Athletico Mince - The Scottish Collection Vol. 1

Episode Date: May 1, 2020

Here's over an hour of Bob's beautiful, tender, and death-filled Scottish tales for you... Become a member at https://plus.acast.com/s/athleticomince. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

I've written something as a bit more, it's a bit depressing actually, it's a bit down, Scottish sort of song, but it's a Scottish biker sort of song. Ok, I'm a Scottish biker, I bake the Scottish pies, I've got problems with my drainage and problems with my wife. The two me be incognetant, incognetant, incognetant and interconnected, cause a bludgeoned hearth to death by repeatedly hitting her head with my welder's mask. I disposed of her flesh and bones,

down the back kitchen sink, now my toilets blocked, and my pie meets starting to stink. That will be 40 p. Mr. McCoy. And I would eat it before sunset if that was my pie. I haven't got a song of you got one. I've got a Scottish one but it's not very funny. Well, you do it and then if it's not funny, I'll let it out afterwards, alright? You promise me if it's not funny. Oh well, yeah, if it's rubbish, I'll let it out, yeah.

I haven't got a tune really, I think it's one of me Scottish ones. You do it as a rap? I'll just have to do it like as a dutch, you know, like just like all right, yeah, anyway. This is the tale of Michael Moubri, a man born and bred, sorry, this is the tale of Michael Moubri, a man born on a bed of scouring powder and beidmed of a heart of pure stone. On his 18th birthday he announced a barren dance. The price of admission included a free artisan hamburger and an amusing badge. The whole island came apart from Harry McKay, who had a trumpet stuck up his a'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweithio'r llwyd i'n gweith an unruly tard on the count of midnight. Michael more recalled for silence. Hey, you're bastard, Sigrauld. You know those artisan hamburgers. I, we do

Michael. Well, they were near artisan, but frozen ones from all the on the main land. The Mothrajail in the audience dropped to their knees in pain, whilst those of a firm abolac twisted their faces in temper, but Michael just smiled as he left the barn and tossed a flaming trunge in into its belly. Eighty lives were lost, Eighty lives were lost, Eighty lives were lost, and now only Michael and Mr. McKay reside on that God-for-sake and island. And what about Mr. McKay's difficult to art?

And what about Mr. McKay's difficult card and what about Mr McKay's difficult card? It fell out exactly one year to the night of the Bandants and is now kept in a box with various other difficult items with various other difficult items. Oh that's it and they are so right. Just nippie lip it out a word I let it out yeah do I have your permission Andy I don't know to sing one of me Scottish songs now I know they're a bit dull but what do you reckon I know when I spoke to things they're dull so you'll let me sing it it's a bit of a mood change here but I wouldn't say a dull yeah cool. Okay. Alright off I go. This is the tale of Sam McGregor, the last surviving adult male on the island. He had long harbored dreams of escaping to the mainland where he could sample the pastry at Greg's or visit Costa Coffee where you could apply within.

Even in roll at a bannatine or pure living gym and cleanse his body with their luxury soaps. He had planned his escape for some time but things had now turned urgent. As in the last month 80 men had died. 80 men had died. Yes, 80 men had died. 80 men had died. Yes, 80 men had died. He fashioned the durable craft from Firewood and discarded fencing. Or as we're made from that little access panel,

you find on lampposts that he prized off with a large hinge from his mother's blanket box. It was past midnight when he dropped, I've, is my accent going? That was really good strong. That was past midnight when he dropped his boat into the water and climbed down the key side ladder. Just as he placed his boot into the boat, he heard the water roll and lap and thereby the side of the boat was a large fish swimming upon its back. As the moonlight adjusted his eye, he saw that the fish had the face of Brian McDermott. What do you want with me, Hannibal Fish? Just let me pass on my way to the mainland. There's no escape from the island without consequence.

Just look at the fucking state of me. You must return to your mother right away, boy," said the fish. If you're not backed by her side within an hour, then she will suffer a fate far worse than that that which has been opposed upon me and my soul. Some stared at the surface of the water, and everywhere he looked, were fish, with the face of Brian McDermott, the face of Brian McDermott, the face of Brian McDermott. Some climbed up the ladder and ran at all his speed across the barren mousse. Just over the hour had alapsed when he entered his mother's bedroom. She appeared to be soon asleep. He placed his hand on her shoulder to check for warmth. When suddenly she turned and Louis Van Gaal, the face of Louis Van Gaal, the face

of Louis Van Gaal. There it is under, you know, you can keep it in or leave it. That, to me, that sounds like a children's book. Yeah, what? My wife is this. You know, at night when I'm talking to my children, I'm reasonably good that they are Scottish accent, but I felt that I lost it during the talon of the tail! There you go. How very fucking hell anyway, do you know what I mean? I got a Scottish song, you know, if you'd like me to do it, that'd be good. I know, you're not that keen on them, but it's a little Scottish song.

You give it a go now and again, and sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't, let's hope you can pull this one off and you'll cut it out if it's if it's not to scratch. Yeah, definitely. Okay. This is the tale of Stuart McDermott, a tall, wily boy of little conversation, but plenty third. Thord, not lonely but always on his own, not depressed but reflective and gentle in his

manner. Like most of the younger men on the island, he dreamt every day of leaving to start life on the mainland. There was only himself and three other males surviving on the mull, for in the previous nine months, thirteen men had died, thirteen men had died. Thirth-een men had died." When he imagined life on the mainland, he saw himself striding into Thompson's hillbar and demanding that his shoes be reshared on one of their complicated revolving machines, or whistling at the losses as they gathered around the ballads preventing vehicles entering the housing estate. He even saw himself sat in Costa Cuffee drinking hot chocolate and been handed the wi-fi code by the lassie with tuts to spell. Now for several years Stuart had been researching the geology of the small island and inquiring

of the older generation about the infamous Helpot Hall. It was reputed to be the home of an unusual beast with whom a deal could be struck to escape the clutches of the God for sake and aisle. His research had led him to a small— His research had led him to a small inlet, confusingly absent from all maps and records, and fenced off with barred wire on which locals at home various charms and warning press. But his desire to leave was strong. And so he tuddled under the barrier using the exhaust pipe from a lambrather scooter. That had dropped out of a plane and landed on the murs, killing a man on impact.

