DEAR JOCKY: Cup Special

Dear Jocky,

It’s the Scottish Cup this weekend. People keep speaking about the “magic of the cup” but it sounds like a load of pish to me. I hate to be a cynic and eagerly await some wisdom, if there’s any to be had here.

Gaz, Fintry.

Hiya Gaz! Hiya pal!

It’s nae surprise that the bold cynicism rocks up tae say “hiya pal!” when the one and only time the Dee won the Scottish Cup wiz in 1910. There’s been twa world wars, men on the moon and hair on Jim McLean’s heid since we lifted the trophy. There’s fuck all magical aboot that, Gaz.

Jocky kens a boy wha wiz there when we won the cup. Fairmuir stalwart Boab Dolan wiz in attendance when Dundee beat Clyde thon historic day in 1910. Boab’s 138 years auld and still rocks up fur the Fairmuir bingo every Friday night. The cunt cannae draw breath tae call “house”, but still gets a dinghy win passed his way on occasion oot o’ respect. The man husnae managed an erection since 1972 and still gets preferential treatment at the disabled bog gloryhole. Respect yer elders, cunto. Boaby Dolan: He’s one of our own.

See if the Dees dae break their hoodoo and win the Scottish Cup anytime soon, Gaz, we’ll be hard pushed tae dae it as stylishly as Hibs did it the other year. Hibs won the cup like naebody’s fuckin’ business.

Eh wiz there that day, Gaz. Hibs v Rangers in the Scottish Cup final. A few lassies eh ken, Central European hand-shandy specialists wha run the show in the Leith Walk saunas, were in hospitality and hud a spare ticket. Jocky’s a Dundee man, nae question, but like maist right-minded cunts eh wiz bang up fur wantin’ the Hibees tae defeat the Zombies. Eh’m also right up fur getting bevvied like fuck in the Main Stand at Hampden wi’ burds wha will sook ye aff in the disabled bog if ye chuck them a Famous Fehvur. Add that tae the prospect o’ mibbe bumping intae The Proclaimers, and Jocky snapped that spare ticket up tae fuck, aye.

The Scottish Cup final is a grand occasion. Eh spent much o’ it tanning free pints, remonstrating wi’ cunts fur singing “We are Hibernian FC, we hate Jam Tarts and we hate Dundee”, and trehin’ tae convince The Proclaimers, wha were sittin’ behind iz in the hospitality, that there’s nae need tae walk 500 miles just tae fall doon at the door o’ a hooker when there’s plenty options in Leith Walk rub ‘n’ tugs at reasonable prices.

None o’ which mattered when that last minute winner went in. The gemme stood at 2-2. A corner swung in, some cunt fae Hibs headed it in the goal, and all hell broke loose. Wild scenes. Eh wiz goin’ mental, baith because the righteous team won and eh hud a 3-2 Hibs/Proclaimers sittin’ behind iz double on meh coupon.

It wiz fuckin’ chaos when the full-time whistle went. The burds fae the sauna were among the first on the pitch. Hibs taps aff, tits oot, nae fucking aboot. Thon telly cunt fur the watchin’ John Leslie fired oot the stand efter them wavin’ his scarf, which may or may no’ be a total coincidence and the boy deserves a fair trial. Aine o’ The Proclaimers whipped his breeks doon and took an excitement-shite in the aisle, which wiz funny as fuck until some cunt slipped in it and near enough got trampled tae death in the melee as half o’ Edinburgh rampaged ontae the pitch tae celebrate a glorious victory.

Scottish futba needs moments like that. Exciting finales tae a big occasion. A massive pitch invasion. A full-on square go in the middle of Hampden. Police horses on the pitch, a Proclaimer taking a shite in the stand. A tear in the eye o’ every man, woman and child proudly holding their scarf aloft and belting oot Sunshine on Leith before heading hame wi’ a memory that will fill their heart wi’ joy until it stops beating.

That’s the magic o’ the cup, Gaz. It is real, there’s nae question it exists. When the day comes fur Dundee eh’ll be the first cunt on the pitch. Eh expect you tae be right behind me, cunto.

When the Dees, go up, tae lift the Scottish Cup we’ll be there.

