This little piggy went to The Crooked Goose. This little piggy went to Gorgie road. This little piggy went to the bacon slicer (I should be so lucky). They don't do any good on hallowed ground, their "skills" are better needed up Easter road, in Leith or perhaps smashing heads galore amongst urchins defieling our streets in a most unpleasant way elsewhere.

Muggins have been seen in Portobello and even in Fountainbridge (I'll give them that much), but are few and far between, if the bill stopped stuffing themselves with rotting haggis and performed their duty for even a brief moment they could actually do some good.

Pigs are bound for the abattoir, no pope of Rome can change that, you fucking vermin clad in Hibee-rags. Truncheons must get their fair share of grey matter and it should come oozing out of fenian noggins rather than from loyalist heads.

Yes, I'm incoherent, but what are you going to do about that? I've had a few and then some. I hate piggies and I hate papist scum, that's all you need to know. Now I'm going to wrap my succulent lips around a frosty beer bottle and gulp it down like never before. Or like yesterday now that I think about it.

Over and out fi Calum

Det blir ett besök hos en vän, ska vara där klockan sex. Det blir att packa ryggsäcken full med dryck och ta en rask promenad söderut. Naturligtvis har jag redan börjat dricka, är inne på min tredje öl. Det ska bli härligt att börja helgledigheten med en rejäl fylla. Har lite ont om whisky dock, jag drack en hel del igår. Nåja, systembolaget har ju lördagsöppet, så jag kan fylla på förrådet imorgon. Ikväll blir det bara öl (min vän är en snål jäkel och unnar sig sällan starksprit), men det funkar bra, bara man får i sig en tio, tolv stycken. Hej svejs!