky’s in the area. Eh’m fucking sure the bog roll came in handy back there, and the Connect 4’s gonnae prove it’s worth in about 60 seconds time.’ I looked over my shoulder and saw Joe sitting cross-legged on the green with the Connect 4 board between him and Jocky the cat. The game was about to start.

‘Leigh pal, keep the old mince pies facing straight ahead. Yi’ dinnae want ti’ see what’s aboot tae go down at that gemme o’ Connect 4.’

I did as I was told and walked away with Jocky. He’d always warned me about the danger of playing the cat at Connect 4. It had seemed like daft talk, and I took such claims with a pinch of salt. How could a simple game with a cat go so wrong? We walked a hundred feet or so before Jocky stopped me. He raised a finger aloft for a few seconds as if waiting for something. He then dropped it and turned around. I did the same, and my jaw almost hit the fairway.

Joe Calzaghe had been crucified. He was tied (not nailed, thankfully) to a fifteen-foot-tall cross that had been planted on the green. He’d been stripped to his pants and gagged with Jocky’s swimming trunks. Jocky the cat lay stretched out at the foot of the cross in a nonchalant fashion. My brain froze as it tried to comprehend the situation. We’d only turned our backs for a minute. Where the hell did the cross come from? How the fuck had the cat managed to subdue and crucify a champion boxer? How the……..what the…….

I followed Jocky as he swaggered over to the crucifix. I was numb, incapable of speech. Jocky didn’t bat an eyelid. This came as no surprise to him. He stood at the base of the cross, a serious look on his face. ‘Wha won, Joe?’ He burst out laughing. ‘Yaaaaaaasss! Just kidding, pal, eh ken wha won. Jocky sees yi’ on yir cross. Jocky sees yi’. Bit like thon boy Jesus, eh? Fucking shame him gettin’ nailed up there. Bet that wiz sair. Bet he wiz up there thinkin’, “fucking hell man, this is shite. Some cunt should invent an adhesive that does the same joab as nails without actually haein’ ti’ use nails. Mibbe call it Nae Mair Nails, or Jew Glue or something, fuck knows. Bit late fur a’ these bright ideas really, some cunt just nailed iz tae a cross. Fuck sake. Good aine Judas, yi’ grassin’ cunt.” Bet he wiz sayin’ a’ that sort o’ stuff, eh Joe?’

Joe couldn’t talk through the trunks stuffed in his mouth but his eyes told the story. They were as wide as saucers, filled with terror, rage, and the 1000 yard stare of someone who has witnessed the incomprehensible. His caddy shared the same look. He stood staring at the cat like a man who dearly wanted to run like the wind but whose mind had suffered a severe trauma and couldn’t relay the impulse to do so down to his legs. Jocky wrapped a comforting arm around him. ‘Sorry yi hud ti’ witness that, Pedro. Crazy, eh? Wee bit fucking loco.’ There was no reaction from the caddy. Jocky waved a hand in front of his face. Nothing. He just stared at the cat like a lobotomy patient staring out the window of a mental ward. Somewhat cruelly Jocky decided this was an opportunity for further amusement and pulled the boy’s trousers down round his ankles before we headed back towards the club house. The round of golf was most definitely over.

———————–

We spent the couple of hours at the bar in the club house. Jocky was calling every member of staff Pedro and asking them how to say key phrases such as “Jim McLean is Bible John – think aboot it” and “the rain in Spain falls mainly on Boaby Brannan” in Spanish. The rest of the golfers returned in dribs and drabs. When they asked where Joe had got to Jocky explained he’d abandoned the round in favour of taking his caddy back to the hotel so he could dress him up like a little boy and have sex with him. ‘Eh tried ti’ convince the cunt it wiz better ti’ raise some dough fur charity, but he just said, “Jocky boyo, my lust for young lads far out-weighs my desire to contribute to a charitable cause” Cannae really argue wi’ a boxer cunto when he says mad shite like that, eh? Fuck sake.’

Jocky and I decided to head back to the hotel. We left the rest of the lads to it and walked out the club house. As we crossed the car park a golf buggy came tearing over a hill in the distance. It was being driven recklessly at top speed. I stopped immediately, Jocky kept walking ahead. It was Joe. He’d got off his cross and was coming for Jocky. I shouted a warning. Jocky stopped and waved. ‘Hiya Joe Calshaggy! Hiya pal! By Christ, it’s the Second Coming of Joesus! Zoinks!’ Joe continued driving straight towards Jocky. The insane look in his eye he’d had on the cross was still firmly in place. He was aiming to take Jocky out.

As the buggy came roaring towards him Jocky didn’t budge an inch. He stood as cool as you like and said, ‘Yi’ cannae win, Joe. Strike me doon now and eh’ll become more powerful that you can possibly imagine.’ He turned to me, laughing. ‘Did yi’ catch that, Leigh? Bit o’ Star Wars fur yi’! Star Wars is fucking tec…’

THUMP.

He was cut short by the horrifying impact of the golf buggy hitting him at top speed. He went flying and lay crumpled on the ground. I ran to him and turned him over on to his back. His eyes had glazed over and a little trickle of blood came from his mouth. Shit, he was badly injured. He managed to utter the words, ‘Jocky sees yi’ Granny………..Jocky sees yi’………..’ before slipping into unconsciousness. I looked up and saw Calzaghe striding towards us. I was suddenly filled with furious anger. I got up and charged at him. Now, I’m not a bad footballer, but I’m not much of a fighter. Joe ducked away from the wild swing I threw at him then retaliated with a savage right hook that connected square on my jaw. I saw the concrete rushing up to meet me and my head smashed hard against it. My eyes rolled back in my head and everything went black.

For a few seconds there was nothing, just darkness. A pin-prick of light appeared in the centre of my vision then slowly grew bigger. I seemed to be floating towards the source of light. As I drew closer to it a small old woman came into view. She must have been more than 100 years old. She was hunched over, whithered by the sands of time. As I came to a halt next to her I saw that she had an all-too-familiar mischievous glint in her eye. She also had a fearsome looking moustache that put Jocky’s to shame.

‘Hiya Granny Scott. Hiya pal.’

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