All the best pal.

Love,

Jocky x

DEAR JOCKY: THE WINTER BREAK BLUES

Dear Jocky,

This no football at the start of January is doing my nut right in. Can you advise on how to beat the winter break blues?

Frank, Lochee.

Hiya Frank! Hiya pal!

Big Jocky’s in full agreement wi’ ye, cunto. This winter break nonsense is a travesty tae the very essence o’ Scottish futba. Adverse weather conditions should bring oot the best in teams. If ye cannae play knee-deep in mud in a gale-force wind in sub-zero temperatures then it’s time tae reconsider the fact ye call yerself a futba player, ken?

Fae a managerial point o’ view, the snow piled up around the side o’ the pitch ayewiz proved maist useful fur hurling sna’ba’s at opposition wingers and helping John Lambie build a big sna’man. John Lambie loved makin’ sna’men, aye. Even if the Dundee vs Partick gemme were shite, every cunt enjoyed Lambie yaesing a carrot tae gie the sna’man a big orange cock. Which may or may no’ huv indicated which Glesga team he really supported…

So aye, the winter break iz shite. But it does hae its advantages.

Picture the scene, Frank. It wiz breakfast time last Saturday at the Fairmuir. The Friday night bingo wiz still in full swing due to a’ cunt being full o’ tenner ectos and 73 false shouts o’ “House!” delaying proceedings somewhat. When a legitimate claim wiz finally verified and Doreen McMaster claimed the Big Prehze o’ £7.50, a’cunt wiz wondering what tae dae next. Efter perty at Bert Ogilvie’s hoose? An orgy? A trip doon the toon tae spraypaint “ART CUNTS GO HOME” and “FLEET RULE” on the side o’ the V&A?

Big Doreen McMaster, the richest woman in the clubbie, kent the score.

“How aboot heading through tae Falkirk tae boo fuck oot Yenited?”

A collective gasp went up. We’d forgot that the winter break only applied tae the big league. Wee dinghy teams like United were still playin’. Falkirk played in dark blue and white, and we were melted enough tae consider that meant they were Dundee.

IF YE HATE DUNDEE YENITED, HATE DUNDEE YENITED! HATE DUNDEE YENITED CLAP YER HANDS.

Iviry cunt clapped, and with that the Fairmuir were on tour.

The logistics o’ taking 150 ecto’d pensioners tae Falkirk at a moment’s notice were easily resolved. We marched doon the Hulltoon, commandeered twa number 22 buses and telt the drehvers there wiz a hefty whip-round coming their way if they went a wee bit past the scheduled destination o’ Ninewells Hospital to Falkirk instead.

As we hit the road eh hud a teckle idea. Eh telt the drehver tae tak’ a wee diversion tae pick somebody up, a boy wha eh felt wid be an important addition tae the travelling perty.

Ten minutes later we were ootside Craig Wighton’s mum’s hoose, and eh wiz chappin’ at the door.

“Hiya Mrs Wighton! Hiya pal! Is Craig comin’ oot tae play?”

Mrs Wighton wiz like that, “Hiya Jocky! Hiya pal! Gies a second, aye.”

Mrs Wighton started bellowing “CRAIG! CRAIIIIIG! JOCKY’S ASKIN’ IF YE WANT TAE COME OOT AND PLAY!”

Mrs Wighton’s sound as fuck, and quite tidy. Jocky wiz on his best behaviour as he waited fur the Arab Slayer tae come doon the stairs fae his bedroom. He wisnae up fur an impromptu trip tae Falkirk at first, but his mither telt him she wiz seek o’ him moapin’ aboot the hoose and booted him oot. She even gave Jocky a tenner tae cover the cost o’ any crisps and juice he might want through the day ahead. Little did she ken a tenner wiz the exact amount needed fur a strong as fuck ecto.

The twa 22 buses tae Falkirk, which included Craig Wighton wha wiz aff his pus on a tenner ecto his ma paid fur by the time we passed Perth, motored all the way tae Brockville. Which is when we encountered a technical problem, namely that there’s a Morrisons whaur Brockville wiz meant tae be.

