quivering brother.
‘And tell me Andrew,’ he asked pointedly, ‘is it normal for them to do
that
?’
(ii)
‘… noo ye see there’s this passage, goes fae the pub’s cellar tae richt unner the morgue ower by. A very profitable wee accident of architecture doon the years, if ye ken ma meanin’. An invaluable conduit for medical knowledge, ye could say! But onywey, there’s this big fat yin comes in wan nicht – no a local, mind – wi’ an arse like a trumpet an’ mibbe too much tae say fur hissel fur a man couldnae haud his ale. Sae once John Barleycorn hud sung him his wee lullabye, we hud his wallet an’ were aw fur dumpin’ him face-doon in a burn. But aul Brophie, the landlord, he says he’s got a better idea…’
Bampot Central
There was a six-foot iguana swaying purposefully into Parlabane’s path as he walked down the High Street. It had spotted him a few yards back and instinctively homed in on its prey, recognising that look in his eye and reacting without mercy. Some kind of sixth sense told cats which person in any given room most detested or was allergic to their species, so that they knew precisely whose lap to leap upon. A similar prescience had been visited upon spoilt Oxbridge undergrad hoorays in stupid costumes dispensing fliers for their dismal plays and revues. It was for this reason that a phenomenon such as the Fringe could never have thrived in Glasgow. In Edinburgh, most locals were stoically, if wearily, tolerant of such impositions; through in the west, dressing up as a giant lizard and deliberately getting in people’s way would constitute reckless endangerment of the self.
‘There’s no getting past me, I’m afraid!’ the iguana chirped brightly in a stagey, let’s-be-friends, happy-cheery, go on, please stab me, you know it’ll make you feel better tone of voice. ‘Not without taking one of these!’ it continued, thrusting a handful of leaflets at him.
Parlabane had put on the wrong t-shirt that morning, forgetting that his errands would unavoidably take him through places residents knew well to avoid during the Festival (or to give it its full name in the native tongue, the Fucking Festival). He was wearing a plain white one, which was nice enough but vitally lacked the legend ‘FUCK OFF – I LIVE HERE’, as was borne on several others at home. His August wardrobe, he liked to call it.
‘Keeble Kollege Krazees present: Whoops Checkov!’ the leaflet announced. ‘An hilarious pastiche of Russian Naturalism! Find out what Constantine really got up to with that seagull!’ Followed by the standard litany of made-up newspaper quotes. ‘Come along tonight,’ solicited the iguana. ‘It might even cheer you up a bit!’
Parlabane swallowed back a multitude of ripostes and summoned up further admirable self-control by keeping his hands and feet to himself also. He breathed in, accepted a flyer and walked on. Remain calm, he told himself. He was over the worst of it now, having passed the Fringe Society office. North Bridge was in sight.
It was his friend’s son’s birthday the next week, and the gift Parlabane wanted to get him was only on sale in a small toyshop on the High Street. If it had also been on sale at the end of a tunnel of shite and broken glass, he’d have had to think long and hard about which store to visit during this time of year; as it was he’d had no such choice. The gift was a posable male doll in a miniature Celtic kit. The intended recipient lived in Los Angeles and would have no inkling of there being any significance to the costume, knowing only from Parlabane’s attached note that the doll was to be named Paranoid Tim and must be subjected to every kind of abuse David’s little mind could dream up.
He looked down at the pavement, carpeted as it was in further leaflet-litter, mostly advertising stand-up gigs by the A-list London safe-comedy collective, the ones who had each been bland enough to get their own Friday night series
‘And tell me Andrew,’ he asked pointedly, ‘is it normal for them to do
that
?’
(ii)
‘… noo ye see there’s this passage, goes fae the pub’s cellar tae richt unner the morgue ower by. A very profitable wee accident of architecture doon the years, if ye ken ma meanin’. An invaluable conduit for medical knowledge, ye could say! But onywey, there’s this big fat yin comes in wan nicht – no a local, mind – wi’ an arse like a trumpet an’ mibbe too much tae say fur hissel fur a man couldnae haud his ale. Sae once John Barleycorn hud sung him his wee lullabye, we hud his wallet an’ were aw fur dumpin’ him face-doon in a burn. But aul Brophie, the landlord, he says he’s got a better idea…’
Bampot Central
There was a six-foot iguana swaying purposefully into Parlabane’s path as he walked down the High Street. It had spotted him a few yards back and instinctively homed in on its prey, recognising that look in his eye and reacting without mercy. Some kind of sixth sense told cats which person in any given room most detested or was allergic to their species, so that they knew precisely whose lap to leap upon. A similar prescience had been visited upon spoilt Oxbridge undergrad hoorays in stupid costumes dispensing fliers for their dismal plays and revues. It was for this reason that a phenomenon such as the Fringe could never have thrived in Glasgow. In Edinburgh, most locals were stoically, if wearily, tolerant of such impositions; through in the west, dressing up as a giant lizard and deliberately getting in people’s way would constitute reckless endangerment of the self.
‘There’s no getting past me, I’m afraid!’ the iguana chirped brightly in a stagey, let’s-be-friends, happy-cheery, go on, please stab me, you know it’ll make you feel better tone of voice. ‘Not without taking one of these!’ it continued, thrusting a handful of leaflets at him.
Parlabane had put on the wrong t-shirt that morning, forgetting that his errands would unavoidably take him through places residents knew well to avoid during the Festival (or to give it its full name in the native tongue, the Fucking Festival). He was wearing a plain white one, which was nice enough but vitally lacked the legend ‘FUCK OFF – I LIVE HERE’, as was borne on several others at home. His August wardrobe, he liked to call it.
‘Keeble Kollege Krazees present: Whoops Checkov!’ the leaflet announced. ‘An hilarious pastiche of Russian Naturalism! Find out what Constantine really got up to with that seagull!’ Followed by the standard litany of made-up newspaper quotes. ‘Come along tonight,’ solicited the iguana. ‘It might even cheer you up a bit!’
Parlabane swallowed back a multitude of ripostes and summoned up further admirable self-control by keeping his hands and feet to himself also. He breathed in, accepted a flyer and walked on. Remain calm, he told himself. He was over the worst of it now, having passed the Fringe Society office. North Bridge was in sight.
It was his friend’s son’s birthday the next week, and the gift Parlabane wanted to get him was only on sale in a small toyshop on the High Street. If it had also been on sale at the end of a tunnel of shite and broken glass, he’d have had to think long and hard about which store to visit during this time of year; as it was he’d had no such choice. The gift was a posable male doll in a miniature Celtic kit. The intended recipient lived in Los Angeles and would have no inkling of there being any significance to the costume, knowing only from Parlabane’s attached note that the doll was to be named Paranoid Tim and must be subjected to every kind of abuse David’s little mind could dream up.
He looked down at the pavement, carpeted as it was in further leaflet-litter, mostly advertising stand-up gigs by the A-list London safe-comedy collective, the ones who had each been bland enough to get their own Friday night series
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