That was the week that was.

Thank F–k that week’s over and done wi’. Friday and Saturday were Shite, Thursday and Wednesday were a bit abject, Tuesday and Monday were worse than that and Sunday must have been so Shitey that ah’ve blocked it fae ma memory. Hibs won, though and Leeds drew wi’ Man City at Elland Road. It’s great to see Leeds back in the top flight- One of ma boyhood dreams was realised when ah went there wi big Stuarty C. They were in the Third Division and Wycombe Wanderers were’ny one of the bigger clubs that’ve played at Elland Road, but it was a great day. Just bein’ close to the Pitch where Billy Bremner, Johnny Giles, Eddie Gray, et al [ it’s amazin’ the amount of times ‘et al’ crops up whenever there’s a crowd ye canny remember]. Ah was at a ‘Full House’ Derby against Huddersfield and the atmosphere was amazin’, probably ma fave Fitba’ ground ah’ve been tae[ a dither aboot wi’ ‘To’ or’ Tae- Tae’s right but To’s got Two letters, so ah canny make ma mind up]……… So, ah was oan aboot how Shite last week was. A really struggled tae sleep aw week wi that awfy feelin’ in ma legs, where ah feel as if bein’ dragged ooer one of those Cattle grid things at a Hundred MPH, for Five miles wid cure it. Ah have made up ma mind, as of tomorrow, nae mare Tobacco, ah’ll eat the Bob Hope, then, if ah stay off the Baccy ah could ween masel off the stuff. Ah’m a hopeless addict when it comes tae the Grass and the Baccy- but , like the man in the Film said ‘You get busy livin’ or ye get busy dyin’. The weather’s been Shite but even if it hadny been, ah canny walk any kind of distance. Sometimes ah feel crushed by the time ah get up those  effin’ stairs. No’ bein’ able tae go a decent walk is a pain in the erse- ah had Zac the Dug for a week and ah could’ny dae it justice walkin’ wise.  The wumman ooer the road fae Dunc had been takin’ Zac the Dug Six or seven miles a day for guid walks but Dunc, in his infinite somethin’ or other told her no’ tae bother for the week ah was there. Then Long John told Dunc that ah’d shouted at Zac the Dug and lost ma temper. Which ah’m ashamed tae admit ah did dae- Once.. Ah love the Dug and the Dug loves me – ye want tae see the rager it gets when ah turn up. If it burst Dunc’s livin’ room wid look like the Pumphy Chainsaw massacre……… When the Black Dug rears it’s heid and ah think aboot how aw the Shite that’s happened health wise over the past Five Years has fucked up ma life- it’s Fitba’ ah miss the maist. Just runnin’ wi’ a Ba’, playin’ keepiy uppy and runnin’ at the same time or just givin’ the Ba’ a guid whack- ah really miss that probably even more than ah miss a shag. If the length of time ye go withoot gettin’ yer Nat King Cole was converted intae a prison sentence, ah’d be on that Robben Island in the Shite cell next tae Nelson Mandela, shoutin’ through the wa’ ‘Ya lucky, lucky Bastard, they must think the Sune shines oot yer arse’.

Health matters.

Ah’ve been a wee bit subdued over the last Two or Three weeks, which explains ma neglect of the site. Ah’ve been a bit effed, to be honest, and walkin’ has been an absolute nightmare, so ah’ve been limitin’ that. Been gettin’ funny wee pains in ma arms and dizzy spells which worry me a wee bit at the time but, thankfully dinny last long. When ah get them ah think ‘Here we go – Heart attack or stroke, imminent’. It’s an absolute pain in the arse no’ bein’ able to go a nice long walk, by the River or through the Woods or up a hill.  Ah was walkin back fae Pumphy the other week to Craigshill and ah had to stop for a break aboot half a dozen times before reachin’ the flat- and that was me just at base camp – ah still had mount Stairwell tae deal wi’, and that was another Four stops before ah got in the flat. Ah was like Eric Liddel efter he fell doon in that race and got up and won it- totally effed.It took me aboot half an oor tae make a cup of Tea and a wee Rolly Birkin, THAT’S how effed ah was.