“Whaur’s the match takin’ place, cunto? We’re lookin’ fur the Falkirk end. DFC number 1 ya cunt.”

The wummin’ at the express checkoot wiz maist perplexed. Eh hud mair than ten items in meh basket as well, which only added tae the confusion.

It so happened that Brockville hud been demolished aboot 15 years previously, and the match wisnae taking place inside Morrisons. Yet another sad day fur Scottish futba.

When we finally rocked up tae the shite new ground Falkirk were playing in these days, United scored. The massive away support o’ aboot 35 east Angus teucters were goin’ wild.

Eh wiz like that, UNLEASH THE WIGHTON.

The Fairmuir held Craig Wighton aloft. We carried him shoulder-high toward away end. The Arabs cowered at the sight o’ him, fallin’ tae their knees and bursting intae tears. Credit tae the Falkirk Stadium’s Tannoy announcer fur playing Darth Vader’s theme tune as the perfect musical accompaniment tae the moment.

As the Fairmuir goaded the away support brandishing a clearly-aff-his-nut Craig Wighton, Jocky stepped intae the home dugout tae join Paul Hartley. Eh offered the boy some strategic advice (“Boot fuck out these dirty cunts, Paul. Dens Derry ya bas, you ken the score.”) Eh made a tactical suggestion (“Adopt a Flying-V formation, cunto!”) Eh wandered intae the away dugout, punched the latest human incarnation of Jim McLean’s evil spirit (“Lazlo” something-or-other) in the pus and rejoined the perty in the home end.

It’s aine o’ the funniest gemmes o’ futba eh’ve iver been at. A minute to go, 5-1 Falkirk, and we could barely sing “WE WANT SIX!” for pissing oorselves laughing. The away support o’ 35 wiz reduced tae one, the bold Lorraine Kelly, flashing her tits as she got on the phone tae her estate agent saying she wiz moving oot o’ Dundee.

Good. You’ll no’ be missed, ya fucking mink.

When Falkirk hit goal number six the place went wild. The Fairmuir, the Falkirk, Paul Hartley. It wiz aine o’ those moments that laugh in the face o’ winter fucking breaks fae futba. Doreen McMaster said it wiz the highlight o’ her weekend, and that’s fae a wummin wha won the Big Prehze at the Fairmuir Friday night bingo, a £7.50-illionaire.

Eh for one am quite prepared tae miss a few weeks o’ proper futba if the wee team in Dundee provide 6-1 levels o’ entertainment.

All the best, Frank.

Love,

Jocky x

DEAR JOCKY’S CHRISTMAS COLUMN

Dear Jocky,

All I want for Christmas is for the football club I own to stop being shite and get promoted back to the big league in which our superior local rivals play. Any advice on how to get Santa to deliver this present would be greatly appreciated.

S. Thompson, Tannadice.

Hiya Stephen Thompson! Hiya pal!

As much as eh despise baldy-heided dirty Arab bastards like yerself, Stephen, eh’m gonnae gie ye the time o’ day here because eh kent yer auld man and thought well o’ him. Eh wiz a frequent shoplifter at meh local branch o’ Morning, Noon and Night. Yer auld boy didnae prosecute once in spite o’ me stealing several thousand pounds worth o’ porno mags, Tartan Special and corned beef on a near daily basis. RIP Eddie, ya big ride.

Dinnae be pinning yer hopes on Santa delivering the goods this Christmas, Stevie boy. Santa’s a fuck up. Eh ken this because eh met him aine time.

It wiz efter the Fairmuir Christmas Eve perty. It wiz some night, aye. Daft Punk did a live set and wurnae happy when their helmets got pinched and cunts yaesed them as potties fur takin’ tenner ecto shites in on the dancefloor. Tam McGinty went on efter them and played a banging techno set wearin’ aine o’ the shite-filled helmets. The bingo went well tae.

Eh got hame and prepared fur Santa’s arrival. Eh put oot a tin o’ Special, a couple o’ lines o’ ching and a carrot fur that red-nosed reindeer cunt Rudolph. Eh hid behind the settee and waited. A wee while later this fat boy wi’ a beard drapped doon the chimney and wiz like that, “Fucking yasss man, aboot time some cunt left iz a decent present. Fuckin’ seek o’ mince pehs and sherry.”

