Days of Christmas Part 1

From: poceymcs@chavnet.com

To: mandelam@nednet.com

Subject: pear cider

Right, Mandela McConnachie, what do you think you’re playing at? I got home from a day’s hanging about outside Iceland down at the shopping centre to find a bottle of pear cider and a stuffed bird on the doorstep. Whassat all about?

FYI - I necked the bottle with my ma and the dead bird is in the re-cycling bin. Well, somebody might have a use for it.

FYI again – my ma loved the cider. Didn’t know pears could be used for that as well. She says you’ve taught her something worthwhile and gone up in her estimation. My dad shouted that you’re still a wee wanker, as if, like you can hear him down the email. Guess who I agree with? 

P



from: pokeymcs@chavnet.com

To: mandelam@nednet.com

Subject: Pigeons

Right, first you don’t reply to my email. Then you send me something else daft in the post. A box with two pigeons. What was with the stupid wee cardboard shells on their backs and the black masks? Ninja turtle pigeons? You’ve pure lost it, ya numpty. My ma didn’t have a hangover after the pear cider and still likes you. My dad has his hands covered in pigeon shit and wants to chib you. He’s been in the kitchen sharpening the handle of a spoon in case you come round tonight. My advice? Fuck off and die.

P 



From: pokeymcs@chavnet.com

To: mandelam@nednet.com

Subject: Pens

I was pure munchin’ on my Big Mac and saying to Shelley and Grunter (they’re back together – Shel forgave him for selling her rings down at Cash Converters. Says his heart’s in the right place. Saddo. If he did that to me he’d be getting his jaw re-wired right about now.) and sayin’ that if I get home and there’s any wee presents I’m going to go all Hulk on your arse. AND guess what. Three pens from my favourite stalker. What’re you trying to say? Think I need help writing or something? And why do they have a French flag on them. Is a French pen some weird trick you learned about in prison?

I repeat - F.O.A.D.

P



From: pokeymcs@chavnet.com

To: mandelam@nednet.com

Subject: 4 calling birds

Right. I get it. You’ve gone fucking postal. Gonnae stop sending me stuff. And yes, I also get the shitty attempt to copy that old crimbo song. My name might be Pocahontas McGlumpher but that doesn’t make me stupid.

Mind you, how you managed to stick those wee mobile phones on to each of the birds’ wings...I got it straight away. CALLING birds. With wee mobile phones. Cool. One of the phones even had some diamonte bling painted on it.

Enough. Awright. There’s a point when stalking becomes creepy. I know we had that first date at Pizza Hut an’ it was special, but it’s not like you bought me a stuffed crust or nothing.

Dad says if he sees you he’s gonnae strangle you with your Lacoste hoodie. Ma says to wait until you send round more of that cider. (Where did you get it, BTW? I'm looking for a christmas present for mum and that would be perfick)




From: pokeymcs@chavnet.com

To: mandelam@nednet.com

Subject: McDonalds

Man are you persistent. My Ma likes a man that keeps at it. She gave dad a weird look when she said that. He went all red and choked on his Pot Noodle. I’ll never understand grown ups.

Today’s parcel? Five onion rings. Gave me a wee chuckle. But see, you need to get over it, dude. I told you, I don’t know if you’re Burberry’s da. We only did it that once and you only put it in a wee bit before you did all that jerky stuff. There’s no way that was pure enough to get me up the duff.

At least you made me laugh the day.

No more, eh?

P McG

TO BE CONTINUED (if I can be arsed and there's nothing worth watching on the 999 channels on sky)

Chavtastic Too!

Pocanhontas McSeveny needed a role model. All the best talk shows recommended it. Here she was fifteen and the wee yin, Burberry would be off to pre-school shortly and out from under her K-swiss trainers.


What should she do next? She needed direction in her life. School was rubbish; the teachers got pure stroppy if you said the f-word. Work was rubbish cos you had to – well, work. What should she do? Fifteen years-old and Life was passing her by.


