Instant Arsehole, Just Add Alcohol.

Allan Boone was a chap I went to school with and if he was not the most uncouth, socially inept and terminally stupid chap in Scotland, he was most definitely in the top two. As I have mentioned before in a previous tale, Allan’s use of both inappropriate language and bad behaviour bordered on the unbelievable at the very best of times, not withstanding the poor idea of the introduction of alcohol.1

Now before I continue, I feel I must qualify what I am about to divulge, by saying that Allan was not an actual chum of mine more an associate, an associate whom you would not wish to enrage due to his hulking frame and astoundingly short fuse.2

Allan had been a bit of a social outcast following a truly outrageous performance, even by his own high standards of muppetry, at Smarty’s wedding the year prior. Where, to anyone who had witnessed his actions, he had fully earned and deserved, with knobs on, the unenviable but apt nickname of The Galoot.3

Allan a.k.a. The Galoot had then been conspicuous only by his absence at the local public house where we all drank on a weekly basis. That all changed one bleak Saturday afternoon in the middle of March 1989. 4

We had all as usual returned to the public bar fresh from watching a less than memorable one one draw at the football, when in to the bar strolled Allan. But surprise, surprise, he was not for once alone. Unbelievably he had a young lady with him, not only was she with him, but she was clinging on to his hand like a lecherous limpet.5

Allan sauntered over to the bar as if butter would not melt in his mouth and proceeded to introduce this female as “Rebecca” and introduced us to said Rebecca as his “Friends!”6

Now none of us were going to enrage Allan by giving an inappropriate response, mostly due to his height/weight advantage, what more, his opening gambit of “What is everybody drinking?” Had certainly greased the wheels of domestic diplomacy amongst our number and so drinks all round was the order of the day.7

Rebecca it turned out had met The Galoot, more pity her, when he had been round at her fathers house, to price up a job with his boss ,while engaged in his capacity as apprentice electrician.8

Rebecca was clearly a cut above the rest of us, with a polished cut glass accent, waxed Barbour jacket and a pink cashmere scarf. Or as I later stood to be corrected and I quote directly from her “Pashmina!” Pashmina, as I later that week took time to discovered, is essentially a name proper toff’s of the time called their over wide scarves, to make the rest of us feel half daft.9

This Rebecca, predilection for noun correction and Barbour jacket wearing not withstanding, turned out to be a great laugh. She had attended a private school in Yorkshire and was home on holiday from her job in London as a professional cellist. Not only that, she divulged that Allan would be and again I paraphrase “Coming down to visit her in two weeks when he was off on holiday!”10

Top marks to The Galoot then, in clearly for reasons apparent to no one, for undeniably managing once again to punch miles above his weight in the girlfriend department. His usual female companions drank pints of cider with blackcurrant and said the word fuck even more than we did. Whereas Rebecca drank white wine spritzer’s and usual expression of surprise was “Gosh” or the ubiquitous “Good grief!”11

We all wondered how long it would take for her to see through his ruse and kick him into touch. Erstwhile we all knew that Allan, could not keep a lid on his usual boorish antics forever and it would only be a matter of time, or pints, which ever came soonest before he would revert to type.12

A month or so rolled by without sign of hide nor hair of The Galoot or his upper class cohort, so we all presumed that he had been up to his usual tricks, gotten rid of and, ergo that was the end of that.13

I was sitting alone at the bar of my favourite hostelry, early one Saturday night in late July when an only slightly intoxicated Allan Boone parked himself on the barstool next to me.14

“Would you like a drink?” He asked in an accent not his own and who’s origins I fear lay somewhere over the mid Atlantic and the pages of P.G. Wodehouse.15

“Allan, good to see you chappy, I’ll have a rum and coke!” I said looking at him quizzically, trying feverishly to work out whether he was taking the piss, or actually thought no one would notice this glaring and preposterous change in his annunciation.16

Best play it safe, avoid a hefty right hook and resist the urge to laugh like a burst drain, I though as I sat there, trying manfully not to piss my pants.17

The drinks flowed, the party’s number swelled and it wasn’t 10.30pm when the pints/shorts combination worked their usual magic upon Allan. Surprise, surprise his newfound diction began to slip. Turned out that Allan a.k.a. The Galoot was indeed still in cahoots with the aforementioned Rebecca, not only that, he had been at a family wedding the week prior with her, as her and I quote “Partner!”18

The Galoot then went into great depth, telling all of our gathered number at the bar, the complete nuts/bolts and mechanics of this social gathering of the and again I quote “Toffy nosed bastards!” 19

Allan’s anecdotes, impressions and commensurate use of four letter words went down a storm with the gathered throng, even the usual sullen faced old boys at the far end of the bar were rocking on their barstools in appreciation.20

The bar was in total uproar and Allan was as ever, basking in its glory and playing to the gallery.21

Just then Swoopster then asked “Never mind all that you goon! Did you get your leg over? Was she even keen?”22

“Keen! Keen!” said The Galoot, letting the Swoopster calling him a goon slide for once thank the lord. “After the reception when we got back to the room, we were lying in bed, in the dark and I reached over to test the ground!” The Galoot continued.23

“Well! Well!” Urged Swoopster impatiently palms turned skyward in animated enquiry. 24

“Lets just say that if we had still been in the hotels bar! I would have thought I’d have spilled my fucking pint!” Roared The Galoot.25

Just then a tap on The Galoot’s shoulder.26

Oh spoons!27

There standing, mouth agog, Barbour jacket glistening with raindrops from the downpour outside, pashmina wrapped round her head and a look of dread upon her face, one very, very angry cellist.28

That for reasons apparent to all, brought his hands up the jumper antics with the landed gentry to a resounding conclusion.29

The horses arse!30