Santa wiz in aboot the bevvy and ching like aine o’ the boys fae Daft Punk wiz in aboot Bert McPherson’s dong at the Fairmuir gloryhole. Eh decided tae introduce mehself.

“HIYA SANTA! HIYA PAL! WHA’S IN FUCKIN’ CHERGE HERE YA LAPLAND YOUNG TEAM CUNT?”

Auld Santa Claus aboot shat his teckle red troosers.

“Fuck sake you! What are ye daein up? A’ cunt’s meant tae be in bed fur me rocking doon the chimney!”

Eh telt Santa tae shut his pus, racked up mair ching and asked whaur meh presents where. Santa whipped his sack oot. Eh telt him tae put his hairy ba’s the fuck away and tae make haste wi’ the presents. Big Jocky sent his letter tae Santa sometime around April and wouldnae tolerate any shite wi’ no’ getting what eh asked fur.

“Let’s see now, Jocky fae the Ferry…”

Santa unravelled a giant scroll o’ paper, a long list o’ abody’s presents, and snorted back the ching stuck in his beak.

“Very decent gear, Jock,” mumbled auld St Nick as he looked doon the list.

Fuckin’ ken it is, Santa. Wha’s in cherge here?

He found meh entry and whipped out meh Christmas present. It wiz the holy grail o’ Scottish futba folklore…

Dougie Donnelly’s sex tape.

It wiz an auld VHS copy. Dougie recorded it back in the day before DVD and digital shite, ken? Eh’d been keeping a video player on the go baith as a “fuckin’ good aine” tae technological advancements and specifically in the hope that eh’d one day acquire a copy o’ the film Dougie allegedly made when he wiz shagging.

Eh loaded the tape intae the machine and drapped meh trackie bottoms, cock already manoeuvred intae a semi withoot even touching it. The screen o’ the telly burst intae life and the Sportscene theme tune blared oot.

Meh hardon wilted. What the fuck is this? It’s just an auld episode o’ that shitey highlights programme Dougie yaesed tae present, there’s nae shagging in this!

Eh turned tae remonstrate wi’ Santa. The cunt wiz bolting up the chimney shouting “Ho ho ho!” The fucking rip-aff bastarding cunt. Eh sent that letter in April. April! Plenty time fur the elves tae source the goods, aye!

As Dougie Donnelly started introducing a gemme between Motherwell and Hibs eh strapped on the jetpack, ran ootside and took tae the sky tae give chase. Nae fuckin’ danger he wiz getting’ awa’ wi’ that. It wiz punch-in-the-fuckin’-pus time fur the man wha crucified Jesus tae win the Battle o’ Christmas.

Santa wiz movin’ at pace but eh caught up wi’ him nae bather.

“THAT WIZNAE THE DOUGIE DONNELLY PORNO YA FUCKIN’ CUNT! FLEET RULE!”

Eh pulled alongside the sleigh. Rudolph wiz like that, “A’right Jock, how goes it mate?” No’ bad, pal. Eh kent him and the rest o’ the reindeer lads fae the Fairmuir, they were a’ sound. Blitzen’s some dominoes player.

As eh swooped in swinging punches and what wiz left o’ meh deeply disappointed erection at Santa, Rudolph went, “Jocky! Leave it, mate, he’s no’ worth it! Pints on me if ye let wiz deliver presents tae the rest o’ the world’s children instead o’ booting fuck oot cunto here!”

Jocky didnae want tae disappoint the world’s children, and eh’ll never turn doon a pint, so eh let it be.

The reindeers started singing “One team in Dundee”. Eh joined in, winked at Rudolph, and flew awa’ hame tae watch an auld Motherwell v Hibs gemme on the telly.

Fuck Santa Claus. Fuck you tae, Thompson, ye dirty Arab bastard.

Tae abody else? Merry Christmas, ya cunts. Hae a prosperous new year tae.

Love,

Jocky x

DEAR JOCKY: NOU CAMPY?

