Turkeys
by Andrew Velzian
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: When in Rome, gadge.
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What is it wi these dafties who spend thousands of pounds travellin hundreds of miles just to wear the same fitba top that they do every Saturday?
Ah mean, ah’m in Turkey fur fuck sake and it’s like day release or signin oan day. One and a half grand and nae change of clothes? Christ, even the homeless can afford a pair o shorts and a few Pierre Cardin t-shirts fae Sports Direct ken.
Celtic tops and The Rangers tops dotted aboot the complex are about as welcome tae the eyes as a wasp in yur beer. Dinnae catch them in the pool either, no wi all the chlorine like. Nah, they’re tae be found hoggin’ the table tennis wi their beer bellies or smack scrawny bodies shoutin and swearin like it’s the local boozer. Fuckin gets ye like. Wan o the hoors even walks past the pool and clears his beak wi one finger like a footballer right into the flower bed, besides the restaurant an aw eh.
Nae sense o humir eethir. Ah asked the waiter fur salt’n’sauce and none o that neanderthal salt’n’vinegar pish, got more o’ a smile fae the waiter no unnerstandin a word a said than the weedgie family aside me wi faces like they’d drunk a boatil o the fuckin’ stuff. Both kids called Wayne an aw no doobt.
But that’s jist me ken, ah like a bit o patter. Aw ma pals keep tellin me – Aye Deek, yir some boy wi a drink in ye, a right funny cunt. – Ah dinnae gloat oan it, though, jist the way ah am.
Now, ah ken it sounds like I’m moanin away here because ah’ve maybe had a few too many beers or a bit too much sun like, but hand on hairt its no.
What started it off was the Mosque next door… well jist up the road a bit. The Call to Prayer isnae everybody’s cup of tea, ah unnerstand that, but a wee bitty respect when yir in some ither cunt’s country fur a week or two isnae a lot tae ask fur eh no? Thing is I like the sound of it eh. First thing in the morning and it’s like an echo from time drifting through yur window; haunting yet inspiring. It’s also a lot more pleasing than the church bells back home clanging away when yur no long in yur bed fae the nightshift.
So that’s how ah’ve a wee bit of a gurn oan ma puss because of all the catcalls and jeering during the Mosque Song, sounds like a personal attack tae me an it pisses me right off.
It’s a few o them daein’ it an aw. Dutch people, fur instance, that bunch o failed Germans wi small man syndrome, they’ve always been intolerant o others fur the maist part. Russians too, ah mean, Jesus wept what have they got to be so uppity and rude aboot? Hiv ye ever seen Russia oan the telly! Boiled fish and shitey housing estates is hee haw tae boast aboot min.
But it’s the Sellick an THE Huns that get me. Oan their fuckin high horses aw the time about their tradition, their heritage and aw that shite. Then it’s the paranoid woe is us mode as soon as someone slags them off. Proper wee victims like. But where is this same respect that they demand when it’s them comin’ tae a different country; a country wi one o the auldest civilisations, the seat o Western learnin and the like? They boo and cheer wi Union Jack towels and ping pong rackets in their hands like its fuckin Polmont.
A wee example; durin the day there’s a right weedgie stormin aboot wi Union Jack sweatbands on, ah mean, sweatbands? Apart from 8 year olds in the 1980’s who’s has ever worn fuckin sweatbands oan thur wrists? I’d imagine the only time a cunt like that has ever picked up a tennis racquet is tae play air guitar tae The Sash.
Here’s another example though. The locals bend ower backwards tae be friendly in this complex right? And fair play tae the boys ken, rememberin names, what country ye hail fae etc. Now, entertainment night and they pull this boy fae the crowd.
“Where you coming from?” they ask.
“Scotland,” comes the proud reply, turnin tae the audience expectin a standin ovation.
“And what football shirt is this, please?” he points tae the guy’s top.
“Northern Ireland,” he declares with equal pride and arrogance.
Fuckin embarrasment doesnay even cover it! The confusion on the Turkish guy’s face mirrors most of Scotland’s tae be honest. And that’s the thing. They jeer, boo and ridicule a foreign country and thur religion because they dinnae unnerstand it, but Christ almighty, ah mean, words fail me… How are we supposed to unnerstand it when we cannae even begin to explain ours?
Fuck sake, a wee bit o appreciation and unnerstandin is what this world needs. Why can these cunts no just have a wee bitty tolerance fur there fellow man like ah do?
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: When in Rome, gadge.
