Paint Your Wagon

The screaming was awful, unrelenting and poor wee Pat Nevin was shaking in fear listening to it.  No we weren't in Lawwell's torture pits underneath Hampden, we were waiting patiently to go for a pint down Byres Road with Tom Devine but he had paid for one of his trollops to visit first and refused to get dressed until she'd finished him off.

'What's my name bitch?  What's my name you little girl?' came the shouts from upstairs as Nevin shuffled nervously beside me.

'Your name is Angela Haggerty,' whimpered Devine.

'Tell me my name, come on you pussy, ride me hard and tell me my name!'

'Angela Haggerty, oh please don't stop.'

'What's my fucking name, old man?  Say it now or I swear I'll fuck your fucking cock off you prick!'

'Oh gawd, your name's Haggerty, Angela Haggerty!' climaxed Devine.

There was silence for a moment and then Devine appeared dressed for the evening, walked downstairs and straight past us, motioning for us to follow him.

'Who was that?' I asked.

'Haven't the faintest idea,' he said and slammed the door.

 

As we struggled to keep up with Devine all the way down Hyndland Road - he walked fast for such an old bluffer, even when he slowed down to swig from his hip-flask we still couldn't keep up with him - we heard a commotion and thundering down the cobbled streets came a horse drawn carriage with some people in the back making an awful din. 

'Here we are gentlemen, our transport!' guffawed Devine and put a hand out.  The cab slowed down a little and Devine hoiked Nevin on top with the rest of the excess baggage and grabbed me by the back of the trousers before catching grip of a handrail and hoisting us both on board.  Sitting there playing all manner of wind instruments were my old friends Alex Thomson, Paul Holleran, Gary Allan, Gerry Hassan and sitting in the back of the cabin adjusting her petticoats having just given the old Satyr Devine the ride of his life, Angela Haggerty.  Oh well, I thought, if I'm going to jump on any bandwagon then this is the one for me.

 

We were dropped off at the Drake where Devine ordered up a flaggon of port for himself and gin for everyone else, damning the barman's eyes as he did.  'Now where's Gerry Hassan?' he roared.  'Not taking a shower I'll wager, eh Spiers?  Not taking a shower?' and he choked on his own laughter and vomited over Holleran's head.

 

I looked around the room to see if Neil Lennon was in as nights like this were only fun if he was there shoving around his latest girlfriend but all I could see was little Jimmy Osmond sitting alone in the corner.  This reminded me to take my medication and within twenty minutes I was wondering what on earth I was doing in the company of such vile and bigoted lunatics.  I was soon to find out.