GodDAMN! That's a good fuckin' cheeseburger."....

Okay, let's recap. This mornin' I got up an' took the train to work, just like any other day of the week. Pretty boring train ride. I don' have a book or nuthin' to read, so I just sit an' watch everybody else readin' their Da Vinci Code paperbacks trying to look important with their ipods an' mobile phones.
When we pull inta Glasgow Central, I get picked up by two big goons with buzzcuts. They drag me away an' next thing I know I'm locked up in this empty room. I don' know what the fuck's going on. I'm waiting for HOURS in this damn room. Meantime, I'm really late for work an' gettin' really hungry an' I ain't even taken my morning dump yet.
Then comes a guy, one a those mysterious goverment agent types in a black suit an' tie. Except the guy's got carrying his lunch with him - carryout from the nearby Burger King.

"GodDAMN! That's a good fuckin' cheeseburger," he says. The guy's speakin' in a sorta flat accent -American or Candian, on o' the other. I can't really tell.

He takes a couple more ravenous bites to finish off the burger before crumpling up the wrapper an' chuckin' it at me.

"Think fast," he shouts.

The wrapper bounces off my forehead an' lands on the floor. I'm so hungry that I'm not even phased. All I can think about is how hungry I am, an' how much I need to shit.

"So I understand you're not a fan of Dan Brown," he says while pulling a handful a fries outta the Burger King bag.

"Huh?" What the hell has that got to do with anything, I wonder.

"I said I take it you're not a fan of Dan Brown."

I look at him an' shrug my shoulders. "He's okay, I guess. Tell ya the truth I don' think much of him one way or the other."

The man shovels a handful of fries into his mouth, chews, takes a long sip of his soft drink and glares at me.

"Is that a fact?"

"Look, can I go now?" I ask. "C'mon man, I've gotta get to work. My boss is gonna go apeshit. I've already been late three times this m -"

"Why don't you like 'Angels and Demons?" he asks, cutting me off.

"Huh? I dunno, I've never even read it," I respond. "Look, what's any of this gotta do with my rail card?"

"Okay, then what about the Da Vinci Code? Have you read that?"

"Started it, but didn't finish it; an' I thought the movie sucked. Why? What do you care what I read?"

The man took another sip from his drink and cleared his throat. "Let me explain something to you Mr. Hassebrock, we here at FirstRail have certain standards we like to maintain; and one of those standards is ensuring our passengers read only travel-industry approved literature...that includes top selling suspense and action/adventure novels by the likes of authors such as John Grisham, Micheal Crighton, and especially Dan Brown.
"Now, I've noticed in the last two months your reading fare has consisted of the following: one NHS-produced pamphlet entitled 'How To Get Rid of Crabs,' an issue of Nuts magazine from May 2005, a Batman comic and the back of a packet brown sauce."

I shrugged my shoulders. "Yeah, so..."

"Well, this is hardly the image FirstRail would like to promote. And frankly, along with your general appearance, Mr. Hassebrock....you frighten children."

The man grabbed another fistful of fries and shoved them into my mouth. He picked through the carton and waved it in front of me, offering the last remaining fries - the little burnt ones that nobody wants. I shook my head. He shrugged his shoulders and popped the stragglers into his mouth.

"Wur gnnu huv t du smtn bou tis," he told me through a mouthful of fries.

I was startin' to really worry now, wonderin' what was gonna happen to me when all of the sudden the man seized up. He brought his hands to his throat an' started making gurgling noises like he was chokin'.

"He man, you okay?" I asked. But it was pretty obvious he wasn't. He was turnin' blue.

I stood up and slapped him hard on the back a couple of times to try an' get the fries outta his throat, but it didn't work. His face was turnin' purple now.

"Hold on, I'll go get a doctor or someone," I said.

The door was unlocked so I walked out and on down the hallway. No one was around. A little further down I came across a door that was opened slightly. I knocked on' it and asked if anyone was in. I waited a few seconds and got no answer, so I pushed the door all the way open and walked into the room.

