To All The Scottish Members

Och fer fecks sake, Matron just ordered haggis pizza ‘cos o’ ye fellow Scots gettin’ the tartan fever. Haggis feckin’ pizza, ffs! Nae whisky here as I’m a proper alkie bastart an’ havnae touched a bevvy fer umpteen year. We’ll salute ye a’ wi Irn Bru - made in Scotland from girders. Which probably means it’s been flavoured with haggis testicle scratchings and yes, the humble haggis is a REAL creature. Ye must shoot it wi a porridge gun, ye ken!

As tae Buckfast, ah scooped plenty o that back in the day - if it got ye blootert, ah wiz up for it and it wiz doon me feckin pronto style. Wander in’ up an doon the high street wi a bag o chips staring a chip oot, tryin tae find ma gob and prolly firing it doon ma shirt, broon sauce an’ all. Twa bottles o Buckie an ye were absolutely blootert oot yer tiny mind - stoatin’ up an doon but mair doon than onything else. Pavement pizzas, tramps clawin at yer claes, going to sleep in one hoose an waking up in a barn wi feck knows how you got there. Wi buckie, ye could time travel, fly short distances, dispense wi the need to visit the bog (toilet) and it increased yer height by twa feet an yer strength tenfold. Nane o yer Captain Americky super soldier serum required, just git a bunch o’ Scots alkies, fill them up wi buckfast, point them at a target then sit back an watch. Total feckin‘ carnage. Malkied by alkie!

Heh, ahm feeling’ brave noo. Watch this: “Matron doll, gies a swatch o yer fanny!”

Sorry, goat tae run - she’s efter me wi yon feckin’ Claymore fae above the mantelpiece! SHHIIITTTE…
 
Gairdner said:
Och fer fecks sake, Matron just ordered haggis pizza ‘cos o’ ye fellow Scots gettin’ the tartan fever. Haggis feckin’ pizza, ffs! Nae whisky here as I’m a proper alkie bastart an’ havnae touched a bevvy fer umpteen year. We’ll salute ye a’ wi Irn Bru - made in Scotland from girders. Which probably means it’s been flavoured with haggis testicle scratchings and yes, the humble haggis is a REAL creature. Ye must shoot it wi a porridge gun, ye ken!

As tae Buckfast, ah scooped plenty o that back in the day - if it got ye blootert, ah wiz up for it and it wiz doon me feckin pronto style. Wander in’ up an doon the high street wi a bag o chips staring a chip oot, tryin tae find ma gob and prolly firing it doon ma shirt, broon sauce an’ all. Twa bottles o Buckie an ye were absolutely blootert oot yer tiny mind - stoatin’ up an doon but mair doon than onything else. Pavement pizzas, tramps clawin at yer claes, going to sleep in one hoose an waking up in a barn wi feck knows how you got there. Wi buckie, ye could time travel, fly short distances, dispense wi the need to visit the bog (toilet) and it increased yer height by twa feet an yer strength tenfold. Nane o yer Captain Americky super soldier serum required, just git a bunch o’ Scots alkies, fill them up wi buckfast, point them at a target then sit back an watch. Total feckin‘ carnage. Malkied by alkie!

Heh, ahm feeling’ brave noo. Watch this: “Matron doll, gies a swatch o yer fanny!”

Sorry, goat tae run - she’s efter me wi yon feckin’ Claymore fae above the mantelpiece! SHHIIITTTE…
Click to expand...
Buckie is made by monks. Never touched it in case it made me aw riligious!
 
Gairdner said:
Och fer fecks sake, Matron just ordered haggis pizza ‘cos o’ ye fellow Scots gettin’ the tartan fever. Haggis feckin’ pizza, ffs! Nae whisky here as I’m a proper alkie bastart an’ havnae touched a bevvy fer umpteen year. We’ll salute ye a’ wi Irn Bru - made in Scotland from girders. Which probably means it’s been flavoured with haggis testicle scratchings and yes, the humble haggis is a REAL creature. Ye must shoot it wi a porridge gun, ye ken!

As tae Buckfast, ah scooped plenty o that back in the day - if it got ye blootert, ah wiz up for it and it wiz doon me feckin pronto style. Wander in’ up an doon the high street wi a bag o chips staring a chip oot, tryin tae find ma gob and prolly firing it doon ma shirt, broon sauce an’ all. Twa bottles o Buckie an ye were absolutely blootert oot yer tiny mind - stoatin’ up an doon but mair doon than onything else. Pavement pizzas, tramps clawin at yer claes, going to sleep in one hoose an waking up in a barn wi feck knows how you got there. Wi buckie, ye could time travel, fly short distances, dispense wi the need to visit the bog (toilet) and it increased yer height by twa feet an yer strength tenfold. Nane o yer Captain Americky super soldier serum required, just git a bunch o’ Scots alkies, fill them up wi buckfast, point them at a target then sit back an watch. Total feckin‘ carnage. Malkied by alkie!

Heh, ahm feeling’ brave noo. Watch this: “Matron doll, gies a swatch o yer fanny!”

Sorry, goat tae run - she’s efter me wi yon feckin’ Claymore fae above the mantelpiece! SHHIIITTTE…
Click to expand...
no the Claymore frae Executive Shaving?
 
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