Wild Soup – The life and times of Scud Broon

The Maternity Ward in Bangour General Hospital is where ma story began after poppin’ oot in tae the world. In the next bed to ma mum, Bunty, was Mrs Wilson[ Trudy] with her new edition to the Family, Jim, who remains to this day, one of ma best pals, even though he slags Hibs off on the Pusbook at every opportunity. In the intervenin’ Fifty Seven years, Jim has gone on to make something of his life, marryin’ his lovely Marion,havin’ kids and Grand kids and,ultimately settin’ this Website up for me because he’s awfy guid at this sort of thing. As for me, ah discovered Marijuana at Fifteen and ah’ve , unfortunately, never really had the time or inclination to discover anything else since then. Anyway, in the beginnin’. Ah think it was tough goin’ when ah was aboot Three or Four- Chris and Linda were Six and Eight and a half years aulder than me, so they knew better. Davy, Two years aulder than me, and I, were too young to comprehend what was goin’ on, but we had a Grand stand seat at the front when the Battle of the Somme began not long after. Ah remember as a wee boy the odd wee thing that belonged to Andrew scattered around the hoose, a shoe or a Schoolbook or a childrens book. Davy and I never saw Andrew, he was killed in a tragic childhood accident in the May of 1959, but he was never far away, be it in conversation or the few mementoes that survived him. Ah played at the same spot where he was killed and probably walked past one of the wagons the accident happened on. Ah wid go walkin’ wi’ ma uncle Allan and sometimes we’d pass the place where it happened and he wid always say ‘That’s where yer brother was killed’ and we’d be silent as we walked past and he wid sometimes get the hanky oot and blaw his nose, knowin full well that ah knew he was just havin’ a wee ‘Andrew moment’. Bunty hated Davy and I playin’ by the Bings and wid always say that she couldn’t have coped wi’ another tragedy. Two in a week for any parent is more than enough for a lifetime and that’s what Bunty and Scud had to cope wi’ in what must’ve been a shatterin and devastatin’ week in late April, early May of that year. Andrew was killed on the Saturday, Five days after Bunty had given birth to a stillborn child. so, as ye can imagine it widny’ve been a bundle of laughs in the hoose that week. So, aw that was just a part of the ingredients that were to end up in the wild soup that was no.6 Harrysmuir North.

The land of lost content.

Into my heart an air that kills, from yon far country blows/what are those blue remembered hills, what spires what farms are those/that is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain/the happy highways where I went and cannot come again. That was from ‘A Shropshire lad’ by A E Houseman and it’s probably ma favourite poem.  It makes me think of days gone by and Childhood memories and sunny days and the branches of the Trees and the Barley swayin’ in the breeze. Ah canny speak for any other wee Shale mining Village but Pumphy had it’s fair share of what wid be called learnin’ disability folk, these days. Ah can remember the ‘Big Yelly van’ comin’ intae Pumphy= it wid be hard no’ tae remember it because it took aboot Two Oors for it tae pick up the folk in Harrysmuir alone. When the Bus came intae the scheme there was the driver and maybe Popeye the Sailor man behind him wavin’ tae everybody- by the time the bus got oot the scheme it looked like one of those Indian trains wi’ folk sittin’ on the roof and hingin’oan for dear life. That’s why they never got oot the bit– by the time the bus left Pumphy the special school was shut and they learned F–k all. In the wee scheme ah lived in there were a lot of families who never married but aw lived in the same Hoose, no’ the same Hoose, obviously. In the block of Four tae oor left there was a brother and Two sisters [ one of the sisters got on the Yelly bus] and next door upstair there was a mother and Four grown up sons [ the mother should’ve been on the Yelly van]. Next door tae us downstair there were Two brothers, the Whaler and Jimmy the Ghost [ who fertilised their Rhubarb wi’ their ain Shite. Ma mother used tae get Rhubarb from him until he told her what was makin’ it grow. Across the road fae us there were an old brother and Three sisters who all lived together, The man had a beautiful garden and one of the sisters wid be on her knees scrubbin’ the front door steps once a week. She reminded me of the auld wumman in Trumpton wi’ aw the Dugs and none of them got on the Yelly van. Next along fae them, Three brothers shared a Hoose, one of them had a Shotgun, one could possibly have been the only Gay in the Village when ah was  growin’ up and the other liked a bevvy tae the extent that he ran the Fitba’ team and the Fitba’ club almost single handedly intae the ground. Opposite them a sister and Two brothers lived in the same Hoose. That wasn’t even a quarter of the way round the scheme.


