Women's Football
by Alasdair McPherson
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: A few mild ones.
Description: Some football commentary, Scotsman-style.
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There wis a wimmens international on the box – England against Germany so A didnae give a toss who won. A mean, Ah ken that nice wee Nicola Sturgeon wants us tae hate the English, bit A jist canny warm tae they Krauts. A only pit it oan so A could mock, but it wisnae bad. A’ve seen worse games at Firhill.
Don’t get me wrong – A’m as religious as the next man but A canny be bothered wi’ them fanatics. A mean, am oot wi’ the rest kickin’ the shite oot o’ Celtic supporters at the Ne’erday game but A jist think religion should be mair private. Partick Thistle is ecumenical wi’ fans frae as far away as Milngavie. Am too easy goin’: if a guy comes in the boozer wearin’ a green shirt A jist move along the bar; A’ll only pit the heid oan him if he lingers tae order a drink. Saft, A ken, bit that’s me a’ over!
Onyway there wis one wee by-play that was straight oot the Jags play book. The German keeper played a bye kick short tae the right back an’ she passed it back tae the goalie. She gave it a belt an’ the ba’ skited away for a shy aboot level wi’ the eight yard box. Of course when Partick did it the keeper got a bit more spin on the ba’ so it went for a corner but the Jerries had the right idea!
Religion is a wee bit o’ a sair poin’ wi’ me the noo. A wisnae aw that bothered when my old doll left and A managed to jine in the banter when the lads fin oot that she wis shacked up wi’ anither bird, bit A don’ hiv a Scooby whit A’ll dae if they fin’ oot the wommin is a Fenian.
A didnae ken maself until my lassie took me roon tae her maw’s new hoose.
“At least try for a reconciliation, Dad,” she said. “For my sake.”
It wis her partner that drove us right up tae the door o’ a swanky bungalow in Bearsden. Haud the phone, a thought!
A wis a bit intimidated, to tell the truth, bit ma lassie an’ her man wis watchin’ so A went up and rang the bell. The wommin that came to the door wisnae bad lookin’ and she wis polite enough when A said who A wis.
“You’d better come in then. Margaret’s in the bathroom putting on her face. Just go through.”
She’s been ‘Maggie’ fir that long thit A had nearly forgot that her right name wis Margaret!
The thing A noticed as A went ben the hoose tae the lavvy wis a’ they holy picters and things – Virgin Mary’s and that. That wis when A fin oot that ma ain wee Maggie had taken up wi’ a left fitter.
Onyway, she wis standin’ in front o’ a mirror pittin’ some green stuff on her eyes so A jist parked ma bum aginst the wa’ and started sayin’ whit A came tae say. A began wi’ a wee ploy tae get sympathy, goin’ oan abit take-aways bein’ bad fur ye and how A missed her delicious homemade dinners (my lassie though’ that wid go doon a treat).
Not a flicker, so A went straight intae ma big argument.
“Do ye no’ miss rumpy-pumpy? A mean tae sae, who rolls on top…”
Ah wis jist developin’ the theme when hir partner came in, lifted her dress, pulled doon her knickers and sat oan the pan! A tried tae ignore it bit when A heard the piss splashin’ in the bowl A coudnae help lookin.
The pee wis rinnin’ over flaps o’ skin hinging doon ‘allow her thing. It looked like a butcher washin’ fly blow aff bits o’ liver. Then A noticed: nae hair! Not a single follicle between her wee broon bum hole and the top o’ her thingy where there wis a line o’ hair like an exclamation mark.
She took her right fit oot o’ her knickers, wrapped aboot twenty sheets o’ bog roll roon her hand, spread hir legs and started to wipe hir self!
“See anything you like?” she said and kicked her left fit so her knickers hit me oan the chin. A had loast the thread o’ ma argument by this time so A jist slipped the knickers intae ma pooch and left with quiet dignity – Ah didnae even slam the door.
A wis in shock!
Years ago noo, A got a plot – an allotment they ca’ them. The council had turfed oot the guy that hid it before me and it wis a right mess A can tell ye. The next plot wis like the Botanic Gardens bit wi’ veg instead o’ flowers. The guy thit had it wis real nice.
“Thank goodness they got rid of that awful man. Do you know much about gardening?”
“A’m a brickie, bit A’m willin’ tae learn.”