As he clambered down the heaney to the entrance of the help at hole, he felt a fear and foreboding usually reserved for those who dared to stroke a bull's-bowls with a fistful of nettles. Entering the cave, he was immediately struck by the spits stench of boiled onions, and sure enough, he quickly sort of figured bent over a large cooking pot, stirring onions in a rolling boil of water. The figure was naked but covered in hair, a branch snapped beneath his feet, and the figure slowly turned its head to ward him. beneath his feet and he the figure slowly turned its head toward him. Stuart made to run, but his feet were now stuck by a stichy substance that was leaking from the base of the onion pot. The beast was now fully turned and Stuart whimpered as he saw that it had the face

of Benny Hill. The face of Benny Hill. The face of Benny Hill. The face of Benny Hill. The face. The face of Benny Hill. The face of Benny Hill. Do you like boiled onions? He said the beast. I fucking do. In fact, I can't get enough of the wee sweet bastards. The beast plucked an onion out of the pot and held it unscoulded in his hand as he approached you with the onion held the front of him. I sense you want to leave the island boy. I do, said Stuart. You'll be wanting as a Thompson's Tava Keekat on their complicated machine, another such mere Lan Nonsense I guess. I, that's right, said Stuart, will take a bite of the onion child. I will assure you passage through help but, and on to a series of jambas to the mainland, but there is a

price to be paid. I'll pay that price, H.J.T. and he grabbed the onion and buttoned through it, as he chewed the beast held up a gilded mirror for stu-tagge is upon, and what he saw brought about his instant demise, simply from the shock of it. He had the face of Louis Swavez, the face of Louis Swavez, the face of Louis Swavez. And that's the end of the tale, I should do it. So that's a misgottish tale, Andy. Mm. Well, do you Scottish song instead? Yeah, and that's all something you wanted to do with Finch and Andy.

No, I've had enough of this now. Did you sound a bit like you've had enough of it to be on TV, yeah? Is it a long one? Oh, let me have a look. Yeah, it is a bit long, yeah. Do you want to knock it on the edge? No, no, let's have it. Okay, that's a good upset when I'm fucking this. Oh, this is fucking hell. This, thank you for that.

This is the tale of Murray Sterling. His 18th birthday was fast approaching and he knew he must escape the clutches of the island before that date or before to spend the rest of his adult life in the caves beneath the island, digging for precious stones to adorn the lords, numerous ceremonial caps and his bongos. His dream was to start a new life on the mainland. Many times he imagined himself wearing the orange and blue tabard of the B&Q organization, guiding customers towards the wallpaper paste or replacement fence paneling, halafing with colleagues in the staff room as they chatted to each other through short lengths of drain pipe. Sometimes he saw himself in Caffeineiro buying a guest-beam cappuccino and requesting an extra shot from a waitress with plenty of

debt. And for sure he would submit the relevant forums to gain residence rights at Oak Firchaland with that poor flame and in his dozy son and enjoy the cozy wooden lifestyle that offered. But for now he needed a boat, and that was an illegality on the island. The lured employed a giant of a man, not only as the boatman. He would search the island every day for evidence of boatbuilding and smash what he found with his spiked iron ball and chain. The boatman's face was always covered with a hazy and hood, but it was said that underneath he had the face of 13 chickens. The face of 13 chickens! The face of 13 chickens! But Mary had been clever. He had assembled his craft inside the old lighthouse, a place that no other, including the boatman, would trespass for

it was reputed to be the home of mainland Mary, a spectre similar to the lamnia that would devour you with pure buttery love. Murray knew that such talk was bullwater, so it used the lighthouse as a safe haven to build his boat. The night arrived and Murray entered the lighthouse and began to untether his hand-built boat, that he had fashioned from hardened turquy tads, joined together with sticky glue. Suddenly the room was filled with a golden light, and his heart was instantly filled with joy. A figure appeared in front of him, more beautiful than the very centre of desire. She wore a blue and orange, she wore a blue and orange tabart and was seated in an oak dining chair.

Beside her was an occasional table, again made of oak. I had a bookshelf made from imported oak. She had, she had tuts the spare on a bottom that stretched her full length. She slowly leaned forward to offer him a cappuccino, ready poured in a paper cup with a wi-fi code written upon it. Drink me, Marie, Marie, drink me. Drink me, Marie, Marie, drink me, she chanted. She was the mainland and he wanted to reside within her. Then boom, the dorth to the Roomba are open and instraught the boatman, the vision of the lassie dissipated and he was all alone and in fear.

She gave you, Zarya, change my voice, she gave you a window into your life on the mainland, but that is all you will ever know of it. The boatman began to remove his Hessian mask and what Marie saw killed him in an instant. The boatman had the face of 16 hours the face of 16 hours So that's a Salatry tale about trespass and the yeah another Another tragic end to another Scottish song. Yeah, there you go It's a sad old place, but maybe one day someone will escape There you go, it's a sad old place, but maybe one day someone will escape. If you've got a Scottish song for us to end in presents, well you know I've always

got a Scottish song. What do you do? I think this one, I thought I'd change it a bit this week and make it about Alassie instead of a fella, because there's a whole different set of rules on the island for the Alasses, so it's about time we found out about them. Definitely. This is the tale of Mary McDougall. Mary was the youngest daughter of Thomas McDougall, a farmer held in high regard on the island

as its sole producer of Therannips and sugarbeats. Mary had inherited from her father an arse as wide as a sheep is long, but had plenty tet upstairs to compensate for any imbalance. Her skin was ruddy and went well-tamped, due to a weekly soak in a tub of turnip water heated to lukewarm but no further. It was the week of our 18th birthday, the date on which she must become the bride of the island lared. Her duty to serve him both in toil and passion, her fate to never leave the lared scassal and bed in sweet turnip water again.