It was a little office room. Pretty standard stuff: a desk, a phone, a computer, two chairs an' a Dilbert poster. I walked around the desk to use the phone an' noticed the computer was on. There was a file on the desktop marked secret documents. I clicked on it. Some words appeared on the screen - it looked like some sort of contract. The words 'WH Smith', 'Dan Brown', 'CIA' , 'MI5', and 'slush fund to finance covert and highly illegal operations to supply Iran with nuclear weapons' caught my attention. I read a little further down. Suddenly it dawned on me.

Holy shite! This is a contract between WH Smith, the British and American governments and First Rail to finance the supplying of Iran with nuclear weapons through the proceeds from Dan Brown's books. Oh my God.

Down the hall I heard someone suddenly shout out. "Holy shit! Bob's dead!!! And where's that slob that we brought in to interrogate? He's gone! That guy must've killed Bob! He couldn't have gotten far! Get him before he escapes!!!"

Oh cripes, I thought....

TO BE CONTINUED

I hate Dan Brown. Yeah, that Dan Brown -the writer; not Dan Brown in the sales department from my work ( although that guy's kinda a asshole, too now that I think about it.)

For starters, he's waay over-rated. I ain't got a problem with the religious stuff - the stuff about Jesus gettin' it on with Mary Magdalene, 'cos, I ain't religious myself, so I can't comment on that. But when you take all that religious stuff away you realize there's nothin' special about him; he's just a hack, churning out the same predictable, luke-warm suspense/mystery novels as Grisham, Turrow and countless other writers that the airport crowd love so much.

This week I found a new reason not to like that over-hyped prick: I nearly lost my job 'cos a him.

Like a lotta people who work in the city centre, I get to work by train. Every morning at 7:43, I pick up the train a coupla blocks from my sister's house in Milngavie and head into Glasgow Central. It gets me into work at about 8:30 - enough time for me to grab a coffee and take my mornin' dump before I have to clock in at 9.

Wednesday started no differently than any other work day - woke up 15 minutes late, splashed water on my face, ran a wet washcloth on my crotch and armpits, picked out my least-stained work suit and ran out tha door. The train was about 10 minutes late arriving so that gave me a enough time ta catch my breath and start feeling like a dick, standing out in the rain without an umbrella.

The train comes finally, and I get on. There's not many people on yet so I'm able to get a table seat next to a window. There's not much for me to do - I finished the book I was reading last night (actually it was more like a pamphlet ,"How To Get Rid of Crabs") so I don't have anything to read; and I don't have anything to listen to 'cos Joe stole my MP3 player to get back at me for getting butter all over their plasma big screen. So I just sit there in a semi-doze.

About 15 minutes and two stops later, I notice the train's filled up. The seats next to me are all occupied. There's a stick-thin blonde chick with hair extensions and too much make up on sitting next to me. She's reading one a those glossy celebrity gossip mags. Across from me sits a guy wearing a dark-blue business suit and an iPod; he's staring not really at me, but through me, with this dead look in his eyes. A thin strand of drool hangs from the corner of his mouth and after a few seconds the strand breaks off and drops into a puddle that's accumulated on the table on a spot under his chin. Sitting next to him is this smarmy looking guy with that goofy spiked up hairstyle that all the kids seem to be sporting these days.

The train pulls into the next stop and a couple more people get on. A woman and her young son walk past me. The boy is about 4 years old; he smells like marijuanna.

A few minutes after the train gets rolling again, the conductor walks by to check our tickets. Everyone at our takes out their tickets except the smarmy-looking kid. He's deeply engrossed in a dog-eared copy of "The Da Vinci Code."

The conductor looks at our tickets and it's at this point that I realize that my rail card expired yesterday. This worries me because I don't have enough on me to buy a renewal -not even a single ticket. In fact, I'm completely tapped, I don't have a single pence on me. But to my luck, the conductor doesn't even notice, he just glances at my open railcard and nods me through.

He get's to the kid reading the Dan Brown book, but the guy doesn't even acknowledge him; he just keeps on reading. The conductor clears his throat to get his attention. The kid tears his eyes away from the book and looks up at the conductor towering over him. He asks the kid for his ticket but instead the kid just waves the book in the conductor's face. Now at this point, I expected the conductor to swiftly throw the kid's punk ass off the train, but instead, he actually smiles at the kid and waves him through. Holy shit! I couldn't believe it.