“Good man! The first thing you need to do is double dig the entire plot.”
He wis a right good sort, him. He showed me how to double dig an’ whin A turned oot to be a bit slow on the uptake he jist carried on and did the hale plot!
He wis a general or somethin’ in the Boys Brigade an’ that wis his doonfa’. Turned oot that he wis so fond o’ the wee laddies that he couldnae wait tae get thir troosers aff and play wi thir bits. He’s still in the Bar-L last a heard.
The thing A wanted tae tell ye aboot him wis this: his misses worked shifts and whin she wis oan nights he used to tak the knickers she had oan a’ day tae bed wi’ him. He wid sniff at them fir a while then put them under his bolster before he pit the light oot.
When a got hame a tried sniffin’ the knickers in ma pocket but a hiv tae say it didnae dae much for me. They smelt maistly o’ Lenor wi’ jist a wee bouquet o’ kippers.
There wis a clatter frae the kitchen that woke me up. Ma daughter comes every Sunday to red up the hoose and cook me whit she caws a proper dinner. A think her partner is jist as glad tae get her oot the hoose!
It’s a’ partners nooadays, hiv ye noticed? A spent a fortune on bevvy when a wis young gettin’ lassies drunk enough to take aff their knickers. Noo the young yins jist say: ‘Am movin’ intae your place and a sleep oan the left side o’ the bed, by the way.’
The clatter turned oot tae be the chicken drappin’ on the flair when she took it oot the oven. A wid jist have given it a wee wipe bit she had it in the bin before ye could blink. She wanted tae make me toasted cheese but A jist went tae the pub: A’ll get a carry oot on the way hame. A wid hiv waited fir the fitba’ tae finish but there’s nae point – they don’t swap their shirts at the end.
At the boozer there wis a bit o’ a difference o’ opinion aboot wimmens fitbae. Auld Harry said he hid watched it once bit their tits didnae jiggle aboot so he didnae try again. We don’t take much notice o’ Harry, bit ye hiv tae feel sorry fir him. His real name is Randolph fir his Mammy was great yin for the Westerns.
Shug wis there with his old uncle from Saltcoats and a young guy in a suit that wis paying fir their drinks. Uncle Jamesie wis due in the High Court in the morning. He had been done fir Actual Bodily Harm fir bashin’ a wommin wi’ his stick oan a zebra crossin’ in Stevenston. The fella in the suit wis his solicitor.
Shug wis tryin’ tae convince the lawyer that it wis a case of mistaken identity. The wommin had a big black hat an’ was wearing a long black coat. From behind, Jamesie mistook her fir a priest. Saltcoats is fair hoachin’ wi’ priests at that time o’ year. They come over from their seminaries in Ireland as missionaries.
Whit they dae is tae hunt doon folk that hiv turned. Lapsed Catholics, they ca’ them. Jamesies wife’s cousin hid been a papist so he wis naturally sensitive oan the subject. The lawyer didnae think that the Sherriff wid accept that as justifyin’ the assault.
We kicked ideas aboot for a while an’ then A noticed that Jamesie wis bent over his stick like the auld folk ye see on the road signs. I kicked his stick away and Jamesie fell ontae his phiz.
“See! He couldnae hiv did it!”
The lawyer thought that they might hiv a case so he bought a big bottle o’ Buckfast tonic wine and the three of them went away to work oan the defence. A heard later that Jamesie got eighteen months: it wisnae ma blame that he didnae fa’ over in court when he wis sober.
When they went, we went back tae wimmens fitba’. Harry said he wid watch if they didnae wear such baggy shorts.
Then Geordie took the flair. One time he wis a dab hand at tellin’ jokes, but years of booze hiv left him with a problem that dis yer heid in. He remembers the hale joke right up tae the punchline.
“Wimmen fitba’ players don’t hiv studs,” he began, pausing tae wait fir the straight man tae gie him his line. Live and let live, that’s me, so A spoke up.
“How dae they stop slidin’ aboot a’ o’er the pitch?”
“Instead they hiv…..” he stopped and his face went red with the effort to remember.
“A canny think - but it began wi’ a ‘D’.”
Swearwords: A few mild ones.
Description: Some football commentary, Scotsman-style.
