Today I walked down by the Lagan with Battle Cat. There were all these big burly women in rowing boats competing against each other. All these people rode alongside the river screaming at them to go faster and win and all that stuff. They nearly ran me and Battle Cat down. I called them fuckers and they still didn't take notice.
Fabian Wildman's mate Hot Baby Roy was standing down by the riverside.
"Hello, Tueesday Kid and Battle Cat," he said.
"Hello Hot Baby Roy, why are you watching the boat race?"
"Because these ladies are fine, fine, fine!" he screamed. He didn't take his hands out of his pocket. I could tell by the bulges that he'd cut a wee hole in the lining of his pockets so he could play with himself while he watched.
I felt awkward so I asked him how he was doing. He said he'd quit the crack and that he now hosts a quiz night at the Rangers supporters club on Sandy Row. No one there knows about the crack and he'd like to keep it that way.
I'd say none of them really want to know about the pervy trouser thing either but hey. Even big burly weightlifteer rower ladies have a right to wear tight lycra and grunt and groan in public without being treated as sex objects.
