Mr Imp, Life columnist at The Banner, writes about his misadventures as a Don Juan-Esque petty criminal, his odd odysseys abroad and his high jinks with his colourful family in Auchterturra. Cartoons by Dod Dunlop.
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Dear readers, Oh, oh, it is great to be back in this hole in the world like a great black pit where all the world's filth collects called Edinburgh. Being abroad can become very taxing on one's mental state because of a lack of clothes, foreign languages, foreign foods and foreign weather. All these things drive one mad after a while. According to inspector Harry MacDoeh, the heat died down, so to speak, and it was time to come home.
My return to these fair Isles had a most interesting result; your beloved columnist, critic and occasional essayist had possibly the wildest night I have had in years in the most unlikely of all unlikely places: that gentrified to death corpse London. Beginning the story, after a string of unsuccessful horse bets, I also found Antwerp to be a lot more tedious than I expected, and all the bicycles started to piss me off, so I decided to return home. Looking around, the best deal I could get was a plane into London, and then I could get a cheap train back north.
After flying into that eye-sore, Stansted airport and then the bus into the centre of London, the first thing I did before anything else was I went into a bakery and got the most British of things, a Scotch pie. People do not understand this about long-term travel; you miss things you can't get: Scotch pies, sausages and Tennent's Lager. After that most delicious Scotch pie, I went to some pub called the 'Red Lion', close to the Parliament. While there, I got a proper British pint, in this case, 'Nukie Brown', and I was about to book myself a train back north, then I saw someone I hadn't seen in years. This person I haven't seen in years is an old collegemate of mine whom we will call 'Alistair McVane', and we hadn't seen each other in the flesh in nearly four years.
Furthermore, keeping in contact has been very difficult; I send correspondence and texts. Unfortunately, Alistair has never been the best at ordaining to reply to any correspondence. Sometimes I find myself waiting half a year after multiple correspondences were sent till I see a reply from Alistair. But he is still a friend, and even though the neglect can annoy, friendship is something precious which shouldn't just be thrown down the wayside.
At that rare moment, seeing an old friend was a lovely experience. He was loitering in the pub, trying to collect his thoughts for an extensive job interview that he was about to have in the morrow, and I got my pint and then just saw him in the corner of my eye. I immediately walked over and sat by him; it took a minute for Alistair's eyes to adjust and remember who I was as I had changed quite a bit since he had last seen me. Then we caught up and conversed and made up for some lost time.
More, more pints came to our table as we spoke than the dreaded irritation of 10 o'clock closing. Alistair and I were pretty plastered, and we wandered over to his place, which was somewhere in North London. Alistair's place was a micro flat everything was in a small cube, tiny shower, tiny cooker, tiny multipurpose sink, tiny fridge, tiny toilet stall, futon and a tiny desk. Alistair kindly offered to let me spend the night on the floor with a blanket. However, before that, we needed food; Alistair opened his fridge, revealing a solitary pork chop that had become greener than spinach. Remember, Alistair, and I was pretty plastered, not entirely thinking straight, and what happened next, I don't consider any fault of mine or his. Me and Alistair first smelt the pork chop, looked at each other and said: "bad, oot with it."