_____________________________________________________________________
There wis a wimmens international on the box – England against Germany so A didnae give a toss who won. A mean, Ah ken that nice wee Nicola Sturgeon wants us tae hate the English, bit A jist canny warm tae they Krauts. A only pit it oan so A could mock, but it wisnae bad. A’ve seen worse games at Firhill.
Don’t get me wrong – A’m as religious as the next man but A canny be bothered wi’ them fanatics. A mean, am oot wi’ the rest kickin’ the shite oot o’ Celtic supporters at the Ne’erday game but A jist think religion should be mair private. Partick Thistle is ecumenical wi’ fans frae as far away as Milngavie. Am too easy goin’: if a guy comes in the boozer wearin’ a green shirt A jist move along the bar; A’ll only pit the heid oan him if he lingers tae order a drink. Saft, A ken, bit that’s me a’ over!
Onyway there wis one wee by-play that was straight oot the Jags play book. The German keeper played a bye kick short tae the right back an’ she passed it back tae the goalie. She gave it a belt an’ the ba’ skited away for a shy aboot level wi’ the eight yard box. Of course when Partick did it the keeper got a bit more spin on the ba’ so it went for a corner but the Jerries had the right idea!
Religion is a wee bit o’ a sair poin’ wi’ me the noo. A wisnae aw that bothered when my old doll left and A managed to jine in the banter when the lads fin oot that she wis shacked up wi’ anither bird, bit A don’ hiv a Scooby whit A’ll dae if they fin’ oot the wommin is a Fenian.
A didnae ken maself until my lassie took me roon tae her maw’s new hoose.
“At least try for a reconciliation, Dad,” she said. “For my sake.”
It wis her partner that drove us right up tae the door o’ a swanky bungalow in Bearsden. Haud the phone, a thought!
A wis a bit intimidated, to tell the truth, bit ma lassie an’ her man wis watchin’ so A went up and rang the bell. The wommin that came to the door wisnae bad lookin’ and she wis polite enough when A said who A wis.
“You’d better come in then. Margaret’s in the bathroom putting on her face. Just go through.”
She’s been ‘Maggie’ fir that long thit A had nearly forgot that her right name wis Margaret!
The thing A noticed as A went ben the hoose tae the lavvy wis a’ they holy picters and things – Virgin Mary’s and that. That wis when A fin oot that ma ain wee Maggie had taken up wi’ a left fitter.
Onyway, she wis standin’ in front o’ a mirror pittin’ some green stuff on her eyes so A jist parked ma bum aginst the wa’ and started sayin’ whit A came tae say. A began wi’ a wee ploy tae get sympathy, goin’ oan abit take-aways bein’ bad fur ye and how A missed her delicious homemade dinners (my lassie though’ that wid go doon a treat).
Not a flicker, so A went straight intae ma big argument.
“Do ye no’ miss rumpy-pumpy? A mean tae sae, who rolls on top…”
Ah wis jist developin’ the theme when hir partner came in, lifted her dress, pulled doon her knickers and sat oan the pan! A tried tae ignore it bit when A heard the piss splashin’ in the bowl A coudnae help lookin.
The pee wis rinnin’ over flaps o’ skin hinging doon ‘allow her thing. It looked like a butcher washin’ fly blow aff bits o’ liver. Then A noticed: nae hair! Not a single follicle between her wee broon bum hole and the top o’ her thingy where there wis a line o’ hair like an exclamation mark.
She took her right fit oot o’ her knickers, wrapped aboot twenty sheets o’ bog roll roon her hand, spread hir legs and started to wipe hir self!
“See anything you like?” she said and kicked her left fit so her knickers hit me oan the chin. A had loast the thread o’ ma argument by this time so A jist slipped the knickers intae ma pooch and left with quiet dignity – Ah didnae even slam the door.
A wis in shock!
Years ago noo, A got a plot – an allotment they ca’ them. The council had turfed oot the guy that hid it before me and it wis a right mess A can tell ye. The next plot wis like the Botanic Gardens bit wi’ veg instead o’ flowers. The guy thit had it wis real nice.
“Thank goodness they got rid of that awful man. Do you know much about gardening?”
“A’m a brickie, bit A’m willin’ tae learn.”
“Good man! The first thing you need to do is double dig the entire plot.”
He wis a right good sort, him. He showed me how to double dig an’ whin A turned oot to be a bit slow on the uptake he jist carried on and did the hale plot!