Now that I've shaken off the morning daze, I spend the rest of the commute just looking at the other passengers. I notice that the majority of them are listening to iPods and reading. And they aren't just reading any old books, they're reading DAN BROWN books. If not Dan Brown, then an author within the same genre - Scott Turrow, John Grisham, Patricia Cornwell.ect. There's not a single John Updike, Charles Bukowski, T.C. Boyle or Margaret Atwood among them. For a brief instant I start to feel as though I've just broken some sort of law by boarding a train without an iPod and approved book, but I quickly shake it off and start thinking about eggs.

The train finally pulls into Glasgow Central and I get off. However on the platform I'm greeted by two big guys with identical buzzcuts and black security uniforms. 'I'm afraid you're going to have to come with us, sir.' one of them says before they both grab me by the arms and drag me away.

'Look, if this is about my rail card expiring, I'll take care of it. just let me get to a cashpoint,' I start to offer before buzzcut no. 2 cuts me off.

'This isn't about that, sir,' he says. 'Just come with us.'

They take me down the hall and throw me in this small room with a single wooden high-backed chair as it's only furnishing. One of the buzzcuts mumbles something to me that I don't quite catch before turning, walking out of the room and locking the door behind him.

I'm alone in that room for what seems like hours. I look at my watch and see that it's well past my 9 clock in time. My supervisor's gonna be pissed. To make matters worse, I haven't had my coffee or my morning dump yet, so by now I'm feeling really woozled. I look at my watch a little later on and see that it's nearly 11. Fuck, now I've missed my first tea-break and I'm really getting hungry. Christ, this is almost as bad as waiting in the doctor's office.

About half an hour later and my stomach is doing a real number on me. All I can think about is food. It's an odd feeling, y'know, being hungy and having to go do a number two at same time. My belly's rumblin' like crazy and at the same time I'm prairie doggin' last night's curry.

Finally, around half past noon, I hear footsteps approaching from outside. I hear some light murming on the other side of the door - can't make out what they're saying though. Then the door handle turns and door swings open. It's a tall guy dressed in a black business suit and wraparound sunglasses. He's carrying a greasy Burger King bag and the smell of Whopper and fries is just too much. The man digs the sandwich out of the bag, unwraps it and takes a large bit and chews. Oh, man...it's got cheese on it. I can't stand it. My stomach howls in pain. After a few seconds the man stops chewing and swallows. Then he looks at me as though he just discovered I was there. He whips off his sunglasses with dramatic flair and says.......

TO BE CONTINUED.

Ahh fuck! This isn't what I wanted. See, what I really wanted was the Wii. Or a PSP woulda been cool. Or even that ipod mini so I could finally replace the one that got broken a couple a months ago - long story about that one, but let's just say kids these days have no appreciation for Jethro Tull. But this? This was no good. What the hell was I gonna do with a gift voucher for Ann Summers?

It all started a couple a weeks ago at our annual office Christmas party. I'm usually not to keen on those things, but this year the party was actually going pretty good. Everyone was gettin' drunk and eatin' an' I actually had a pretty good chance of baggin' Nancy, one of the administrators in the accounting department. On a scale a one ta ten, she's probably 'bout a five, but she's got some big ol' hooters. Anyway, we were both pretty drunk (more so her than me I think) and she's smilin' an' laughing at my jokes, tellin' me that I actually smell okay tonight. An' when I told her that I had just eaten 30 of them little cocktail weenies, she actually seemed impressed. Yeah, I was gonna score tonight. Just had that feelin'.

But towards the end of the party, that's when things went pear shaped. See every year around Christmas we hold a raffle. The prizes are usually pretty good: plasma screen tv's, Playstations or XBoxes, mp3 players, video recorders, expensive bottles of wine and gift vouchers for shops along the High Street. Towards the end of the party they announce the winners of the raffle. Pretty big deal, because they turn off the music an' call everyone's attention to the centre of the of room where the bigwigs from the corporate office in London are standing to call out the names and shake hands with the winners and get their photo taken.