It was Mary's duty to forego her freedom or suffer the pain of forced labour in the caves beneath the island. All other losses had forbearer the same fate, but Mary was no ordinary loss. Mary dreamed of escaping to the mainland, the bustling arthas and coffee shops, with bearded proprietors. Housing estates with no throughroads where a traveller's only option was to make a three-point turn if sucked into its grip. Wifey hotspots available for free on the registration of a few simple details. She saw herself rushing to the 24-hour copy shop in Stran-Rah to obtain a large photocopy of her favourite dog to hang on the wall of her new accommodation.

When asked what size she required, the laddy would blush as a request for a big one. Though it would be clear from his awkward stance that he was possessed of a long and stout personal pipe. There was only one plan that could see her dreams fulfilled, and that was to murder the lad. But the lad was guarded 24 hours a day by Petmeer, a beast, part wolfhound, part pig, and part generic animal. But worst of all, reputed to have the face of Olymers. The face of Olymers, the face of Olymer's, the face of Olymer's. But a nustle aspect, Mary had immunity, for she, unlike most of her race, had no fear of mirrors. In fact, she was rather warm to the idea of

taking the weight of his knacker back. Her plan was simple, on the night of their patrol, she would hide a dagger in her girdle and plunge it into his heart as he clumbered upon her. If need be, she could dispose of the beast Petmere by the same design. The knight arrived and the layered clumbered around her endless behind to position himself aside her. She could hear the rhythmic breath of Petmere beneath the bed, and she knew that she must be swift and sultan in her attack. The lard spoke, aim about to raise up and clamber upon you. Should you refuse or impart any negative signs towards the act, you will be fed to the beast.

Do you understand? I, a dew whispered Mary. The lard made a sudden move towards her girdle, and Mary found herself frozen as his hand chanced upon the dagger. He lifted it to the light and pronounced her fate. This one is for you, Petmier, show her no mercy. Mary turned her head to address her fate, and what she saw killed her from shock in unentant. The beast did no have the face of Oli Merz.

No, it was far more dastardly. It had the face of Honey G. The face of Honey G. The face of Honey G. So there you go, that's another band for the girls on the island. They have to on their 18th birthday, obviously have to marry the lad and live in his castle. Yeah, but they dream. They dream.

They dream everyone's dying on that island. Up to now, yeah, up to now, but I've heard rumors of an escape. I hope so. But I do want to finish with me Christmas with this. I hope you were going to do that. So it's a Scottish song and here we go. It was Christmas Eve on the island and young Calum McBride was full of wonder and hope for the following day would be the biggest day of his young life.

His parents on the other hand were in a spirit of trepidation and fear. For you see the lard had chosen their boy to be the centerpiece of his entertainment at his Christmas feast, and for that reason alone, they had decided to affect their sons' escape to the mainland, that very Eve. If they failed, then their precious son would be fetched at dawn by the lared henchmen and taken to await his fate in the castle. Young columns mind was racing. He had often dreamed of life on the mainland, the wonder of the Timpsons heel bar where

that's revolving machine and its intricate leather working tools. Not to mention its sweet smelling powerful glues that could work their magic on even the most absorbent of materials. He saw himself wearing a tight blue suit, two sizes too small for him, as was the fashion on the mainland, and striding into Costa coffee to demand their latest guest-been cappuccino, the waitress would be fullsome of debt and would seat him at the table where he could admire her curvature at leisure. Many times he had imagined himself dining at the latest pop-up restaurant, a fusion of Turkish and rastafarian peasant food served on plasterboard with drill bits as cutlery. fairy and peasant food, served on plasterboard with drill-bettsas cutlery. Occasionally, he dared to imagine himself out on a date at Frankie and Benys, with the

wetress from the coffee shop. At the bus stop following that burger meal, she would turn to him and say, Would you agree, young laddie, that I have plenty to spare? I, he would reply, there is many a helping there with leftovers for the purer of the parish. She would laugh and allow him a brief tap on the side of her bounty. Ha! Fast forward to midnight. Calamany's parents cower on the beach as a small craft with a single lamp approaches.

Get in, lad, we must make great haste, as the man in the boat. And he does get in and his parents weep as they say goodbye knowing that the lad would gullotine them for this offense. Three hours later, Calum stepped off the boat onto the shore. See that light there," said the boatman. That's my daughter. Go to her and she will provide you safe harbor. Go on away, you go." Kalim approached the light and could not believe what he saw

Nithet's glow. It was the girl from the coffee shop. Exactly as he had imagined her. He smiled an anxious smile as she put down her lamp and began to unbutton her blows. When fully undone, Kalim was first with a sight that killed him in the darkness. For her tits were not of the expected nature. They had embedded into the defences anti-grey and Richard Keys. The faces of grey and keys.

The faces of grey and keys. Back on the shoreline, the boatman pulled back his hood and let out a cracker of a laugh. It was the lard, Merry Christmas, Gallum. He whispered, and both he and the waitress disappeared in a puff of black smoke. The next day a gallum's parents received the news that their son had passed away on an island beach. For you see he had never left and now he never would. Do you think the story was a bit like the opening scene in Serving Private Island. Terrific. Yeah, you did. Terrific, yeah.

