Memories of Oban People think that Oban is a charming wee Scottish town The Gateway to the glorious Western Isles no less, Famed for the staggering amount of whisky which its inhabitants (on those occasions when they can get a tourist to buy) Are able to neck down their glottally challenged throats; This bonny town is also famed for its colourful quayside houses And the rampant odour of its myriad fish n chip shops, Emitting a cataclysmic mélange of cod, batter and vinegar. And the fat Oban lassies are known for getting totally rat-arsed, Dancing around their white plastic handbags in the bars Of the towns vibrantly exotic public houses until 10pm each night, Driving the local lads mad with a rampant disclosure of their pallid legs, Threatening to kip with anyone for the price of a pint of heavy. But there is a dark and ineffably evil side to this lovely Scottish paradise As I shall now unfold for your delectation, so hold on to your sporran. Alas and woe is me, the noo, the tragic memories will never leave me: I was wandering along the dimly lit streets, with my plump fiancée Bonny Wee Lizzie (wittily so-called as she weighed nigh on half a ton), Stepping carefully over discarded condoms and haggis-flavoured puke, When I passed by the ruins of an old building, the Argyll Hotel I recall. Lizzie was desperately in need of a pee and nipped inside to let one fly (Despite my admonitions that she might easily trip and bust her neck); I waited outside for a few moments and then, horror of horrors, I can barely bring myself to describe the hideous yell I heard, but Ill try: It sounded like, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!! !!!!! Except even worse and more eldritch than mere words could ever say. And Wee Lizzie staggered like a robot out of the dreaded building, Headless, with just a bleeding stump where her fat face had been, And (without a word - obviously) she slumped to the ground, quite dead. I ran down the street like a competitor in the Olympic 500 metres And rushed into a local hostelry to gag down a quadruple 8-year old malt (For which I was charged the outrageous price of nineteen pounds fifty), Before I could pant out the terrible tale of my loved ones demise. When I led the amazed drinkers (together with Police Sergeant McCrud), To the dark old hotel, they all cringed in terror at what they saw: Poor Wee Lizzies mighty corpse had been ripped to shreds And only a few scraps remained amidst her tattered and bloody clothes. What manner of creature inhabits that ghastly auberge? I enquired, But wise old heads were shaken and no one dared to explain Until brave Mrs McGregor, the widow of the towns only toilet-attendant, Told me the ghastly truth: a gang of lesbian vampires rose from Hell Every Halloween, and held their foul rites in the ruined building. Id say yon fiancée o yours just happened to pick the wrong night To empty her bladder doon there, dye ken? she commented sagely. Dear God, I shall avoid any further visits to the West Coast of Scotland; But, in any case, I find Scotland rather bad value for holidays anyway. -Barry Hodges
Posted on: Thu, 31 Oct 2013 16:46:18 +0000
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