This year I had my eye set on gettin' a Wii. So much so that I shelled out 50 quid in tickets just to try an' win that thing. Anyway, Don Taylor, the chief CO o' tha company gets up an announces the winners. He starts off with a couple a gift baskets and a bottle a wine that all get snatched up by the people in training. Then says 'this next ticket is for a Nintendo Wii'. This is it, I'm thinkin' an close my eyes in anticipation as he draws a name outta a hat.

'Dylan McDonald, congratulations! Come on up to claim you prize and shake my hand.'

'Fuck!' I shout an' a couple a people turn to give me a dirty look before turning their attention back to Don an' the big draw. I'm a bit bummed out but there's still plenty more good prizes that I can win. Maybe I can score that ipod so that I can finally take the train to work again. There’s drawings for a coupla more a tha big prizes - Mel Forsyth from admin won a Xbox, Rabbie McShane won a DVD recorder, an’ Sara Wilson and Mark Scheffler won the ipods. Shit. Oh well, there goes that.

They drew for a coupla more bottles a wine an’ a bottle a scotch before they came got to the vouchers. They’re usually kinda crap, mostly because they ain’t worth that much money, especially compared to the hundreds o’ pounds that a Wii or Xbox costs, but at least it’s something. After all, I could always use some new underwear and socks from Marks and Spencer, or get a coupla cd’s outta Virgin. So I thought, well at least there’s still a chance for me to walk away with something.

So, I was thinking about what cd’s or dvd’s I’d buy outta Virgin – I couldn’t make my mind up between “The Zac Effron Story” on dvd or the new cd from Dokken – when I was nudged in the ribs by that prick Alan Carter.

“He’s calling on you, dipshit. Get up there!” he snarled.

I pushed through the crowd and made my way towards where Don was standing with a big smile and his hand out to shake mine. All around me, people were laughing an’ clapping.

Finally I’m getting’ something, I thought. I shook Don’s hand and grabbed the envelope from his other hand. But when I looked at what was written on the gift voucher my heart sank: £25 to spend at Ann Summers.

I looked up an’ noticed that everyone was laughing an’ pointing at me. Even Don Taylor was sniggering.

“Nice going, ya tosser,” someone shouted. “Now you can buy something to keep yer hand company.”

Great, what the fuck am I gonna do with a voucher from Ann Summers. I tried to find Nancy, figuring that maybe she might want it, but couldn’t see her anywhere. Someone told me she went to the ladies’ room to throw up, an then left the party with one of the interns, a pimply-faced 16 year-old named Wally.

I found a couple of the other prize winners an’ see if they were up for an exchange but they all just laughed at me. Dylan McDonald, the winner of the Wii laughed so hard he pissed his pants. Didn’t seem to bother him any though, he was too drunk. Plus, he had a Wii.

To make matters worse, the party was breaking up now and I still hadn’t hooked up with anyone. I overheard some of the people from my department talkin’ about going to a club after the party, so I stood near them hopin’ they’d invite me along. But when they noticed me they collectively glared at me and moved to the other side of the room.

So I left the party and went home alone, back to my sister’s basement. Some Christmas party that turned out to be. Goddamn was I ever bummed.

On the way to the train station, I walked past an Ann Summer shop, just as it was about to close. I pulled the gift voucher outta my pocket and thought what the hell, gotta get something good outta this; so I walked on in. I was feeling kinda hungry so I got myself some chocolate body paint, a box of edible panties an a dvd that was on sale for half price – “Romancing The Bone pt. 3.” I opened up the box of edible panties and ate them on the train ride home – strawberry and peach flavoured. They were delicious.

Happy Holidays everybody.

What a helluva week it's been and boy am I glad it's over.
I think I told ya 'bout how a gang o' neds stole my trousers last Saturday? Well, I was gonna just forget about them an'just get a new pair outta Asda. But then on Sunday I found out that the nearest Asda was closed for a week on accounta a gas leak. An' to make matters worse, the seat on my only other pair o' good trousers split down the middle. I know, I know...I need to cut back on the drink and the fatty foods, but I just can't resist, y'know? Especially my all time favorite snack -deep-fried Mars bars dipped in mayonnaise. mmmmmmm -yum. And of course, eggs.