On a serious note

Ah was thinkin’ aboot Alf Garnett and how attitudes have changed over the course of my lifetime and how these days it’s like a case of ‘Ye said ‘Turqouise’ on  a Saaturday’ ? have ye no’ shame?, d’ye realise yer gaunny upset the ‘Keep Saturday free of Turqouise brigade[ even though there are only Three of them], so, ah was thinkin’, and ah’ll try and put this as’Sucksickly’ as ah can, that ‘commentators’ say that the joke was on Alf Garnett as he was the racist and bigot and the character was highlightin’ a man who was a C–t, basically. Noo, that was a very popular show and ah’m quite sure a large percentage of it’s viewers thought he was great. Ah feel like Baldrick tryin’ tae get a point across, here,. So, if ye were actin’ like Alf Garnett these days, ye’d be in trouble and probably get arrested and fined, if no’ the Jile so, if yer gaunny be a C–t like Alf, or worse, even, the Holy Wullie of C–ts, a shining light of C–tery for a’ thy flock in C–tendom, ye’ll be quite rightly condemned. So, imagine a despicable extreme right wing Nazi bigot in a book. The author could, ah’m sure, go tae toon wi’ a character like that- imagine a mix of Joe Pesci’s character fae ‘Goodfellas, the evil wee Nazi fae ‘Inglorious Basterds’ and an awfy C–t- would the portrayal of the character in itself no’ be offensive ?. Ah know what ah’m tryin’ tae say here but ah’m struggling-‘ ie, it’s ok to write whatever ye want through a character in a book or film tae highlight the despicableness [ah think ah just invented that word ] but anyone actin’ like that in public wid get their erse kicked. Anyway ah had a Fucker of a Heid ache aboot Half an oor ago, so ah took an Amatrampoline and it’s gone noo.Amazin’. Ah got a pair of Glesses off the Admiral and after Two or Three Sudokus ma heid was sare and ah think the Glesses might have been a contributin’ factor tae the sare heid..


The noisy anti social C–ts fae next door are away noo, which is good news for me but bad news for the poor Bastard who gets lumbered wi them next. Ah hope they develop a Heroin habit and die horribly and miserably in a stairwell. As long as it’s no’ in ma stairwell ah couldny give a Fuck. There were obvious underlyin’ issues wi’ them,- a Polis woman told me as much on one of their myriad visits next door. If they got shagged by their Faither or uncle or Babysitter when they were wee that’s tragic and the people responsible should be shot – but it doesny gie them a license tae be a C–t when they’re aulder. ah was lucky, ma Faither never shagged me [ no’ when he was sober, at least], and ah had one uncle who ah became awfy close tae in the latter part of his life, and ah miss him, and he never tried tae shag me – he was too busy tryin’ tae shag anything in Pumphy who was over Seventy and up for a shag, horny auld Bugger. Ah stayed wi’ ma Uncle Allan for a few months until ah got sorted at the ‘Big Brother’ Hoose in Pumphy. No’ ma ‘Big Brother, Davy, but the Hoose that Boabby didny build but he did convert inta a Letty oot accommodation place. One mornin’ at Allans ah’d  just finished a night shift at B and Q and nipped in for ma breakfast. Ah was at Hamo’s before ah moved intae Allans- ah’d forgot aboot that. Anyway, ah got intae Allans and a noticed he had what could only be described as the softest of soft porn on the Telly. Scantily clad beauties walkin’ aboot in Rachel Welch, cave women claes.  Ah said to him that fae where ah was sittin’ that didny look like TV AM on the Telly. He replied that he ‘liked the hoarny Picters’ and ah told him that ah had a couple of better yins than that at Hamo’s. Then he said ‘Wi real Shaggin’ ?, and ah said ‘Aye’, then he said ‘D’ye see the wummans fanny’s ?, and ah said ‘Aye’. Ya cunt ye, he couldny get me oot the Hoose quick enough. He lived at no 7 and he said ‘away up tae Hammy’s and get them and ahh’ll pit an extry biled egg on for ye, and pit them in a bag and dinny let any C–t see what ye’ve got’. Hamo lived at no 31, so ah was back in nae time and handed him the DVD’s. A couple of days later ah was wisny workin’ and was away oot. When ah got back tae Allans he quickly ushered me in and told me tae lock the door behind me.When ah turned tae go into the livin’ room ah noticed that there was a ‘ hoarny picter’ on the Telly and ah thought fine, then when ah walked intae the livin’ room Three of his pals were sittin’ wi’ a Whisky watchin’ it. So that was the beginnin’ of the over 75’s Hoarny Picter night in Pumphy.  Anyway, as ah was sayin, ah never got shagged by ma uncle and ah feel desperately sorry for people who suffered abuse when they were wee, but it shouldny make ye think ye can take the piss oot everybody.