Dear Jocky,

Dundee leaving Dens for a new stadium at Camperdown Park troubles me no end. I can’t bear the thought of leaving our home and get freaked out just thinking about it. Help!

Davie, Ardler

 

Hiya Davie! Hiya pal!

Big Jocky wiz in the Fairmuir when eh first heard aboot this proposed move fae Dens tae a new stadium in Campy. Eh wiz that shocked and horrified at the suggestion eh spat oot a moothful o’ meh pint. The Dees? Leaving Dens? Tae go tae a shitey new groond some distance fae the Hulltoon? It’s as unthinkable as Eddie Thompson rising fae the grave and opening a Morning, Noon and Night on the Provie Road. Eh licked the Special back up aff the cerpit and went mental.

Eh wiz fucking raging at the news, Davie. Eh wiz right on the Etch-a-Sketch tae send a furious email tae Dens sayin’ “WHA’S IN FUCKIN’ CHERGE HERE? SEND OOT THE CUNT RESPONSIBLE FUR THIS CAMPERDOON PARK SHITE. Love, Jocky x.”

Given that eh’m a Derry boy o’ some note, they immediately sent oot the responsible cunt so eh could get him telt. That’s what eh’m talkin’ aboot!

Camperdown Park is good fur twa things: Golf, and dogging. As such eh met Dundee FC Managing Director John Nelms on the golf course at Campy fur a swing o’ the clubs and a wee chat aboot the future o’ the mighty DFC.

John Nelms is fae Texas. A cowboy, aye. The boy rocked up tae the first hole on a horse, wearing a Stetson and firing twa pistols wi’ reckless abandon. Which might freak yer average golfer oot a wee bit. No’ me though. Eh turned up wi’ a putter and Bert Ogilvie fae the Fairmuir in blackface claiming tae be Tehger Woods as meh caddie. Nelms wiz like that, “Hiya Tehger! Hiya pal!” Just as well the welcome wiz friendly, because Jocky has nae time fur racists.

The deal wi’ the move tae a new stadium is a’ aboot being sensible wi’ the money. Apparently the upkeep o’ Dens is costing us aboot £300k a year. Eh telt Nelms we used tae pay oot at least that much tae finance Keith Wright’s hula hoops habit (cunt loved Ready Salted, ken?), but he made a sound enough argument aboot economics and long-term sustainability. By the time eh sunk the winning putt on the 18th green the cunt almost hud iz convinced.

Eh took John Nelms dogging efter the golf. Maist cunts hit the dogging scene in cars, but eh flew in on the jetpack wi’ John Nelms clinging ontae meh bricker like a man hingin’ aff the low-lying branch o’ a tree. The fact baith o’ wiz managed tae hae a wank and ejaculate ower a fat mink fae Douglas getting gangbanged on the bonnet o’ a Ford Fiesta is a tribute tae oor agility and level o’ Teckle.

Big Jocky is dead against moving fae Dens. However, Nelms the cowboy wiz tender enough in gripping meh cock fur iz tae accept the following stipulations if it’s absolutely necessary:

The Derry has to be transferred as it is intae place in the new stadium. Pick it up, move it tae Campy, and apologise fur the trauma ye caused it. The Derry is the best enclosure in Scottish futba and any cunt wha tries tae demolish it will feel the full wrath of the Fairmuir, Lochee Fleet and Black Panthers (including blackface Bert Ogilvie) if they fuck wi’ it. Dens Derry Ya Bas.

The same goes fur the Main Stand. It’s positioned in a Flying-V formation fur a reason, cunto. Take it to Campy wholesale or face the consequences.

If we absolutely must mak’ a new stadium, eh suggest we call it the ‘JIM MCLEAN BALDY HEADED CUNT STADIUM OF YASSSSS!’

You ken the score, Davie. All the best, pal.

Love,

Jocky x

 

DEAR JOCKY: I’m a Celeb-Murty, Get Me Out Of Here

Dear Jocky,

I’m being held hostage as the manager of a terrible and rather demanding Glasgow-based football club. I did not sign up for the pressure I’m currently under. I am but a simple man and can’t take much more of this pish. Please send help, Jocky.

Graeme M, Govan.

Hiya Graeme! Hiya pal!