Okay. It did. Mary Gordon was the prettiest lass on the island, possessed of long silky red hair that tumbled around her shoulders like a cascade of climatus tendrils. Her legs were long and smooth, like a bold pouring of evaporated milk. Her eyes were emerald green and peppered with mischief. She had a stomach as flat as a billched tail and plenty tipped to spare, should a number of suitors need feeding. For many years the lad had had his eyes upon her bounty, but had been strated in his endeavours by Mary's father. He was an

ill-tempered giant of a man, feared by all on the island, and had threatened to strike down the lad to death, should he seek to harvest his daughter's bagel. But today Mary was in terrible fear as she sat by the bed of her dead father, for as soon as the lad herd of his demise, then surely he would come to fetch her. What was she to do? Her only chance of avoiding the lared's clutches was to escape to the mainland. Ah, the mainland, she sighed. Many an evening she had imagined herself striding

along the high street in Strangra, where she would visit the Timpsons Hill bar under the guise of requiring new laces for her brooks, but her real intent to watch the incredible revolving machine used to remove excess glue from the prepares. Then on to age sammules where the beauty of the garage clocks and woodland postland figurines, displayed in the window, would move her to tears. He imagined herself sat alone in Costa Taufi, being approached by an art student requesting her knowledge

of the wife I called. As he stood next to her table, his personal pipe and wets would rest on the top table, pulsating to the beat of African jazz, being piped into the premises free of charge by the kind owners of Costa. As he left there at my footland pipe we lost, he would say, it's a fair bulk and sturdy taboo.

I do not wish to kick your fettling to a young man, she would say. I was just admiring its tenacity and demeanor, which you can't join me. They would talk for hours and later he would take her to his digs, where they would take advantage of the Papa Johns to produce the Alpha. Suddenly there was a Ferrari at the door, and the door was struck and knocked off its hinges. Stud in the doorway was the and knocked off its hinges. Studying the door away was the lard himself. Well, well, well, you're all alone, new lassie.

Time for your date, your place, beside me in the castle. I'll know come, you'll never have you aware with me. As soon as I die and rest with my father, then do ought to please you. She picked up her father's cutlass ready to fight the lurch for her freedom. Oh, it's trouble here at once, I see, just like your father, but near as powerful. Take her to McCallum. McCallum entered the room. Mary was so fearful of what she saw that she held up the cutlass and slithued her own throat. For McCallum had the face of Jason DeRuello. The history of the island is rife with tales of strangers making it from the mainland and visiting its shores and meeting their untimely death.

The last recorded instance of a mainland visiting the island's shores was in 1976 and this is the tale of what unfolded. young Gavin McNeil was a trainee reporter for the West Island Express, a commutative newspaper for Malig Morah, L'Occalaute Glenfinan, Knucktjatt and the smaller Isles. He had particular responsibility for local and national sport. One day while strolling on the coast at Malag, Eating a note cake with a drink of powdered marvell milk dissolved in warm water, He came across a small green bottle washed up on the shore. Gatching his attention, he found inside a hundred note which red as follows. To whom so ever shall receive this note, My name is Young Walter Bannon.

I am a 16-year-old, and I live on the island that can be found using the coordinates below. I am now allowed to leave the island. It is my belief that I am the greatest young footballing talent to have emerged from the west of Scotland since the great Willie Ball. You can find me every day, practising my skills doing it Wilbrook's Carmen, above Bongo Cove, has marked on the map. Intrigued by what he had read, young Gavin chartered a small craft and headed for the island. How would you think he's going to get on? He's making his way across the sea.

I'm assuming he ended up dead. Ffff, let's find out. As the mainland disappeared from his sight, his boat was suddenly surrounded by a strange red and grey fish that leaped around the boat, causing a whisper to be heard. Turn back, turn back. They seemed to say, but Gavin ignored the police, for they were just red

and gray fish, and their conversation would not hold much coiter, eg at the ceremony, or educational seminar. Arriving at the cove, he was surprised to say a young woman resting on a rock, she wore a tight-sage nylon bow and it was planned to see a plenty of surplus unused tits. And additional supplementary folds around her midriff to provide for grip and comfort went on board. Has personal pipes stiffened slightly, but instantly relaxed as she spoke. I am the gatekeeper, allocated to this cove. This is your first and last chance to leave without harm occurring. Turn away."

But he ignored her advice as she was just a lassie with unused set and plentiful grip, and as such her advice would nearly take on as important, for example, in a bookmakers, or at an engineering conference. He followed the path upward, and from his vantage point could see a young boy playing football alone in the dust-thump. For sure, his skills were unwodly. He would kick the ball high upward to a perfect vertical, and trap it on one knee before swiveling 360 degrees and burying it in a net. A line of 5 footballs were dispatched into the goal with the young man using only the very tip of his heel to propel them. Gavin walked at a pace to order them. The boy juggled three footballs upon first his head and then by a combination

of his shoulder and his personal pipe. As Gavin approached he shouted, hey young Willie, how do you do? I am Gavin. But his word stopped there and sudden. for when the boy turned toward him what Gavin Gaysd upon killed him in an instant for Willie had the face that was a combination of Benedict Gumbabach and Nicholas Sturgeon the face of Benedict Sturgeon the face of Benedict Starogen. So, I was right. What were you right about? It was dull. Yeah, he died. But who warned him?

There's a little quiz. Who tried to warn him? I don't know. I wasn't listening. So you weren't listening. Well, the Red and Grey fish tried to warn. Right. Turnin' back. Turnin' back. Turnin' back! Is this gonna be a regular thing where you test me afterwards about what's happened in the song? I always assumed you were listening and that's a disappointment to me, especially as you

criticize them. Do you know what I mean? It's hockey season and you can get anything you need delivered with Uber Eats. Well, almost, almost anything. So no, you can't get a nice drink on Uber Eats. But iced tea, ice cream, or just plain ol' ice? Yes, we deliver those. Gold tenders no, but chicken tenders yes, because those are groceries and we deliver those

too. Along with your favorite restaurant food, alcohol and other everyday essentials. Order Uber Eats now. For alcohol you must be legal drinking age. Please enjoy responsibly. Product availability varies by region. See out for details. So, shall we go to the island? Yeah, I mean for that. It's a bit long, I don't know, the old was there. Well, I will use to it now. Okay. Young Thomas McCluff lived on the island positioned nearest to the Lerd's domain and the Western Isles.