Fucked up again

What an absolute waste of a day this has been. Hamo said that it was tae be Scorchio and ah thought ah’d get up early, plant masel in front of the Sun and start livin’ up tae ma Surname. Ah set the alarm for 10am, which was givin’ me Five Hours sleep. Ah got a bit carried away wi’ the Rothmans Fitba’ books and was up late. Ah heard the alarm and it didny look roastin’ outside so ah dozed off and didny wake till 6.20pm. So, that put me right intae ‘What a F–kin Fanny’ mode right away. The funny thing is that externally things dinny look too bad apart from havin’ awfy dry skin on ma joints.  Ma elbows and Knees are the worst but ma knuckles have been awfy itchy lately.There’s the ongoing thing wi’ ma legs [ which has started to get worse in ma arms] which is a constant source of discomfort and now ah’ve started tae get funny wee dizzy turns followed by an involuntary tremble in ma left hand. Ah’ve also been experiencing a weird thing in ma left eye, where it’s like a wee shadow constantly there, which sometimes flickers away like a Lighthouse on Cocaine. If it was ma right eye ah’d be thinkin’ it’s maybe just as well ah’m at the eye clinic at St Jocks in a Fortnight for the lazer surgery, that ah have to get Four times a year. But it’s ma left eye that’s causin’ the trouble at the moment. Ah get the surgery because wee blood vessels which have nowhere to attach on to have tae be burned away tae stop them releasing blood intae ‘No mans land’, causin the eye tae lose Eighty per cent of its capacity- so that’s another virtual nail in the coffin.

Tales from the stairwell [ ‘They wee C–ts next door ]

Ah’d like, at this time, tae give a mention tae ‘Long John’, the Pirate He never accepts thanks for any thing that he does and ah wid like to use a Ricky Fultonism and take this opporchancity tae thank him for his contribution to ma wonderful day. Ah had Two bits of plywid, chipboard, whatever it’s called, that  ah had planned tae put the Train set on but it was awfy cumbersome and a cunt tae shift, so ah told ‘Long ‘John’ that he could have it. He took one bit and started tae take it doon the stairwell and ah suggested that we could lift the Two bits up and  manage the stairs fine, even though the combined weight was …. ‘Weighty’. That fell on the deafest Ears that ah’d ever encountered, up until that point, in ma life. So, ah thought, ‘fine’. When ah was gettin’ the other bit of plywid, ah heard what sounded like a Fuckin’ herd of Elephants in a China shop and it was ‘Long John’ draggin’ the wid doon the stairs so that the bottom corner was thuddin’off the stairs and shakin’ the foonds of the buildin’, wi’ nae thought or consideration for me or anyone else in the stairwell. Ah ran oot and asked if he could maybe make less noise takin’ the wid doon the Three flights of stairs, and that fell on the deafest Ears that ah’ve ever encountered in ma life, coupled wi’ a look that made me feel guilty for askin’ in the First place – and he just carried on doon the stair makin’ even mare Fuckin’ noise and carryin on like an even bigger C–t than he was bein’ before ah asked him to be a bit quieter. At this time, ‘The Daughter of Atticus’ stormed oot her door complainin’ aboot the noise and threatenin’ tae tell the Polis aboot ma plants. Thankfully they aw died, so the Polis are welcome tae search high and low for the C–ts.. Anyway, she’s standin’ like one of they NWA Gangsta C–ts, threatenin tae get the Polis for the noise ‘Long John’ was makin and ah’m thinkin ‘aw for Fucks sake’. Ah told her,that if she had a problem wi’ the noise, tae have a word wi ”Long John’, who, by this time was breengin’ doon the stairs like Usain Fuckin’ Bolt wi’ a wreckin’ Baw. Ah then proceded doon the stairs , liftin the wid up, makin sure no’ tae make a noise, and wee P Fuddy androgynous Cunt carried on wi’ her rant. Ah got the wid doon the stair and outside and ah was effed and ma Heart was racin’, so ah thanked ‘Long John’ for startin’ WW3. Nothin’, no’ a sorry or anything, Fuck all. So that pissed me off and ah just wanted an amitriptyline by then. Later, there was a knock at the door and it was ‘The ‘Daughter of Atticus’ danglin’ a Pound coin in front of me askin’ if she could buy a couple of fags. Ah couldny believe it. Earlier, the other ‘wee C–t fae next door’ was at the door askin’if ah had a toilet roll. Gave her the toilet roll, and it was an Andrex and no’ that sandpaper ah get delivered. Ah know beggars canny be choosers, but ye want a nice wipe. Ah always shudder when ah think of the Stem Cell treatment and how ah didny want tae dae a Shite because ma Sphincter felt like it had been stung by a Dozen Wasps, then had Salt and Vinegar poured over it, and that was before ah’d even done a Shite, let alone wiped ma erse. So, the thought of an uncomfortable wipe obviously brought oot the good Samaritan in me and ah  thought it was a neighbourly thing tae dae. Ah gave the Daughter of Atticus  a couple of Fags and told her tae keep her money. What a Tit. Ah’m tryin’ no’ tae be a Fanny aboot this and just want tae be a good guy – but there’s bein’ a good guy and bein’ a Tit. Up early the Morn, tae stop the wee C–ts fae stealin’ the grocery box.

