ROTHESAY, Monday 5:15 am
====================
Tug Wilson woke up, and realised he was stark bollock naked and bloody freezing. There was a mountain laying beside him rolled up in all the blankets and sheets that had been on the bed the previous night. The noises eminating from beneath the heap of old eiderdowns ranged from horse-like snorts and whinnies to full throttle lumberjacks chainsaws gone berserk. Tug tried to get his senses into some kind of working order and began to survey the gloom that he had surfaced in to. A pair of old brown curtains, dangling by their last two hooks at the bedroom windows allowed just enough light in for him to see that he was not actually in the hotel room he should be in. There was a battered, cigarette burnt dressing table propped up against the far wall, its two front legs balanced on bits of cardboard, and scattered across the top of the dresser was an assortment of lipsticks, face creams, deodourants and chunks of jewelery that Bet Lynch would have been proud of. The forlorn remains of two fish suppers took pride of place in the centre of the dresser, and dangling from the mirror was a gigantic black bra and a pair of equally enormous off-white ladies panties. Tug was now feeling very confused and, it was at this precise moment that the midget in his head donned a pair of steaming boots and commenced to kick the crap out of the back of his eyeballs. The ferret that had taken a dump in his mouth the previous night had already done a runner, leaving him with a blended aftertaste of cod, chips, deep fried haggis and weasel shite. The midget continued his assault on Tugs optic nerves as the humungous mound of female flesh snoring loudly next to him regained consciousness, rolled over and uncovered it head. A big, round face peered at him in the early morning gloom, offered up a gummy, toothless smile and then began speaking in a croaky Scottish hung-over accent. Tug zeroed in on its mouth, located above at least six chins and below a nose that would not look out of place on an elephant seal.
"Yill no gerra tarksi this time o' the feckin' mornin' lad, so I'd get a feckin' shift on iff'n yae wanna get back tae yer feckin' sub before it feckin' sails.....yae ken??". Her breath battered his nostrils, a foul mixture of fish supper, Glenfiddich and Capstan full strength tabs.
The words filtered slowly through Tugs addled brain. Morning.....Early.....No Transport.....Get a fu**ing shift on!
She blew him a big blubbery kiss, rolled over - farted and prepared to kip through until opening time. Tug catapulted off the bed and started grovelling around on the floor in a frantic search for his clothes. He hauled on his underwear and trousers, then pulled his shirt over his throbbing head. As he was yanking his socks and shoes on, whilst simultaneously hopping dangerously down the staircase - the voice boomed a final time from the bedroom he had just rapidly vacated.
"Shut the feckin' door on yer way oot!!"
The front door slammed and Tug ran full pelt down the rain-lashed, wind-swept silent street, in search of the harbour and the jetty the boat was tied up alongside.
It was close to 6:00 am as Tug clattered down the gangway onto the submarines casing. He was soaked to the skin, freezing, hung over and in
dire need of a large fried breakfast. The sentry, swathed in layers of foul weather clothing nearly had a heart attack as he sudddenly became aware of the soggy apparition stepping off the end of the gangway. He quickly stood to attention and saluted.
"Morning Captain!", the sentry said.
"Lieutenant Commander Wilson returned the salute, hoping that the sentry would not pay too much attention to his somewhat dishevelled state.
"Morning Wilkes....is breakfast on yet?"
Wilkes smiled knowingly, "Think so sir....harbour stations is at half seven ' aint it?"
The Captain descended down the ladder into the warmer air of the submarines pressure hull. Just before he disappeared from view he called up to the trot sentry.
"Oh...and Wilkes....",
"Sir?",
"You never fu**ing saw me!"
====================
Tug Wilson woke up, and realised he was stark bollock naked and bloody freezing. There was a mountain laying beside him rolled up in all the blankets and sheets that had been on the bed the previous night. The noises eminating from beneath the heap of old eiderdowns ranged from horse-like snorts and whinnies to full throttle lumberjacks chainsaws gone berserk. Tug tried to get his senses into some kind of working order and began to survey the gloom that he had surfaced in to. A pair of old brown curtains, dangling by their last two hooks at the bedroom windows allowed just enough light in for him to see that he was not actually in the hotel room he should be in. There was a battered, cigarette burnt dressing table propped up against the far wall, its two front legs balanced on bits of cardboard, and scattered across the top of the dresser was an assortment of lipsticks, face creams, deodourants and chunks of jewelery that Bet Lynch would have been proud of. The forlorn remains of two fish suppers took pride of place in the centre of the dresser, and dangling from the mirror was a gigantic black bra and a pair of equally enormous off-white ladies panties. Tug was now feeling very confused and, it was at this precise moment that the midget in his head donned a pair of steaming boots and commenced to kick the crap out of the back of his eyeballs. The ferret that had taken a dump in his mouth the previous night had already done a runner, leaving him with a blended aftertaste of cod, chips, deep fried haggis and weasel shite. The midget continued his assault on Tugs optic nerves as the humungous mound of female flesh snoring loudly next to him regained consciousness, rolled over and uncovered it head. A big, round face peered at him in the early morning gloom, offered up a gummy, toothless smile and then began speaking in a croaky Scottish hung-over accent. Tug zeroed in on its mouth, located above at least six chins and below a nose that would not look out of place on an elephant seal.
"Yill no gerra tarksi this time o' the feckin' mornin' lad, so I'd get a feckin' shift on iff'n yae wanna get back tae yer feckin' sub before it feckin' sails.....yae ken??". Her breath battered his nostrils, a foul mixture of fish supper, Glenfiddich and Capstan full strength tabs.
The words filtered slowly through Tugs addled brain. Morning.....Early.....No Transport.....Get a fu**ing shift on!
She blew him a big blubbery kiss, rolled over - farted and prepared to kip through until opening time. Tug catapulted off the bed and started grovelling around on the floor in a frantic search for his clothes. He hauled on his underwear and trousers, then pulled his shirt over his throbbing head. As he was yanking his socks and shoes on, whilst simultaneously hopping dangerously down the staircase - the voice boomed a final time from the bedroom he had just rapidly vacated.
"Shut the feckin' door on yer way oot!!"
The front door slammed and Tug ran full pelt down the rain-lashed, wind-swept silent street, in search of the harbour and the jetty the boat was tied up alongside.
It was close to 6:00 am as Tug clattered down the gangway onto the submarines casing. He was soaked to the skin, freezing, hung over and in
dire need of a large fried breakfast. The sentry, swathed in layers of foul weather clothing nearly had a heart attack as he sudddenly became aware of the soggy apparition stepping off the end of the gangway. He quickly stood to attention and saluted.
"Morning Captain!", the sentry said.
"Lieutenant Commander Wilson returned the salute, hoping that the sentry would not pay too much attention to his somewhat dishevelled state.
"Morning Wilkes....is breakfast on yet?"
Wilkes smiled knowingly, "Think so sir....harbour stations is at half seven ' aint it?"
The Captain descended down the ladder into the warmer air of the submarines pressure hull. Just before he disappeared from view he called up to the trot sentry.
"Oh...and Wilkes....",
"Sir?",
"You never fu**ing saw me!"
