I left the Callshop at midnight, bearing my sobriety like a crutch through the crowd of the messy sunday drinkers, who were rolling about the streets hodgepodge and haphazard. I hung outside Hoggy's debating whether to treat myself to some Garlic cheese chips, but the line of swaying soakage-seeking post-pubbies didn't appeal so I decided to abandon my grease-quest. I had an early morning, after all, for in a few hours I would be jetting off To Edinburgh on my first trip away in what seemed like an eternity.
So, with little sleep, I found myself the next day climbing Arthur's Seat, a large mound from where you can view the whole of Old Reeky (an uninviting old name for Edinburgh apparently, from the time before the river was filled in with a park). Sitting there - Arthur didn't mind by the way - the vista reminded me of a screenshot of SimCity, where a beginner has decided to put a castle, a palace and - just for a laugh - the Athens Acropolis all within a few squares of each other. Somehow it all works though, and we wandered carefree and up and down the Royal Mile, through GreyFriars and so on until we worked up a sufficient thirst to legitimise an afternoon pint. We drank in Bobby's bar, named after Greyfriars Bobby, the little Dog who famously slept on his masters grave until his own death. The Dog's death is, Bobby's master wasn't buried alive that I know of. Suitably oiled, we went into a dinky tourist shop and biught a tasteful tee-shirt with Sotland on it, only to discover that my cohort Meg had bought the same one. We toyed with the idea of wearing them both so we'd be the typical scoff-inducing memorabilia-wearing matching tourists. Then came the Haggis, my very first try, and suitably impressed I downed it with more gusto than I had anticipated. A pint at Finnegan's wake, followed by another at Belushi's which had the coolest vending machine in the world: the jacks had more than the bog-standard johnnies for sale, but for a few extra pound coins you could vend a vibrator, a blow-up doll, or even handcuffs. I was relieved, having left my vibrator, blow-up doll and handcuffs back at the hostel. No wonder there was a line for the cubicles what with people using their new "Bendy Brenda" dolls and their "Goliath Pleasureators" and whatnot. Not real names by the way, and they're patent pending, Flash Sex Products will be in bathroom vending machines in September. My ones'll be better though. Flash's Chocolate Butt-Plugs (tm) are already arousing suspicion. Suspicion? Er, I mean interest.
After the next day's lazy stroll around in the city - where Flash, ever the avid medievalist, walked up to the entrance of Edinburgh castle but didn't bother going in - we resolved to do one of those Highland Tour things. The Third day had us bussing
it north, to explore the wilds of Scotland. We stopped off at a wee town(see how I can fit in with the locals with my flawless use of colloquialisms there) called Dunkeld, which apart from a lovely Cathedral, was home to a shop that sold kettles exclusively:
"Excuse me, do you sell teapots?"
"No, just kettles."
"Hmmm what about milk jugs, do you sell them?"
"No, just kettles."
"Phone credit maybe?"
"No, just kettles."
"Very well, then. I'll just have a packet of Chewits and a Curly Wurly."
"We just sell Kettles."
"Kettles eh? What about Harmony?"
"That's not even a thing, it's an absract concept. We JUST sell kettles."
"Okay then, I'll have one kettle then."
"Actually we're out of kettles at the moment."
"Damn. Well what about a saucepan? I could boil water for me tea in that."
"No, just kettles."
"You're not much of a kettle-shop are you?"
"Piss off."
An hour later, and we were in Loch Ness. And I mean in, as we decided to paddle in it's freezing waters. Saw no monsters, but the revelation of my sun-shy whiter than white Daz-ultra legs put fear in the locals and attracted the interest of several paranormal scientists that were present. We took a boat ride to the middle of the lake, but my makeshift Nessie-whistle, based on the one they used to summon Godzilla in the cartoon series in the 70's, failed to work. Never trust dinosaurs, isn't that what the old wives' tale says?
When we arrived in in Edinburgh we went to meet Kim in her pub called "Dirty Dick's,"
just a few doors up from "Filthy McNasty's" and (probably) across the road from (probably)"The Guarded Fanny." All this and not a sexy vending machine in sight.