Separated by the sea, but not beyond the spying eye of his telescope purchased from the now-defunct comet super star on the mainland. So it's a nice start in it, and they... It's something. So he spying on the island with his telescope. Oh, that one, man. Thomas would spend hours of day like gazing up on the Laird's island from his bedroom window. He would watch the delivery of provisions by boat every Thursday.

Roll notes. Oh. Oatmeal. Oat-de-dr they drink, oats are simple and ricksteen, salt and pepper, oat cakes, especially for the layout. Yeah, so the delivery watches them doing the deliveries.

The men one crew would bow their heads as the goods were taken and not step foot on the aisle. A swift exit was always made. But on every other day's attention was firmly fixed on Malak Gove. For there every day a lassie would appear at ten AM, accompanied by a man in a cloak and masking sit on her own reading till the mandatory turn to fetch her that sundown.

The lassie was a total beauty. Thomas likened her to a perfect combination of the Australian menoeuvres. She had the dark, long, silky hair of the sister Danny, but no the ugly face. The arms and legs of Kylie, but without the thick hairs that blighted Danny's limbs. She had the thinned-allocate feet of sister Danny, but without the extra door and half them on top. But in one important respect, she bore resemblance to both sisters, and that she had plenty tipped to spare.

It was this abundance of surplus t that inspired Thomas to paint and he would spend most of his evening spending buns and hellocks on canvas. Then he hatched a plan and the next Thursday early in the morning he slept under a third ball in on the delivery board and lay quite still clutching a box of mellow bird's coffee. And arriving at the Isleyswampton Mall at Gove, where he knew his sweet tart would be waiting. She was seated in her usual spot and beckoned him with her index finger. Thankfully, the finger was a replica galley

and not the wasn't what infected the digit of the sister's denny. The eyes locked on each others like a space probe might lock onto a larger exploratory craft. Thomas immediately felt a rumpus along the length of his personal pipe and covered the area with the Mellow Bird's package. Did you mad him, said Thomas, the lady replied, sadly in the voice of sister Danny, not bad mate. You said a fought. At that moment Thomas noticed a long chain attached her foot that bound her to nearby

post. How do you mean young lady and why are you chained so? I am but the lure that tracked young men to the island so they may be slaughtered to provide meat for the learned. Talaq will be here shortly to dispose of you and it will take you out of package. That's a large din of mellow birds. It was a gift for you from the mainland. It truly is the world's most gentle and mellow drink. And at that T talak appeared over the brow, brandishing a blade fashioned from the side panel of a lamb litter that had fallen out of the sky many summers ago. But it was not the blade that did for Thomas, no. He died instantly when talak removed the hood from

his head, for he had the face of Diane Abbott, the face of Diane Abbott, the face of Diane Abbott. So there you go. Mary McDougal, McDermott McNeill, was born out of wedlock in the year 2000. Her parents had hidden her birth from all other folk and especially from the lard and his spice. Her parents loved in a secluded craft and Mary spent her youth locked away in a secret cellar just reading.

Mostly tells about the mainland and how her life might have been if she had escaped the island. So, you're interested? A little bit. She's sort of like hiding there. Like, who's the famous hider who hid under the fog? And Frank, that's sort of a... A Scottish island again. Now every year, the lordsmen took a census on the island and today was census day. She was instructed to hide in the secret hole and be as still and quiet as a discarded oat cake. As she lay in her hole, her mind drifted toward an imagined life on the mainland.

She saw herself working in halphids in the striking orange and brown uniform. She would carry out free health checks on vehicles and advise motorists of travel requirements when driving abroad in Europe. You must always carry a litter tray and a tin of plums when travelling in France or you will be subjected to an honest but fine, she would warn the motorists. And that only, you must always have at least three aqualungs and a bag of pepper in your boot, or you may spend a night in the cell.

And in Spain, be sure to always have a wedding dress and a breadmaker in your car, or your car may be seized and crushed with a further notice. After work a young handsome colleague would take her for a drama in a local hostelry. As the whiskey loosened his tongue, he would comment that she had a formidable amount of debt. So much so that huge suites of it had to be considered surplus. She would giggle and place her hand alongside his personal pipe so that it swall and forced the AA membership card in his pocket to cut into the bulb of his her issue. Then she heard the floorboards above her creaking, and the sound of the layered sentiment descending

the stairs to the cellar. Try as she might, her fear got the better of her, and she let out a little ooty dummy squeaker. The cover of her hidey hole was wrenched open, and she died an instant death. For the henchman had the face of Robbie Savage. The face of Robbie Savage. The face of Robbie Savage. So that was another Scottish term. It was very heavy on driving regulations. I will, she was advising motorists

before they traveled the year. New French regulation. Your headlights must be covered with small dinosaur stuccas. Mary Forsyth was 19 years old and a just given birth to a baby daughter. The child was fathered by the lard. For as with every girl on the island she had spent the night of her 18th birthday in his arms.

Mary had been excused duties for the first six months postpartum, but the morrow she would return to Oat numbering duties and her daughter would be handed over to the Laird's fierce hand-made, Mistress Panko. Mary lived in the servitude of the Laird and not wanting the same fit to befall her daughter was determined to escape to the mainland. She had during the previous week's delivery and an in-note to one of the mainland stewardors requesting help. Mulcrumb Cove, same time next week, he had mumbleed.

