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| - In the style of Irvine Welsh:
The security dude is engrossed in chatting up this sexy catgirl at the front a has station who seem ta ken each other, likesay, so ah cut through the pub, which is busy, likesay, really busy. Mibbe ah'll have a bit of the pish, mibbe a Miller Lite likesay. Aw hell, the fookin queue fa the bar is arse fulla radge cunts.
-- Haud on mate.
-- Eh? Aoright. Miller fra da Sticky-Vicky cunt mindin the troth, say?
-- Hae'nt goat no-in ta pay the bird wi.
-- Eh, welw, i ha two tenners in me poakets. Better'in strugglin up ta the bar, bleedin fookin deathtrip, tis. I ken some donk bastard fancied upta place, like. Christmas year roond, and the lot?
-- Reckon so.
Craig, Cho, Debo, Mel, Jerr, fellow footie fighter, to be sure, to be sure likesay, fuckoffs off ta find a spot ta mind the pish. Bleedin gilled up wi punters and cunts. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Aw fuck. Craig was right. Its hard ta change people. Ken the cunts in Scottsdale proper, like, is the same cunts who fancy a jabby like dissun.
Naemind, thas awright anyhae, the fookin pub style is shite total fookin dive, like. Yet, the spot is fookin sweet fa yer and yer mates especially iffin yer inna the Spring Training and the lot, eftir the matches, like. The year past, eh, the gov who runs the spots sais ee's got a bit of the meat fae oos. Cooked us up a fajita, like, no charge, like.
Fookin, professional, thae man. We punters ah'll be back.
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