He wis a general or somethin’ in the Boys Brigade an’ that wis his doonfa’. Turned oot that he wis so fond o’ the wee laddies that he couldnae wait tae get thir troosers aff and play wi thir bits. He’s still in the Bar-L last a heard.
The thing A wanted tae tell ye aboot him wis this: his misses worked shifts and whin she wis oan nights he used to tak the knickers she had oan a’ day tae bed wi’ him. He wid sniff at them fir a while then put them under his bolster before he pit the light oot.
When a got hame a tried sniffin’ the knickers in ma pocket but a hiv tae say it didnae dae much for me. They smelt maistly o’ Lenor wi’ jist a wee bouquet o’ kippers.
There wis a clatter frae the kitchen that woke me up. Ma daughter comes every Sunday to red up the hoose and cook me whit she caws a proper dinner. A think her partner is jist as glad tae get her oot the hoose!
It’s a’ partners nooadays, hiv ye noticed? A spent a fortune on bevvy when a wis young gettin’ lassies drunk enough to take aff their knickers. Noo the young yins jist say: ‘Am movin’ intae your place and a sleep oan the left side o’ the bed, by the way.’
The clatter turned oot tae be the chicken drappin’ on the flair when she took it oot the oven. A wid jist have given it a wee wipe bit she had it in the bin before ye could blink. She wanted tae make me toasted cheese but A jist went tae the pub: A’ll get a carry oot on the way hame. A wid hiv waited fir the fitba’ tae finish but there’s nae point – they don’t swap their shirts at the end.
At the boozer there wis a bit o’ a difference o’ opinion aboot wimmens fitbae. Auld Harry said he hid watched it once bit their tits didnae jiggle aboot so he didnae try again. We don’t take much notice o’ Harry, bit ye hiv tae feel sorry fir him. His real name is Randolph fir his Mammy was great yin for the Westerns.
Shug wis there with his old uncle from Saltcoats and a young guy in a suit that wis paying fir their drinks. Uncle Jamesie wis due in the High Court in the morning. He had been done fir Actual Bodily Harm fir bashin’ a wommin wi’ his stick oan a zebra crossin’ in Stevenston. The fella in the suit wis his solicitor.
Shug wis tryin’ tae convince the lawyer that it wis a case of mistaken identity. The wommin had a big black hat an’ was wearing a long black coat. From behind, Jamesie mistook her fir a priest. Saltcoats is fair hoachin’ wi’ priests at that time o’ year. They come over from their seminaries in Ireland as missionaries.
Whit they dae is tae hunt doon folk that hiv turned. Lapsed Catholics, they ca’ them. Jamesies wife’s cousin hid been a papist so he wis naturally sensitive oan the subject. The lawyer didnae think that the Sherriff wid accept that as justifyin’ the assault.
We kicked ideas aboot for a while an’ then A noticed that Jamesie wis bent over his stick like the auld folk ye see on the road signs. I kicked his stick away and Jamesie fell ontae his phiz.
“See! He couldnae hiv did it!”
The lawyer thought that they might hiv a case so he bought a big bottle o’ Buckfast tonic wine and the three of them went away to work oan the defence. A heard later that Jamesie got eighteen months: it wisnae ma blame that he didnae fa’ over in court when he wis sober.
When they went, we went back tae wimmens fitba’. Harry said he wid watch if they didnae wear such baggy shorts.
Then Geordie took the flair. One time he wis a dab hand at tellin’ jokes, but years of booze hiv left him with a problem that dis yer heid in. He remembers the hale joke right up tae the punchline.
“Wimmen fitba’ players don’t hiv studs,” he began, pausing tae wait fir the straight man tae gie him his line. Live and let live, that’s me, so A spoke up.
“How dae they stop slidin’ aboot a’ o’er the pitch?”
“Instead they hiv…..” he stopped and his face went red with the effort to remember.
“A canny think - but it began wi’ a ‘D’.”
About the Author
Originally from Dalmuir, Alasdair McPherson is now retired and living in exile in Lincolnshire.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned five novels and many short stories. His two latest novels, The Island and Pilgrimage of Grace, are McStorytellers publications.
You can read Alasdair's full profile on McVoices.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned five novels and many short stories. His two latest novels, The Island and Pilgrimage of Grace, are McStorytellers publications.
You can read Alasdair's full profile on McVoices.