Ye came tae the right place fur help, ye poorly disguised temporary manager o’ Rangers cunt. Enjoy last Friday? Jocky certainly fuckin’ did.

Big Jocky is the Scottish futba equivalent o’ Superman. Eh fly aboot, on the jetpack, and save cunts. Eh’ve punched Lex Luthor’s pus fur no’ putting his drink on a tray at the Fairmuir. Eh’ve questioned the severity o’ Christopher Reeve’s spinal injury, tipped him oot his wheelchair and felt a wee bit bad when the cunt couldnae get up. No’ that bad though, the boy wiz a bit o’ a prick wither he wiz disabled or no’.

Nae joy being left in cherge o’ Rangers, Graham. That’s a shite situation and nae mistake. Eh’d rather coach Jim Spence as he attempted tae tak a shite on the tits o’ aine o’ they junkie hookers that hing aboot the Arbroath Road. Meh auld pal and member o’ the Fairmuir clubbie darts team the Pope has sympathy fur ye, and he’s the treasurer o’ Lochee CSC, fur fuck’s sake.

When Rangers punted Pedro they immediately sought oot the very best futba managers they could think o’. Jose Mourinho’s on a long term contract, and Alex Ferguson’s strugglin’ wi’ the leprosy, so they came chapping at Jocky’s door.

Which turned oot tae be a huge mistake on their part.

Eh wiz in the hoose tannin’ a kerry oot, listening tae the Wu Tang and makin’ anonymous threatening phone calls tae Stuart Cosgrove. When the door went eh thought it wiz Tam Cowan, wha often joins iz in makin’ anonymous threating phone calls tae Stuart Cosgrove. Turns oot it wiz a diplomatic perty fae Ibrox, consisting o’ Dave King, Queen Elizabeth II and a clearly drunk Gazza. Hostess wi’ the mostess as eh am, eh invited them in.

Dave King did maist o’ the talking. The Queen got right intae the Wu Tang tunes and went aff intae the kitchen tae watch interracial porn on her ehPhone. Eh locked Gazza in the doonstairs toilet fur his aine safety, the man’s a fuckin’ liability.

Dave King wiz like that, “Here Jocky, we’re needin’ a manager, aye.” He pulled oot a giant wad o’ cash and drapped it on meh coffee table.

Eh says, “Hiya Dave King! Hiya pal! Wha’s in cherge here?”

Dave King kent he wiz dealin’ wi’ a tough negotiator. He took another giant wad o cash oot his pocket and laid it doon.

“You’re in charge here, Jocky.”

Eh looked at the pile o’ money. It wiz the maist eh’d seen since eh dared Jim McLean tae crack a BBC reporter in the pus before he retired.

“WHA’S IN FUCKING CHERGE HERE, CUNTO?”

Dave King emptied his pockets. Serious money on the table. He offered a handshake to seal the deal.

Eh whipped meh cock oot and shook his hand wi’ it. When the cunt trehed tae flee eh punched his pus, sat him doon and made him watch the highlights o’ Mark O’Hara getting his shitey fucking team telt at Dens last week. Jocky’s a Dee, and Rangers can get right tae fuck.

It turned oot tae be a teckle night. Liz dressed up as Megan Markle and was pumping Jocky like a piston,  the twa o’ us shrieking aboot Prince Philip haein’ Princess Di assassinated the hale time. Gazza’s still locked in the doonstairs toilet fur his aine safety, the man’s a fucking liability.

The Rangers joab is a poisoned chalice, Graeme fae Govan. Join Pedro in the caravan and pay nae attention tae the dugs that keep on barking as it rolls past Ibrox.

All the best, pal.

Love,

Jocky x

Dear Jocky: The Bruce Willis DSC

Dear Jocky,

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?

Kev, Ardler.

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.

Jocky x

Dear Jocky: McCann Love

Dear Jocky,

Despite being heterosexual and hugely disappointed by the fact he’s guided us to the bottom of the league, I find myself strangely attracted to Dundee’s manager, Neil McCann. I’m more than a little confused about this and wonder if you might ken the score on such matters.

Jimmy, Coldside.