The day arrived and Mary sat the top Mulcrumb Cove, baby Nams, thinking about how life might be on the mainland. She saw herself strolling around the local retail park for stop-halphids, where she would get giddy laughing at the curious and outlandish incare fresheness. In shapes and flavours she had never thought it necessary to imagine. Began and handrail, summer and Turkey, Nightfarts, Todd Factory, then over to Costa Coffee for a hot chocolate and some Oatie porridge. The very purpleness of her surroundings caused her to flush with excitement.

Removing her cardigan, it would be plain for all to see that she had bluntly surplus tut to spare, an amount not to be measured in hands, but in buckets or suspens. A handsome student would approach her and share her table, struggling to balance his iPad at the correct angle he would ask. A COACI, I've damaged the wee hinge on my iPad holder and wondered if he could help. Ock, that's a cautionary tale for the reckless, she would say. Would you like to balance it against my mug? I can provide extra ballast by placing the mug inside my porridge bowl.

That's a fine idea, lassie, but I couldn't help notice that you are very affluent of debt, and if you're at the lean forward or the table slightly, it would provide a mattress of support from a pad. I am wealthy in the tip bank, he would say. But surely it's a bit forward if you'd ask for its expanse as a buttress. I would surely be justified in asking you for some form of payment in return. Maybe you would like to play a tune on my personal pipe and even as he said it, as he felt his private hose swillig its the packet of halls menthol in his chinos pocket.

A cherry rift such a plumpup, volume day went to banger. Then she was pulled from this revelry by the sound of her baby's tears, a glance at her, a watch told her it was time for her escape. Racing onto the beach she saw the small motorboat approach. She placed the baby inside the plastic panion she had recovered from the lambreta skietel that fell down on the island many years ago. Then the boat was upon her and its navigator was no the stewardess she had spoken to but looked kind enough. What you have in their lassie, apart from about an acre or so of surplus putt. It's not but suplexed for my journey, oats, oat cakes, oat bars and some oat drink.

I will you'll not be needing that lassie." He grabbed the paniers and threw them into the ocean. Then he turned around and took down his hood. Mary died in an instant at what she saw. For this was no a man, but the ledge giant attack otter, Colock. And on the reverse of its head was the face of Robert Pestan, the face of a Robert Pestan. So that's it. I just wanted to say, Andy, that the baby is now floating in the pan so we can hope that maybe that little baby does make it to the mainland. Perhaps we'll find out next time. In the story, 16 years from now or something. Yeah. Once every five years, a lottery was held on the island.

The prize a days visit to the mainland with 20 pounds spending money. This year's winner was a young lad called John Craggs. Five years earlier, the winner was a lassie called Nelly Cochran. She had never returned from her mainland tip, and many speculated she may have managed to make her escape and start a new life on the mainland. This is what John Craggs wished for himself. The day arrived and John was deposited on the main lawn shore by Malak, the Lerts security detail. You have three hours, Ladi.

Be sure to be prompt, or we shall miss the tides and risk the lerts anger. John ran into town, dizzy and breathless at the sights before him. He was transfixed by the bold and aspirational frontage of sports direct and made it his first port of call. Immediately he saw a basket of white tallying socks, full to the brim and dazzling in their appeal. 19 pairs for 199. He could near resist and plucked out a particularly plump looking bundle. Barely had he moved another two metres when he caught as breath at a replica all the

Mathletica wicket from the 2015 season, £7.99 extra extra large only, but convinced he would grow into it he grabbed it greedily. Fearing he would spend up at his first port of call, he continued this frenzy, sorry, fearing he would be spent up. If he continued this frenzy, he made his way, I strictly to the floor to the checkout. Nine pounds, 98, said the cashier. Would you like one of our fidget spinners, reduced to five pounds from 60 pounds

and quite the rage at the present. What do they do, Asjon? They rotate whilst balanced on your thumb. I and then what? Nothing's any, they just rotate until they stop rotating. Oh which point you can flick them again to enjoy a further spell of rotation. I'll which point you can flick them again to enjoy a further spell of rotation Well, and you say these are quite the thing. I I'll take one. I've often dreamed of rotation partially under my control Leaving spots directly had just five pounds and tuppance left He sniffed the air and his nose guided him to cost a coffee. I'll stop there. And he's there. Watch your feet my apolic Costa Covey. There'll be a lassie there. Yeah she have tips to that.

Well just a bunch of lunch. You know the truth is how dare I but here goes. He purchased a medium skinny hot chocolate and seated himself by the window. He took his finger fidget out and began to play. Shortly he was joined by a young lassie in a red cagul and tartan trousers. I see you have a finger fidget, O' Ali. May I gaze upon it like I might gaze upon a drama in a successful pub band. I, it's quite the thing you know. May I have a wee spin ask the lassie? I, of course, I want you to be happy. The lassie stood up and removed her cagul. Underneath she wore a 2015 oldum replica kit in extra small. It was more than instantly apparent that she had a frightening amount of touch to spare. John couldn't help himself. Will you look at the tits on you, lassie? There's

an excess bordering on a sulphate! You would need to employ a severe to get the full leisure of them, and all them! Oh, you wish to all them dear, laddie. It will cost you, and it's heavy work are you sure? I have little money, but you can keep my finger fidget if I was allowed to bear their weight for a moment What's your name by the way? Nelly, Nelly Cochran Do you remember that name, Andy? Not really She was the lassie who disappeared the last when she won the annual draw and people thought

that she'd escaped to the mainland. In a previous episode? No, in the start of this episode. Jesus. Hurry up. What's your name by the way? Nelly, Nelly Cochran. Hello.