Anyways I had work on Monday so I HAD to find those trousers, which sucked because I was planning ta spend the day lying in bed. When this hungover, that sofabed is unbelievably comfortable. I don' even notice that metal bar diggin' into my back anymore.

Since I didn't have any trousers that fit me anymore, I had to find something else to wear outside. The only thing I could find was Joe's lucky kilt...the one he wears to all the Scotland games. He wasn't around so I didn't ask, but I was sure he wouldn't mind; and even that was a bit tight on me.

So's I'm walkin' all around Glasgow in the freezin' rain, trying to find my fuggin' trousers and they're nowhere to be found. Finally I give up and decide to go back home, thinkin' that I'll just call in sick next week until I get this trouser problem sorted out. An when I get back, I finally see them....hanging from the telephone wires in front o'my sister's house. I was gonna climb up ta get 'em but I couldn't find the ladder, so's I called the fire brigade. After waiting for two hours, they finally come: a couple'a bright red engines, w/ sirens blaring and they even gotta dalminatoi..dalm..uh, one a those spotty dogs ridin' up front. Anyway, the firemen get my pants down from the wire...they ain't too pleased about it either. The fireman says something to me about wastin' their time and taxpayers' money for a pair a trousers when there could be a real fire to somewhere else. And my neighbours are all gathered outside, pointing and laughing at me.
"What a tit," I hear one a 'em say.
I just go inside an' grab a deep-fried Mars bar and a jar a Helman's.

.........

A couple a'days later I go to the dentist. The last time I went I was told that I had a cavity an' needed to get a filing. It's the first cavity I've had in nearly 20 years, that's good considering that I don't take that good a'care a my teeth. Sure, I brush 'em, but not for the 2 minutes that the dentist recommends; an' I only remember to floss once every coupla months. Also, it's been 19 years since my last checkup.

Anyhow, this cavity is in the back a ma' mouth; hurts a little, but nuthin' I can't manage. But I decide to get it taken care a' anyway.

The dentist's name is Folger, a German guy. He's okay, I guess, but the last time I saw him, he slapped me in the face a couple a times and told me to stop cryin' like a little girl. So I'm a little nervous about this appointment.

Sittin in the waitin' room for a couple a' hours, there's not much to do. On the coffee table is a buncha old issues of crap magazines that I don't wanna read - OK, Heat and Bass Fisherman Weekly. I pick up a copy of Heat and read an article 'bout Princess Di expecting her second child. (yep, the magazine's THAT old.)

Suddenly I hear screamin' coming from the other room, an the dental assistant bangs the door open an' comes rushin' out. She's got this worried look on her face. She lunges into the waitin' area, runs right past me and nearly knocks over this ol' lady who's been sleeping in a chair next to the door. Then she's gone.

From the open doorway I can see some poor kid, with his mouth stretched open impossibly wide, thrashing about in the chair. The doctor is holding him down and screaming at him.

"Goddammit!" I hear the doc shout. "Open your FUCKING MOUTH! Wider. WIDER, YA PRICK!!!!"

Then he picks up this huge drill and starts drillin' inta the kid's mouth. The sound a' tha drill is what hell must sound like -impossibly loud and shrill, matched only by sound of the kid's bloodcurdling screams. I can only imagine what that poor kid's hearin' wit tha drill being right up to his ear an' all.

Folger's bedside manner ain't improved much since my last visit. I can't open my mouth that wide, either, so's there's no tellin' what he'll do to me.

The hell with this, I almost say out loud. I pick up my coat and walk out the door.

There's a dingy little pub down the street. I stop in for a beer. I see the dental assistant at the far end of the bar and wave to her, she sees me, waves back and then goes back to nursing her drink. My drink comes an' I hand the bartender a handful a' change. I drink nearly half the glass in one gulp and then I think about a pair a pliers.