Polling Day in Scotland

DH, Going Postal
“Police Scotland” by Ninian Reid is licensed under CC BY 2.0

Ah cannae f**kin’ baleeve tha Sarge hos sent me oot tae guard some f**kin’ sh*thoose poalen stashun en Govanhill aw day wi’ wee Kenny tha prubashunah.

“That Sturjan c**t’s prolly gonnae be hingin’ aboot,” he says. “An’ if some f**kin’ weapon dashides tae banjo tha torn-faced auld nyaff wi’ a mulkshake it’ll be me that gets mah c**t pure kicked in by tha chief coanstabul, so oot yeez get ya glaikit c**ts.”

So wha get there an’ iss tha yooshal Govanhill sh*te. F**kin’ Slavakian pikey c**ts tryen tae sell their weans in tha street, Affgans chuckin’ cups ae their ain pish oot tha tenamunt windaes an’ wee Romaniun weans pullin’ shoappen’ trollies apert fer scrap meatal.

Ah turnt mah back fer wan meenut cos some wee racessht auld wifey sterted up wi’ some pure biggatted sh*te aboot gipsies stealin’ her mabbillity scootah an’ sellin’ it tae a scrap dealah. She jist widnae f**k aff, howevah many times ah telt her it wisnae a polis mattah an’ tae raspect otha peepal’s cultchas an aw that pish.

Onyway, ah turnt aroond an’ that Nickla Sturjan c**t’s arrived an’ wee Kenny’s there pure slaverin’ awa’ tae her wi’ his sh*te patter. He’s no a f**kin’ scoobie who he’s talkin’ tae, eithah.

“Aye darlen, ah’m no gonnae be a prubashunah mussh lonagah,” he’s sayen tae her. “Ah’ve applied tae tha see eye dee cos a hink mah tallants are pure wastet oan hingin’ aboot en thess f**kin’ dump. Ah cuid be oot trackin’ doon peediofiles an’ bank roabbahs insteadae this pish aboot that Sturjan c**t an’ mulkshakes.”

She’s jist stood there starin ot him wi’ that f**kin’ broken pay packet look oan her coupon but wee Kenny’s no takin’ tha hint.

“Onyway, whit yeez daein’ eftah yeez hov votet, doll?,” he says. “Ah ken a quiet wee bit bahind tha auld tile warehoose oan Queenslie indushtriul astate where nae c**t wid boatha us. Ah’m due a break fae this pish in a meenut an’ yeez dinnae hov tae be a mindreedah tae guess you’re tha kindae wumman who fontasises aboot gettin’ pure rattled in tha backae a polis cer by a man en yoonaform while yer hussband’s huffin’ an puffin’ away oan yeez wi’ a semi wance a week. Yeez ken ah’m tellin’ tha trooth, darlen.”

She jist sterts walkin’ awa’ fae tha daft wee c**t.

“Ah’ll buy yeez chups eferwards,” he shouts eftah her. “An’ a can o’ juice an’ aw if ya want.”

“Hoanast tae f**k,” he says tae me. “It wis her who stoapped tae chat me up. Pure comin’ ontae me askin’ aw these queshtyans aboot where a wis fram an’ how loang ah’d been a polisman an’ who ah wis gonnae vote fer. She wis cerryin’ oan like she wis pure eftah her hole.”

Ah jist sent him doon tha road tae get us annotha Burgah Keng jist tae get him oot tha way fer when that Sturjan c**t’s feenushed voten.

A coupleae whoppahs, a westan barbacue bacon an’ a Kit Kat ice cream if he disnae pure f**k tha ordah up. Pure f**kin’ magic.

© DH 2019

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