Hiya Jimmy! Hiya pal!

Wee Neil’s a good laddie. A braw player in his day and a sound cunt. The boy’s got manners, a weapon-grade side-shade hairdo and wears a cardigan as well as Pedro Caixinha wore a poker face when he telt The Rangers he wiz a teckle as fuck manager wha kent what he wiz daein.

Eh yaesed tae sign Neil intae the Fairmuir clubbie on karaoke night. He’d hae a half pint o’ Special, get up and sing Red Red Wine beh UB40 then tak’ a wummin auld enough tae be his great-granny up the road fur a shag. Neil McCann is up there wi’ Wullie “Fanny Killer” Miller in terms o’ the top shaggers in Scottish futba history. Meh auld pal Jeannie McKay banged him dozens o’ times. She telt Jocky he’s a cracking ride, hiz aine o’ they hard-ons that veers slightly tae the left fur nae good reason and likes listenin’ tae Red Red Wine beh UB40 on repeat while he’s getting’ his fuck on. UB40 fan Neil Mccann is some boy, aye.

Neil’s a bit o’ a modern day legend fur the Dees. Fair play tae the boy. Much like Wullie Miller at the Inverurie Swingers Club’s Christmas Gangbang, the cunt delivers the goods on the big occasion.

Mind the 1995 Coca-Cola Cup semi-final against Airdrie in Perth? It wiz 1-1 and we were intae extra time. Dundee were on the break wi’ McCann fleein’ doon the weeng. Big Jocky wiz screamin’ “FUCKING SQUARE IT MCCANN! SQUARE IT!” Place wiz goin’ mental. McCann lobbed in a shite ba’ towards the back post. “Aw fur fuck sake, McCann, that’s fucking shite ya cu…OH YA CUNT! HE’S FUCKIN’ SCORED! YASSSSSS!” Big Jocky kent what wiz happenin’ the entire time, eh kent that speculative chip tae the back post wiz actually a shot on goal in disguise.

Mind the “Deefiant” season? The Dees were deducted 25 points fur no’ payin’ the ‘leccy bill or some pish, went “fuck it” and went on a mad streak o’ undefeated gemmes. Raith Rovers’ visa wiz cleared tae enter Dundee fae Fife and the “ya hoor sir!” cunts were winnin’ 1-0 at Dens. Gary Harkins pinged in a peach o’ a free kick tae equalise. Neil McCann, wha’d retired fae playin’ futba, hud been drafted in aff the telly and got brought on in the last few minutes in arguably the maist desperate substitution of all time. Eh wiz in the Derry goin’ “Fuck off back tae Skeh Sports, McCann, this isnae a fuckin’ charity match ya wee cu…OH YA CUNT! HE’S FUCKIN’ SCORED! YASSSSSS!” Big Jocky kent Neil McCann wiz capable o’ daein’ the joab and agreed wi’ the decision tae bring him on as a subby.

Meh point here, Jimmy, is that efter teckle moments like those, it wid be mair unusual if ye didnae get a bricker fur Neil McCann. There’s nae need tae be confused aboot yer sexuality, cunto: Big Jocky’s straight and fancies Neil McCann tae! If there wiz a show of hands at Dens fur boys wha kinda fancied Neil McCann a wee bit there wid be several thousand raised hands in the air. That’s a bigger turnoot than the time we hud a vote on whether or not tae induct the BT Sport cameraman wha did close-ups o’ a the Arabs in the Shankly greetin’ at the end o’ the Doon Derby intae the DFC Hall o’ Fame.

Big Jocky wishes Dundee man Neil McCann a’ the best, and encourages you, Jimmy fae Coldside, tae get a root on however the fuck ye like, pal.

Away the Dees.

Jocky x

Dear Jocky: The DAB Dinner

Dear Jocky,

My new girlfriend has asked me to meet her mum and dad for the first time. We’re going to their house for tea. My concern is her auld man being a big United fan, while I’m Derry’d oot my nut. Can you offer me some advice for dealing with the Arab bastard?

Boab, Hulltoon.

Hiya Boab! Hiya pal!

