There ah wis, comin up Queen Street, musing on the egotism ay yon inbred mob ay English toffs runnin aboot slappin thir names aw ower streets n toons n coonties, aw ower the bleedin world n aw. Bit insecure, likes. Yid nivir catch a Scotsman daein aw that. Thir’s no Sean Connery Street in yir Toronto or yir Sydney, likes, is thir? Anywey, yin chutney n yin black gold was gaein at it like Hibs n Herts in me guts as ah strolled dain the promenade n aw. India n Ireland united to gie ays the boke. Postcolonial solidarity jist a faded memory, like. Ah wis lookin aboot fir a cludgy ta dae me dirty business in when whae ta mey wandering eyes shid appear but yon schemie Dougie fae Aberdeen. Ah could see eh wis boggin n looked a bit aff his heid, but ah couldna very well turn n run nae thit eh’d seen ays, could ah?

-Eh, Dougie, ah goes. Fit ye sayin, like? Ah kent eh wis nae exactly in matchday form, bit ah reckoned it better nae to let on. Dinnae want to turn im radge if ah could avoid it n aw.

-Perr, sor, perr. Ah wis tryin to charge me iPod, ken? N ah goat a bit ay voltage aff yin wee Black & Decker Pocket Power Battery Pack. Gied ays a fair shock, singed me hair n aw.

-Aye, bad bit ay business, that. Ah ken yir still carryin’ it, though. Takin it back for a refund n aw, are ye?

-Nae, nae. Ah’m keepin’ it, like.

-Even aftir the shock n aw?

-Aye. Ye see, yin wee shock? Ah liked it. Quite the rush, like. Streets ahead a yir E an yir cocaine. Gift that keeps ahn givin, ye ken. Later, likes.

Ah watched the radge wobble down the pavement, jabbin an pokin at the wee battery pack wi a unfolded paper clip, tryin tae get the Black & Decker Pocket Power tae gie um another hit ay the electric. A degenerate ah may be, a pale spotty bastard bairn ay a damp second-division nation, but at least ahm no a daft gadgie whae needs a bit ay voltage tae git through the dey, like.

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