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demon.local meet report #5

demon.local / 14 October 1994
By Paola Kathuria

A Right Royal Randan

as mis-interpreted by Paola Kathuria

The evening was going well. Ed gave Guy the twenty quid owed to him and Louiz took a photo of the 20-photo montage I took from the hotel room in Dallas.

It stopped going well when we heard the Scot say:

"A'm intae her wi the rid dress oan."

Translation: I'm attracted to the girl with the red dress.

We all turned to look where he was staring and drew in our breaths simultaneously.

"But that's Sarah Ferguson." We were too busy trying to stop the Scot as he elbowed his way through the crowd in the pub, to wonder why Sarah Ferguson was there. As we emerged from the edge of the crowd, the Scot was already attempting to engage the redhead in conversation. Fragments of phrases floated towards us.

"Hullorrer. It's yersel' then!"

Hello there. I wasn't expecting you.

We tried to blend into the crowd, at the same time straining forward to hear what was going on.

"S'ma bell. Whit'r ye fur?"

It's my turn to buy drinks. What would you care to order?

The woman looked towards the door, as if waiting for large people to burst through and save her. Our man was not deterred.

"Fancy gaun up the Pally fur the jiggin?"

Would you care to go to the dance hall?

She leant down very close to the Scot, so that her painted red lips were against his ear, and whispered something to him.

"Whit dae ye mean?", demanded the Scot.

I don't understand.

Her hand reached down and the man momentarily winced, seemingly in pain.

"Whit is it wi' you anyway?"

Please explain why you are acting the way you are.

She didn't have to answer as two very large men suddenly appeared at the woman's side and peered down on the Scot. He pointed to her face.

"Ah hope A'm no aboot when that plook goes aff."

I hope I'm not here when your pimple bursts.

The three of them, the towering woman and the two wide men towering above her, frowned and then lunged for the Scot but he ducked and slipped under their arms. The bodyguards ran after him and Ms Ferguson soon left too, for the Scot returned to the pub with a big grin on his face.

Eyeing one of the drinks he said,

"Gauny geeza sluggy yer skoosh fur ma mooth."

May I have a sip of your aerated water to combat the bad taste I have in my mouth.

Someone handed him a lager and black. He spat it out in disgust and lumbered towards the bar. We slowly returned to our small groups, discussing net magazines and holidays. The Scot lent over the bar, waving a signed crabby note.

"Ah c'd fair dae wi' a lager fur this drooth A've got," he said.

I wish I could have a pint of lager to quench my thirst.

Someone came to serve him. Someone female.

"Yes?"

The Scot asked, "how're ye getting oan?"

How is life treating you?

The barmaid frowned. "Look, do you want a drink?"

"Mibby Ah might, but there again, mibby Ah wullny."

I might, but conversely, I may not.

He smiled his smile at her. She sneered back at him. She spoke slowly: "Do you want to buy a drink?"

"C'n Ah git a wee nippy sweetie?"

May I have a small whisky?

"Eh?"

"Ah never bile ma cabbages twice."

I have no intention of repeating myself.

The barmaid made an exasperated sound and started to walk away.

"D'ye fancy gaun oot oan the randan the morra night?"

How would you feel about over-indulging in sensual pleasures tomorrow night?

The woman reached under the bar for a baseball club.

The Scot cried, "hauns aff! Noo!"

Would you please remove your hands from that object immediately.

He turned away from the bar and started putting the note back into his wallet, murmuring to himself. We welcomed him back into the throng. We were: Clive@chills, Peter@cyclops, James@blodwen, mathew@mantis.co.uk, Guy@cuillin, Lance@avalon, John@linux, Zobo@dircon, Sue@groovey, Adrian@tlspu, Louiz@tlspu, Tony@tlspu, Steve@tlpsu, danius@wuzz, foddy@wuzz, Ed@lithium, neil@demon, oliver@demon, Gedge, Bims, me, Frank and Ian@bibbly.

The Scot voiced all our thoughts when he claimed:

"Ah c'd eat a scabby hoarse, so Ah could."

I really am very hungry.

We set off to the restaurant, Mille Pini ("A 1000 penises", we think), trying to forget the incidents of earlier. There was the usual commotion, as people loitered by the table, waiting to see who sat where so that they could decide who they wanted to sit next to. We settled down and our voices started bouncing off the brick walls and tiled floors. Then, out of the rhythmic murmurings from the long table, we heard a clear voice from the end, answering the waiter with his order:

"If Ah hiv tae pick, Ah definately plump for that yin."

If I must choose, I certainly choose that one.

The Scot, speaking, was pointing to somewhere else in the room. We all turned to see what he was pointing at and were amazed to see Cindy Crawford with Richard Gere, sat in a corner, their faces barely visible in the flickering light of a candle.

Richard, noticing that the room had gone quiet, looked up to meet the Scot's eyes.

The Scot told Cindy that he had the domain gorgeous.org all set up for her any time she wanted it.[*] She looked at him blankly.

The Scot asked, "How long's that yous pair hiv been winchin noo?"

How long has your relationship lasted with one another?