The key to this situation is establishing dominance, Boaby boy. For a kick-off, yer burd’s auld man’s team is a shitey wee 1st division outfit wha got relegated tae fuck at Dens. As if the cunt’s life couldnae get any worse, you’re shagging his daughter and probably shouting “UNITED! UNITED! YOU. ARE. SHITE!” as ye spurt yer muck in her. Boab, you’re running the fucking show here. You’re in cherge! Here’s Jocky’s gemme plan:

You and the burd turn up at her parents’ door. She’s sayin, “Oh Bobby! I just know they’re going to love you as much as I do!” You’re like, “Fuckin’ ken aye, Hulltoon Huns rule ya bas.” She giggles at yer bad boy persona. You’ve done well here, Boab.

The door opens. It’s the mither wha answers. She’s a’ friendly and happy tae see ye. Be nice, Boab. She’s no’ an Arab, she’s probably sound. She might even be up for a pump somewhere doon the line, so play yer cairds right here. A wee cuddle and kiss on the cheek. Tell her it’s fuckin’ teckle tae meet her. Let her catch ye glancing at her tits just so she kens you’re up fur kerrying on should it ever be on the agenda. Ye never ken, aye?

Ye head inside and the auld man’s sitting there in front o’ the telly. He gets up, eyeballs ye, and growls a welcome.

Growl right back at the cunt, Boab.

He offers a handshake. Accept it, and crush fuck oot the cunt’s hand.

“Awright mister? Eh’m shagging yer daughter and cannae help but think yer wife’s likely up fur bein’ pumped until the neighbours complain aboot the smell tae, ken? Dens Derry ya bas.”

The auld man will squeeze yer hand like fuck at that. Maintain yer grip, Boab. Also note the burd’s mum said fuck all in reply. She’s up fur it.

Tea time. A’ cunt sits doon at the table. As a Hulltoon man you’ll be surprised that cunts eat meals both on tables and from plates, but show nae hesitation in front o the auld man.

“So, son: what do you do for a living?”

The interrogation begins. The auld man wants tae ken stuff, Boab. TELL THE CUNT FUCK ALL.

“If ye hate Dundee Yenited…” sings Boab, Hulltoon.

Boy looks perplexed. Nae wonder. You’re the only cunt that claps their hands when you finish the first verse.

“If ye really fucking hate thum…”

The auld man’s no’ happy. He’s struggling to get the top aff the bottle o’ broon sauce. He’s even mair unhappy when you tak it aff him and remove it nae bather. Yas!

“If ye cannae fucking stand thum…”

The auld man gies the broon sauce a rage-shake and splatters half the bottle on his steak peh, ruining it.

Stand up, Boab! Rip yer shirt aff tae reveal the full-torso tattoo o’ Craig Wighton celebrating the goal that relegated United!

“IF YOU’RE GONNA KILL AN ARAB…”

The auld man lunges at ye. Boab fae the Hulltoon, a Derry boy, kens what tae dae here. Boot fuck oot yer burd’s dad in front o’ his wife and daughter. It’s necessary. The boy deserves it.

Once the cunt’s defeated and greetin’ like Hooly at the end o’ the Doon Derby, sit him back doon. Gie him a wee consolation cuddle. As he chills oot and relaxes a bit, tell the mum tae stand up, and put an arm roond her. Ask her tae unzip ye. She’ll be enjoyin’ herself beh this stage o’ the gemme and will dae it nae bather.

“Helen, whip yer breeks doon and bend ower the table fur Boaby fae the Hulltoon.” Fuck sake, Boab.

As the mum gladly does as she’s telt, use a wee dollop o’ the broon sauce Arab-auld-man wiz less than economical wi’ and grease yer banger. Her fanny will be wet enough tae drown a midget in, but Helen’s gemme fur anal, and that kerry on needs a wee bit o’ broon sauce tae lubricate the Derry Rhumba her erse is aboot tae endure.

We hate the Celtic and the Rangers, DUNDEE UNITED! ARE SHITE.

When ye finish shagging yer burd’s mum’s erse in front o’ her dad, be sure tae thank the man fur his hospitality. Good manners cost fuck all, and first impressions count.

One team in Dundee. All the best, Boab.

Jocky