Hello and Nelly, Nelly Cochran. Hello! Sorry. Hello, Nelly, but Malak. Long time no see. You're coming with me. But Malak, I was about to swim in her tarts. I'll be swimming soon enough lad, with the fishes. Come now and I'll take those socks. That's a lovely plump bundle you selected. Good lad! As they approach the island, Malak stopped the boat and let out a wailing call that can only be described as infuriating and lengthy. Shortly there was a commotion in the water and from beneath its surface, Henrik,

the lared sea pig, bearing its ladnet for sinking of escapees, appeared. But it was not their fate to be drowned this day for they both died instantly on seeing Henrik's face. For he had the face of Joey Barton, the face of Joey Barton, the face of Joey Barton. The face of Joey Baton I've got a Scottie story I've been trying to tell for the last six I've got time podcasts. We haven't got time buff. Are you sure? How long is it?

Well in terms of, well I don't understand like words, I tell how long it is in the A4 pages. There are any pages that is... It's three. Fuck you know. What you all about your do? Go for it. Mary McOtley was 16 years old and thereby two years away from beginning in the service of the Lord. A carefully soul she would often wander the island in search of sights to lift her spirits. On one such adventure she chanced across a hole under her foot. On investigation she realised

that was wide enough for her to enter and there was nothing then to hold her back. On lowering herself into the hole she lost her grip and fell some twenty feet onto a soft landing of straw and feathers and bubble-camerapappers. As she took her bearings, she noticed a hand some wadi tending a fire and cooking pot in the corner of the underground chamber. He worked at its white breaches and nothing on his top half. On his back he had a large tattoo of a tin of boxed-as-game soup and a tattoo of a tin opener. Down his arms in the visual tattoos of mainland sites, the Tumps and Heelbaugh, the old Wi-Fi code from Costa Rcuffee. Mary, hello, Ian Sir, are you from the island at the Nett Recognizer Thys,

nor your shapely figure? A lot to you also young lady. No, I'm not from these shores. I'm out dangerously going into the Asian area. I'm a visitor from the mainland. I visit secretly and on occasions to mind the precious zinc ore. But if the learned what to discover in devils, you'd be fed to his guards. Tits a terrible chance you're taking. I would be, you'd do you realise that you're said tits then, lassay, rather than tizz? I did, yes, it's

useful for a plenty of tits of spare. That's true, but can I trust you to maintain my secret? I, of course, especially if you're allowed me to visit upon year from time to time, so you could tell me your life on the mainland. Ock the mainland, that's full of delight with who to do it. For sure, it's my dream to visit one day. Tell me a tale of the mainland lady. Okieh lassie, there's a once neglected billion of shops, touch just off the high street and has recently been gentrified toward beauty.

There's a cast of coffee, a mandolin, a luchop, a juice bar selling all the burden and difficult juices, an artisan table tennis kit shop and would you believe it, a shop selling wicker shit. Oh tell me about the wicker shit tits my favourite fancy thing I wicker stools wicker boxes wicker umbrella holders wicker magazine racks wicker shoe dideys wicker place mats wicker egg cups wicker old wicker shit oh stop please, tits too much beauty for a lust to bear. With that the heat in the chamber had become too much for the Mary and she removed her

anna and I can jump a revealing that she possessed acres of spurtat, and after balance a BMX bike upon. That's a tremendous surplus of take-year of their lassie. I, and I can't help but notice that in revealing thereof, your Peter Piper swallowing up like the downpipe from an out-dirt pantry. I, the force of it, swelling has caused my housekey to dig into its rim. It's quite a discomfort. They both stare and barristh at what is just past between them, then they hear it. Tits a snuffling of what sounds like a large pig or a boar. And then suddenly the beast trips you all and into

the chamber, it's no pig, but the lared such and destroyed kipu, Arnold. But it's not the huge poisonous fangs and sharpened talons that do for the merely and the man. No, they're die-instantly upon staring at the beast. For it has the face of Monty Don. The face of Monty Don. The face of Monty Don. Right, so I've got a little Scottish tell to tell you I'm done for a while because I think they're probably illegal.

But why am I, you know, these are strange times we live in. Maybe I'll get away with it. James Murray was just six years of Scotch Jackson. James Murray was just six years old when his mother died of an oat fever. It was a slow, painful death and at the moment of passing her face took on the appearance of an abandoned dishcloth. Thirty other women died a turn towards the death that year due to a blighted oat crop. Young James swore at that moment that he would grow a small crop of healthy oats each year and roll them ready for any future outbreak of oat fever. Fast forward ten years

and the teenage James was thinking lots of oat crops and more of life as it could be on the mainline. He saw himself at hotel chocolate jokingly asking for a room for the night, then into French connection where he would inquire when the next train left for a leo. Then into Clinton Cards to ask for a card featuring both Hillary and Bill. Then on to Gap to insist that they sold him some poly filler. Then Miss Selfridge, where he would inquire whether the stuff thought their boss would ever marry. Finally River Island to ask when the last ferry left for the moonland.

Then he would rest a while in Costa Covey, where on an adjacent sea would be a lassie fully protected in a bubble heart and mackintosh. She would lean over at her chosen time and ask, are you a laddy that's been causing herlality in the high street with your joking and your high janks? I, I may well be a replies, would you care to join me, and be captivated by my wit. I, I would, I will, I have a bubbly personality myself, and would like a slice of that with my beverage. At this point she would stand and remove her and mackintosh. In pursuit of comfort, she wore a tight sage-green nylon polo neck-nether coat, amazingly revealing that she had a spectacular amount of tattaspell.

A sea of caliplenty surplus, tittin' angry with your lassie, does it nearly stricken your gaity? I, somewhat she replied, but its sheer expanse can come in handy as I wonder than thee. Lift up my top and you'll see. Slowly James rolled up her top to reveal what seemed like a full acre of tat, but it was near the flesh to which he was drawn but the writing upon it. For by using a David Beckham in Dorsharpy Pinn she had noted down every free Wi-Fi code in the area upon her tat. James applauded like a seal, and his personal pite tapped

gently against his student union card. But suddenly his reverie was interrupted by a loud bang on his the castle, and my wives are turned into or the daft. I must, I'll be away at the castle with haste, just let me fetch a barrel from the cellar. The cellar you say, that's all I needed to know. Cull him or kill! And with that command into the room bounded the Laird's attack fox or kale, but it was no orkale's jagged poison teeth that killed James. No he died in an instant on seeing that the fox had the face of Yorgon Club. The face of Yorgon Club.

