The Trouble Wi Dugs

I've got a right good pal out here called Keiron Carter. He comes from a wee place near Bury called Ramsbottom. A comedy town name would be good enough for me but even more endearing are some o the splendid turns of phrase that Kieron likes to deploy. He never simply leaves a place but prefers to "backeel" it. Or sometimes he just "fooks it off". He's good at gettin his round in but confuses newcomers to the Rammy tongue by askin "do you not wanna gin and tonic?" And a year ago when Patnem was hoachin wi Edinburgers, Kieron was heard to utter the immortal enquiry of "oo the fook is barry?"

Anyway, Kieron also likes to be know as KC and funnily enough, there's a wee shack outside o Chaudi (aka Canacona) called KC Chicken. That's the very place i go to get Roxy and her wee chums their weekly supply of chicken feet. Tis no real pleasure for a veggie like me to hang around KC Chicken while a series of scraggy white feathered beasts are dragged from their pokey wire cages to have their necks rung. Then they're flung in a big plastic bucket wi the lid slammed tight for 30 seconds or so til they stop thrashin around. Next comes the delightful beheading, skinning, removal of feet and erm...giblets. There's a lot of blood and a bad smell. I really dinnae dig dat death ting.

But hey, chicken's feet are very cheap (nobody round here seems to cook them) and of course twould be ridiculous to impose my own personal mini revolution on the pooch cos dogs are clearly carnivores. So i now have a plastic box of those goddam feet at the bottom o the fridge and have to dish them out as a special wee treat every 3 days or so. Urrrgh.

Shooge shout out to Mr X by the way. He may be a daft laddy when it comes to pickin a fitba team (Penicuik? Hibs? shoorly shum mishtake) but he brought out enough top quality flea treatment to cast those nippy wee bastards out of a good few dugs for a year.

Incidentally, the last piece of meat i ever purchased for my own consumption was a "mince" pie at Easter Road in late August or early September 1984. I took one manky munch and as the grease shlooped down my forearm, took the only sensible course of action and flung said pie from the Dunbar Road end into that shitey wee enclosure below the shitey wee old main stand that the shitey wee team used to have.

Hearts won by the way. No surprise i'm sure you'll agree.