_____________________________________________________________________
What is it wi these dafties who spend thousands of pounds travellin hundreds of miles just to wear the same fitba top that they do every Saturday?
Ah mean, ah’m in Turkey fur fuck sake and it’s like day release or signin oan day. One and a half grand and nae change of clothes? Christ, even the homeless can afford a pair o shorts and a few Pierre Cardin t-shirts fae Sports Direct ken.
Celtic tops and The Rangers tops dotted aboot the complex are about as welcome tae the eyes as a wasp in yur beer. Dinnae catch them in the pool either, no wi all the chlorine like. Nah, they’re tae be found hoggin’ the table tennis wi their beer bellies or smack scrawny bodies shoutin and swearin like it’s the local boozer. Fuckin gets ye like. Wan o the hoors even walks past the pool and clears his beak wi one finger like a footballer right into the flower bed, besides the restaurant an aw eh.
Nae sense o humir eethir. Ah asked the waiter fur salt’n’sauce and none o that neanderthal salt’n’vinegar pish, got more o’ a smile fae the waiter no unnerstandin a word a said than the weedgie family aside me wi faces like they’d drunk a boatil o the fuckin’ stuff. Both kids called Wayne an aw no doobt.
But that’s jist me ken, ah like a bit o patter. Aw ma pals keep tellin me – Aye Deek, yir some boy wi a drink in ye, a right funny cunt. – Ah dinnae gloat oan it, though, jist the way ah am.
Now, ah ken it sounds like I’m moanin away here because ah’ve maybe had a few too many beers or a bit too much sun like, but hand on hairt its no.
What started it off was the Mosque next door… well jist up the road a bit. The Call to Prayer isnae everybody’s cup of tea, ah unnerstand that, but a wee bitty respect when yir in some ither cunt’s country fur a week or two isnae a lot tae ask fur eh no? Thing is I like the sound of it eh. First thing in the morning and it’s like an echo from time drifting through yur window; haunting yet inspiring. It’s also a lot more pleasing than the church bells back home clanging away when yur no long in yur bed fae the nightshift.
So that’s how ah’ve a wee bit of a gurn oan ma puss because of all the catcalls and jeering during the Mosque Song, sounds like a personal attack tae me an it pisses me right off.
It’s a few o them daein’ it an aw. Dutch people, fur instance, that bunch o failed Germans wi small man syndrome, they’ve always been intolerant o others fur the maist part. Russians too, ah mean, Jesus wept what have they got to be so uppity and rude aboot? Hiv ye ever seen Russia oan the telly! Boiled fish and shitey housing estates is hee haw tae boast aboot min.
But it’s the Sellick an THE Huns that get me. Oan their fuckin high horses aw the time about their tradition, their heritage and aw that shite. Then it’s the paranoid woe is us mode as soon as someone slags them off. Proper wee victims like. But where is this same respect that they demand when it’s them comin’ tae a different country; a country wi one o the auldest civilisations, the seat o Western learnin and the like? They boo and cheer wi Union Jack towels and ping pong rackets in their hands like its fuckin Polmont.
A wee example; durin the day there’s a right weedgie stormin aboot wi Union Jack sweatbands on, ah mean, sweatbands? Apart from 8 year olds in the 1980’s who’s has ever worn fuckin sweatbands oan thur wrists? I’d imagine the only time a cunt like that has ever picked up a tennis racquet is tae play air guitar tae The Sash.
Here’s another example though. The locals bend ower backwards tae be friendly in this complex right? And fair play tae the boys ken, rememberin names, what country ye hail fae etc. Now, entertainment night and they pull this boy fae the crowd.
“Where you coming from?” they ask.
“Scotland,” comes the proud reply, turnin tae the audience expectin a standin ovation.
“And what football shirt is this, please?” he points tae the guy’s top.
“Northern Ireland,” he declares with equal pride and arrogance.
Fuckin embarrasment doesnay even cover it! The confusion on the Turkish guy’s face mirrors most of Scotland’s tae be honest. And that’s the thing. They jeer, boo and ridicule a foreign country and thur religion because they dinnae unnerstand it, but Christ almighty, ah mean, words fail me… How are we supposed to unnerstand it when we cannae even begin to explain ours?
Fuck sake, a wee bit o appreciation and unnerstandin is what this world needs. Why can these cunts no just have a wee bitty tolerance fur there fellow man like ah do?
About the Author
Born in Dunfermline, raised on the Orkney Isles and now residing in Cheshire, Andrew Velzian says he scribbles a few stories in between working and sleeping.