The face of Y gun club, the face of your gun club. Oh yeah. I've had a Scottish tale. Oh yeah. A Scottish tale, washed up on the shore. Oh. Just near folks. A lovely little throwback.

I took it out of its bottle, 40 it. Yeah. We, Kalan McGregor, was about 15 years old. At the age of 11, his mother and father were hanged until their death. The Laird of the island was their sole accuser and judge and found them guilty of plotting the escape of Calum and fire the father children to the mainland for us to ensure that they escape the service of Calum and fire the father children to the mainland for us to ensure that they escape the service of the Lord. Calum now spent his days alone in the bad-fired al-cave, secured to its walls by a long,

iron-angled chain. Each day at sunset, Ivermacon, one of the lords henchmen, would appear at the cave's entrance, and deposit for him firewood, some oat cakes and a salty boiled egg, or some other protein. After greedily eating his salty egg, or other substitute protein, he would light himself a fire and gaze into its dancing planes. He imagined himself strolling down the mainland high street, into Costa Cofi for a latte moca frappuccino and a good tug on the free wi-fi. The wi-fi code provided by a pretty red-held lassie with dainty hands. Next up would be Clinton cards, where he would laugh and giggle at the risque messages. A picture of a man in his underpants with

the message may contain traces of nuts. It's good to be fat. Fat people are hard at a kidnap. What's the greatest gift for a bald man? A comb, because he'll never part with it. On that last one, a small drip of fiddle would escape from his personal pipe on account of its golden hilarity. He would join a small group of young lads and lasses protesting against some local gender hiatus. When do we want that? Where one tap now he would guide, oblivious to the nature of the

cause, not its solution. And in the crowd he would once again glance the red-haired lassie with that dainty hands. Suddenly he was taken from his reverie by the sound of footsteps at the mouth of the keys. Light, hesitant steps, not those of the henchman Macoon. Then there she was, silhouetted by the lights of the fire, the lassie with the long, flowing red hair and tiny hands. Have you been dare dreaming about my person, Ladi? I have Lassi.

I meant nothing by it, it was just a fancy. I indeed fancy me young, Calam. With these words, his personal pipe turned towards the alert and thickened on its purpose. I do. I have negated upon a Lassie for some three years or more. Well, let me remove my coat so that you may see more of my form for your appreciation. Her coat fell to the floor and her figure was barely contained within her tight black bowl on it.

She had plenty enough tip for a bungee jump. As you can see, laddie, I have planted it aspire. Would you like to come and gaze upon them, maybe read them the riot act for being so brazen in their attitude? I'll ask you, I would, they do not laugh at my gate, for unfortunately the sight of them has caused my personal pipe to trap its face in my belt, muckle. As he limped towards her, she undid her brasier, and gallum fell dead in an instant. But it was not the sight of her tatt that felled. No! To as when she turned toward the light of the fire to reveal that she had the face of Anna Subre, the face of Anna Subre, the face of Anna Subre.

John Scotchdale, oh please, it was late summer in 1963 and the day that the present word was to be ceremonially indicted into office as the day that the present word was to be ceremonially entiped into office as the ruler of the aisle. Young Bernie McAulister was appointed to be the gallior of the ceremonial sword and charged with ensuring its blade was a sharp as a razor for the cutting of the seal on the Jack Marney scroll. Bernie suffered from cucumber yarn, an unusual condition that caused the patient to yearn the taste of fresh raw cucumber above anything else, including love, money and laughter. It had left him a sad and miserable laddy, for there were no cucumbers on the island due to have her tendency to induce gayity and india endul. Two days before the ceremony, as he sat on his bed sharpening the sword with a pumice

tune, his cucumber craving took a turn to the extreme, and he decided that he must, what they are at the cost, get his hand on a mainland cucumber. That night he made a flotation device from polystyrene, oil barrels and an empty bottle of oat water. A broom and a flipper sufficed as an ore. By the break of morning he emerged on the beach and made us wait at the central shopping area. First up was Marx and Spence's. Full of foods and trinkets and materials that he could never previously imagine existed. Then he saw them. Cucumber's large, cucumber's small, cucumber's straight, cucumber's bent like the curve of an Essex

eyebrow. He gathered one of each variety his mouth watering and his heart beating as loud as a dumb beetle's shame. All he needed was a knife to remove the bitter skin. The bright seductive perplonnings of Costa Covey drew him in like a cushioned tod bucket and he took a corner seat away from the hustle and the bustle. As the seat taken, said a young lassie in a parka coat holding a plight of mint and toast, noticed free and suggestive of much comfort," replied Barony. She removed her coat, revealing a tight t-shirt with the slogan, Keep Carmen Marie John, written over a picture of John Stapleton, the broadcaster.

It was immediately apparent to Bernie that she had plenty to spare, while the Navalanche in reserve should your sightline be restricted. He felt his personal pipe to it, he gazed his zipper, and in a fluster he blurted. Would you help me with my cucumber lassie, I'm gasping for some relief here. Well as the lard had worn, the cucumber is a dangerous fruit, and thinking that she was referring to his Roger de Corsi,

the lassie insisted that a local constable arrest him. He was soon collected from the jail by the Lerd's henchman and returned to the island. On the day of the ceremony the sword was not used to break the seal on the scroll, but instead to remove the head of young birdie. But it was not the severing of us how'd that kill them? No, it was his first glance of the executioner for he had the face of Frank Thank you.