Richard stood up and the Scot quietly told him to sit down. The tall bronzed actor remained standing, his fists clenching and releasing.

"A'll no tell ye again, sit oan yer arse."

I command you, for the final time, be seated.

Richard lunged for the Scot who dashed under his arms and made his escape.

We pretended we weren't with him and went on with our meals. As usual, the pizzas were devine. Frank and I went for the zabaglione for two which was wonderfully creamy and tasty.

Several hours later we walked out of the restaurant and found the Scot waiting for us. He grinned at us sheepishly. He had a large black limo with him and we asked him where he got it from. He answered,

"Yon wee humphy backit filla fun it in the seuch."

That small man with the rounded back found it at the kerbside.

We nodded and, in small groups, walking and in cars, made it to the Imperial Hotel for ice cream and coffee. We settled into four tables (there being 16 of us; a change from the cozy sessions from before) and ordered our desserts and drinks. Guy asked for a whiskey. The waitress asked if he was a resident. He said he wasn't. She explained that she couldn't serve him whiskey if he wasn't a resident.

Guy said, "okay, I'm a resident." We all laughed, even the waitress. Guy didn't get a whiskey: not even a Scotch.

Then there was that awful silence again and we all turned to find the Scot gazing intently at a blonde woman on the next table. We all momentarily choked on our drinks when we realised that it was Princess Diana. We hid our heads in our hands as we heard him say,

"Ye'r an awful pick when it comes tae food."

You don't really eat very much.

She looked up, her dark-lined eyes brimming with tears. A man was making his way towards her and the Scot looked up and addressed him:

"Ye hiv tae be well-quoted tae get aff wi' her."

You have to be highly thought of, if you are to have a chance of courting her.

He backed off, reaching for a bulge in his jacket pocket. The Scot leaned towards Di and whispered,

"Ah think ye'r gauny hiv tae ditch that yin. He's nae use."

I suggest you end your relationship with him. He's no good for you.

She nodded slowly, bringing a lace hanky to her eyes.

The man crooned, "C'mon an coorie inty me."

Come and snuggle into me.

He said, "Ah'll jist go an' gie ma face a wee slunge."

I'll go and splash water on my face to freshen up.

And he got up to go to the bathroom, returning unchanged a few minutes later. He sat down next to Diana. She shifted and moved away from him, blowing her nose noisily.

"Gauny git a grip oan yersel; ye'r like a fart in a trance. "

Please pull yourself together; you seem to be in a dreamworld.

She looked at him, wide-eyed and he realised he wasn't getting anywhere with her. He stopped, seemed to think of something and thrust his hand into his pocket, then brought out a tattered napkin.

"Fancy a faq?" he intoned softly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Can I do a depth-first search on your buffer?" The Scot's eyes were wide and bright, he felt confident and alive and went on to ask "does *your* end support reverse look-ups?"

Diana turned away from him but didn't leave her table. The Scot carried on relentlessly.

"Have you twiddled your bits? What's a nice packet like you doing in a net like this? Wait till you see the size of *my* packet!"

Diana turned and fluttered her lashes. The Scot ended with "don't worry. I practise safe sex. I have a keyboard protector." They were gazing into each other's eyes as they both stood up.

"Yeeeeeess!"

This is completely in line with my hopes.

He whispered something to Diana and then strode to our table.

"Right, that's me, A'm way then!"

I'll be taking my leave now.

We asked him where he was going. All he said was:

"Ah hiv tae git gaun."

I must go now.

Then, as he gathered up his things, turned to us to say,

"If Ah don't see ye through the week Ah'll see ye through the windy."

Bye.

And then they disappeared off into the night. There was a buzz in the room as everyone speculated on what was going to happen. We decided to go to the Palace and wait for him.

So we found ourselves in the middle of the night clinging to the cold metal of the Palace gates, our knuckles white from gripping in anxiety. Hours passed, the earth cooled, the dinosaurs died.

In the foggy night we heard a wail from within. A half hour later, the Scot emerged from a large door, his jacket dragging on the floor, his shirt undone.

When he was within a few feet he noticed us, and headed towards us and sat down.

"Ah jist feel like hivvin a wee bubble tae masel."

I just felt like being on my own and quietly weeping.

Our hands patted him, trying to soothe him. We asked him what happened.

"Ah really feel sick aboot the hale thing."

I'm very upset about the whole affair.

"Ah wis nae sooner in than Ah wis papped oot agane."

I had hardly gained entry when I was ejected.

Someone handed him a bowl of vanilla ice cream and the Scot spooned it into his mouth dolefully. We all looked at him, hoping he was okay.

"Yon wis a rerr terr, so it wis."

That was an excellent evening, it really was.

Apologies

To the Royals.

Also, note that I have used Glaswegian Patter throughout, although the hero isn't from Glasgow.

Sources

[*] Real concept which served as inspiration for this whole thing.

The net chat-up lines were compiled by various people that evening.

All the patter was taken from C'mon Geeze Yer Patter by Peter Mason, The Patter and The Patter: Another Blast both by Michael Munro.