The Chip and the Potato Head

I was sitting in my Hyndland flat with Gerry McCulloch and Patrick Harvey after a great night out when David Leask suggested we get up to some mischief.  Sorry, not David Leask, it was Patrick Harvey... Or was it?  Hold on, it was David Leask.  I think.  Whatever, it was the chap from the Herald who looked like Mr Potato Head put together by a blind toddler. 

Anyway, we'd had a few glasses of supper over at the Ubiquitous Chip and had come back to mine for a quick joint, according to Gerry.  I was full so didn't fancy a cut of whatever meat he was intent on cooking up but I quite fancied the company so said why not?

"How about we troll Rangers?" asked Gerry and David Leask looked at us with an odd look on his face, which wasn't unusual for him since his ears are an inch either side of his nose.  "Why would we do that?" he asked.

"Because it's what we do," said Gerry, fiddling with some small papers and a pungent smelling lump of plasticine.  "We get drunk and hit Twitter and troll Rangers.  I've got a cracker about Ched Evans I'm going to try out, what have you got Graham?"

"Nothing, I'm on my medication" I said, holding a finger up to my lips and shooshing him to keep it a secret.

"Well how about we get Leask to troll someone for you, who's pissed you off recently?"

"Everybody.  Most of them are violent sociopaths though so I don't want to go putting myself in any danger.  I mean, I'd hate to put anything to print even on social media that might come back and bite me on the arse."

"So you're basically self-censoring these days?" smiled Gerry.

"Like the rest of the UK media?  Pretty much."

"Anyone who isn't a homicidal maniac on Twitter that you have a beef with?  Someone who won't resort to violence?"  He wasn't going to let this one lie, I could tell.

"Chris Graham," I croaked.  "That smug bastard has embarrassed me more often than I can count, we could have a pop at him!"

"Who's Chris Graham?" asked Leask.

"Don't worry, our new chum, you'll find out soon enough." 

The next day I woke after midday and McCulloch and Leask were gone.  Harrison Ford and Sylvester Stallone were at the bottom of my bed arguing with little Jimmy Osmond so I took my medication and shuffled out of bed to find my laptop to check Twitter but before I could, my phone rang - it was Leask and he was in a tizz.  "I've fucked it up!" he screamed at me.  "I thought I'd have a go at his fake followers but it turns out we all have them, did you know this?"

"Of course I know this, I paid for mine in Russia, got in a bit of a fankle over it, Tom Devine pumped some Russian and we were lucky to escape with our hides."

"Well now I'm in way over my head, this Twitter thing just isn't for me and how I let you and Gerry talk me into it, I don't know.  Oh, and Gerry?  What was he smoking last night, he's only gone and suggested that Ched Evans should join Rangers and now Lawwell's gunning for him."

"Ooh," I groaned.  "He shouldn't have done that, Lawwell doesn't like anyone setting up the Rangers fans for that kind of return.  Just tell him to book into a hotel room and lay low for a while, he can fix his front door back on the hinges when things have calmed down."

"And what should I do?"

"What do you usually do at this time on a Thursday?"

"I'm usually at the corner of Argyll Street and Union Street, selling the Evening Times."

"Then just get on with it then and don't worry about Twitter, something else will come along and get everyone worked up and you'll soon be forgotten."

"Thanks Spiers," he sighed.  "You're a brick."

"Well that's not what most people call me but thanks."