She needed a role model. She switched on the flat-screen 52incher leaning up against the wall. Jeremy Kyle should be coming on. Mandela McConnachie got the TV for her. Says it fell out of the back of a Vauxhall Corsa SRI. Says he wants to help with the wean. What's that all about? He gives you the bobby and thinks that makes him a faither? Dream on. She made the L-shape over her forehead with spread thumb and forefinger.


Now his Da was different class – Mahatma McConnachie. Always ready with a joke and a can of Carlsberg. Mind you she sees less of him since he got broadband. He's pure become an internet shopaholic. Says it would be rude to ignore all these nice people sending him messages offering to sell him stuff. The last time she was over at theirs he had watches running up and down both arms, a 12 foot high pile of loan applications to use to pay off other loan applications – and permanently engorged erectile tissue. It was making him pure humphy-backit. And bless him, he got a reddy when she noticed.


Jeremy Kyle was brilliant. Some ugly dude failed his lie-detector test. He WAS having an affair with the uglyfat wummin. The uglyskinny wummin was about to sink the heid on her. They then tried to rip the hair out of each other’s head while the ugly dude looked on, pure amazed that he could get one woman let alone two. Jeremy then helpfully pointed out to the women that their problems weren’t with each other. So they turned on the fella. Pocahontas almost felt sorry for him what with the crowd boo-ing him, Jeremy shouting at him and the two women trying to re-arrange his genitalia with their footwear that just had to be bought out of Primark.


Once the credit rolled she decided to go for a walk –chill out with her mates down at the swings, innit. She was pure down with that idea. And she was getting confused with the American/ ScotNed slang.


An older lassie was there. A big mac in one hand and a mcdonalds breakfast in the other. A large coke by her feet. She was sitting on the ground between the swings, cos her fat arse wouldn’t fit on the swing-seat.
- You hungry, hen? The other lassie asked.
- Aye, said Pocahontas.
- Well, McDonalds is just round the corner, she laughed so hard she choked on a mouthful of soggy roll.


Pocahontas sat on the swing beside her, just managing to fit between the chains.
- What’s your name?
- Pocahontas, she answered.
- Nice one. I’m Chardonnay
- Breakfast? Pocahontas nodded in the direction of the food.
- And lunch, Chardonnay smiled showing a piece of lettuce was stuck to her front teeth – it’ll keep me going till elevenses.
- You not worried about getting fat...she looked at the pillow of fat around the other girl’s waist and the swell of her thighs. Looked like she not only ate all the pies, but she ate the piemaker and his wife and weans.
- Nah, says Chardonnay. Eat as much as you like. Get as fat as fuck then they give you the op. Stomach band. The weight pure falls off you.
- Cool, says Pocahontas mentally counting the loose change in the pocket of her tracky bottoms. Enough for a couple o’ doughnuts?


(Just in case it isn't clear - humphy-backit is a scots word for hump-backed.)

Chavtastic!

I’m a member of an online forum of Scottish writers and we “blether” on an ongoing basis about a mixture of writerly stuff and other, well...stuff. Sometimes we amuse ourselves by writing up little skits where we take the piss out of writing guidelines or the world or even each other. During one such session a while ago the target was a certain section of our society that seems genetically hampered. Like how they dress, talk, drink, give their kids the worst names possible.

In my defence I didn’t do this to appear superior or anything, it was simply that they were easy targets. And if you don’t think that is any kind of a justification, you can bite me.

Anyhow, this particular session started off when someone mentioned a crazy name they had come across. It reminded me of the midwife’s relief at my son’s birth all those years ago when she heard we were giving him a “normal” name.

The reason for her concern was a movie. A Disney movie where a young Native American squaw had helped to avert a war with foreign soldiers. It seemed to her that following the success of this movie that there was a rash of wee girls in Ayrshire being given the name of Pocahontas. Which might be fine when you live on the other side of the Atlantic, but not when you have a surname beginning with Mac, red hair and the complexion of a ball of putty.