The Adventures of a torn faced C–t

Pumphy Refinery

Ah canny believe the amount of Dating sites and Singles sites that are on the Pusbook. Ah calculated that there are so many of them that ah only know aboot Seven married folk [wid’ve been Eight but one of them was unfaithful wi’ a Coo doon at Dandy’s field last week. The man was well up for it but the whole thing came as a total surprise tae the Coo and what followed… Ye’ll have tae consult the Oracle at Pumphy for that. He’s in the Hoose mostly, but if ye leave enough Baubles, Bangles and Weed at his door, the C–t’ll tell ye anything. Ah was on aboot they daft sites on the Pusbook. They’d be as well callin’ them ‘Plenty of Boabby’ or ‘Plenty of Gash’ or ‘Gies a shag FFS’. That’s basically what they’re aw sayin’. Ah quite like bein’ single and selfish, that way ye can only Piss off and/or please yersel. It’s never really been a comfortable situation tae be in, for me, a relationship. Ah’ve never been one tae force ma way of livin’ on tae anybody else and ah just switch off if anybody tries tae force their way of livin’ on tae me – and ah know for a fact that ah am and, wid be, a Fuckin’ nightmare tae live wi’. Ye should be meetin’ people by chance, on a Bus or at a Bus stop, walkin’  yer Dug, on a night oot, no’ by E mail order.

Shittin’ forecast – for the alfresco Jobbier

June was not a great Month for the outdoor Jobbier- Covid and a lot of rain meant that it was Pumpherstons  lightest Month for outdoor Jobbies since Jobbies began. It goes withoot sayin, but ah’ll say it anyway, that the figures are for the Summer months only. Pumpherstons outdoor Jobby season runs from March 21 till September 21 mainly for the light and the lush vegetation we get between then. October and November Jobbies are rare and it is only the very hardy and Tonka tough, who will go for a December dump or a January Jobby. Pumpherston has it’s own reason for it’s winter lull. Pumphy kids grew up knowin’ auld Maria, who had the Gypsy Caravan doon near the Hairy tip. She wore the Gypsy clothes and had the creepy voice, ‘Even the man who is pure of Heart and wipes his Erse by night, can succumb tae the Bum on a midnight walk when the Autumn Moon is bright’ Legend has it that the Baw tickler Imp comes out in early November to haunt Shiters. No’ many folk will admit tae bein’ an ‘Ootsider’ let alone admit tae havin their Baws tickled by the ‘Phantom’, so evidence is a bit sketchy, but when the auld Gypsy woman said that wee poem wi’ her creepy voice, ah did ny even want tae dae a Shite in the Hoose, let alone outside. Here’s the Shittin’ forecast, anyway. The Golfie- a bit dodgy, tae be honest. The more exhibitionist types will relish the challenge of a busy Golf course, but the shy Shiter will not be seen here. The Hairy Tip – still the top spot in Pumphy for a safe Jobby, vegetation, good cover and Wildlife in abundance. Reach ‘Touchdown just as an elegant Buzzard  glides by or wipe to some enchanting Bird song. Another fine spot is the old mine on the East Calder viaduct path. What was the pit head provides excellent cover, with the wall like structures which obviously were the frame for some kind of winching system to bring shale up from the mine. The site offers wonderful views of the Almond valley and has been shortlisted for Outdoor Shite magazine’s ‘Stunning sites’ Nirvana award. The competition was originally meant to be play on words with Sean Connery narrating the advert saying ‘Shtunning Shite’sh, but he’s a greedy C–t and the magazine refused to give him what he wanted. The top park wids- has lost some of it’s appeal on account of being flanked by Two Housin’ schemes where in the past there was a ‘Beware of the Jobbier’ sign at both entrances to the wids back in the Seventies, when it was a lot quieter.

The Forth Bridge