No More Mr Nice Guy

There has been this ‘thing’ nagging away at me for a while. Months in fact. Now I consider myself to be a pretty reasonable kinda guy. OK, I can get a bit annoyed at bilge like ‘How Safe Is Your…’ ever getting on the air, or croutons turning up in things (if I want greasy bits of toast to eat I’ll root about under the fridge for them, thank you very much!) but mostly I’m easy going. And anyone who says any different is a f*****g k****g.

BUT: there are times that try my patience to the point where I want to go over to someone’s place of work, smash them repeatedly over the head with their telephone, and then urinate on their unconscious, battered body. Take the thieving bastards who’re supposed to be fixing my car right now: it’s a dealership, so they can charge more or less what they like (and you know it’s never going to be ‘less’) and provide as crappy a service as their slack-jawed troglodyte staff feel like on any given day. Which I think is directly related to the size of boobs on that morning’s page three girl: too small and they’re bitching an moaning and being grumpy all day, too big and they’ve all worn themselves half-blind in the company toilets.

But I digress. The reason this bugs the nipples off me is I’ve got a book coming out in about three months time that’s likely to make me notorious enough around Aberdeen, with out some greasy onanist turning round to his mates in the pub (or getting a literate acquaintance to write into the local paper on his behalf) and saying: “We had him in our garage the other month. What a wanker. Shouting the fuckin’ odds about his bloody car and ‘how come we’ve got no bloody clue what’s up wiv it’. Tosser. Then he goes mad, grabs Derek’s mobile and starts smashin’ ‘im in the ‘ead wiv it! Mind you, I would’ve stepped in and broken it up, but I ‘ad to go bash-me-weasel in the bogs…”