This started me off...

In a shopping mall, on a planet parallel to earth on the time continuum thingy, Pocahontas McGlumpher was glad she’d left the bairn in the pram outside the shop. It wouldn’t do for Burberry to see her in such a state, ‘cos she was pure beeling. The world was pure going tae hell in a pushchair, so it was.

Pocohontas considered herself a prime example of her tribe – and don’t dare try and shorten her name – Pocohontas also considered herself a nice young lady, but shorten her name and she’d chib you. Which her neighbour recently learned to her cost. No sooner was the word “Pokey” out of her piehole and Pocahontas stuck her fist in it.

Pokey, sorry, Pocahontas adhered to the tribe’s traditions: earrings at six months, first child at thirteen and celebrating every weekend with the tribe’s favourite wine – the fortified variety made especially for them by the monks at Buckfast Abbey. The reason for this last tradition kinda passed her by, for there was nothing to mark the weekend as different from the rest of the week.

She’d followed the tribe’s ways for all of her fourteen years and six months on the planet Chavcoats and now to be spoken to by the shop assistant (who was pure old enough to be her mother – must be at least twenty eight!) in such a way, made her blood fizzy.

The shop assistant looked at the young girl before her and ignored the indignant toe-tapping, the crossed-arms and the stream of curses. She’d seen it all before had Hilton Midnight O’Connor. Having everyone able to guess where and when she’d been conceived, at the merest mention of her name, made her able to face anything.

Hilton put on her favourite expression and waited for a pause in the young girl’s impressive list of curses. Hilton so wanted plastic surgery, but it had become so popular the waiting list was forty years and counting. But the shop assistant could wait. She had her ambitions. Or was it pretensions. She was always getting them two mixed up. In the meantime she’d perfected the look of permanent surprise so favoured by the top surgeons, and it was with this face that she stood before Pocohontas.

‘Sweetheart,’ she said as she wiped a fleck of spittle from her cheek, ‘I didn’t think that this was going to be, like, such bad news for you. But it’s the truth. Shellsuits are like, so last century.’ She pulled at Pocohontas’ arm and directed her to the clothes at the front of the shop.

‘Sweetheart, this is what you should be wearing.’ She lifted a pink crop-top from the rail and held it in front of Pocahontas’ chest. ‘You need to, like, make sure you show off some belly. The whiter and fatter, the better.’ She smiled. And thought she should have been given some sort of service award for making the effort. People don’t appreciate how difficult it is to smile when you’re also aiming for a look of surprise. She’d practised the other night in front of the mirror and for the first half hour only managed to look like she was suppressing a fart.

Then Hilton lifted a tracksuit from the rack. It was in a cream sort of check, sort of tartan. ‘And this is like, the piece of resistance, babes. Any self-respecting member of the N-ed Tribe wouldn’t be seen without it.’

‘Does it, like, have a name?’ asked Pocohontas, as she craned her head to check if the bairn was ok. The wee lamb, bless ‘im chose that moment to gob at a passer-by. Some daft old biddy had bent forward into Burberry’s space and got some phlegm on her face for her trouble.

‘Awww,’ Pocahontas said to the shop assistant. ‘Right oan the coupon.’ She said this in the manner a darts announcer might shout, “One hundred and eighty.’

‘The wee soul.’ Hilton agreed, hoping the old biddy would spit back. ‘Anyway, sweetheart,’ by this time she was getting face-ache as well as a headache. Looking surprised and happy all at the same time fair took it out of you.

‘It’s a designer called Burberry. Everybody’s wearing it.’

Pocohontas was incredulous. As incredulous as Mandela McConnachie when she told him he was the father. She looked over at the wean. Looked back at the shop assistant. Eventually she managed to speak.

‘You havin’ a giraffe? Burberry? That would be pure tacky!’

Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental (aye, right) however, if your sensibilities have been offended please register your disgruntlement with our customer services division at http://www.awayandboilyourhead.com/