Love, Grit, Blood and Spit
A collection of fictionalised true-life short stories, comical prose & poetry.
by
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Wild Night at Duff’s Wild night at Duff’s is a true story, the people and the pub exists. Duff’s is a nickname we called The Douglas Arms, Bothwell, where we would start off many of our nights out, before hitting the city lights in Glasgow. This particular night was a little more wild than usual. My pal Mags in the story, when I told her I was writing a book, asked me if I had included her in any stories, at the time I hadn’t as I’ve kept most of the stories about my own experiences. She asked me to include something for her. This story is dedicated to my friend of 25 years, Margaret ‘Mags’ Thomson. May we have many more wild nights ahead. Love always, your BFF, Sandra xxx ***** It started out like any other girl’s night out. A few shots, a few dances at the jukebox and a few more glasses of champagne. Someone started a truth or dare game. I daren’t tell the truth so I opted for the dare. First I was dared to go up and kiss, no well snog a complete stranger within three minutes. As I was being timed at just over a minute, some guy who had just been coached as to the game, complied and snogged me wildly for a laugh. Then other folk told some stupid truths but it was me and my pal wee Mags who were stirring up the crowd with our outrageous antics. The game moved swiftly on, and after each bout, you drank a shot, so we were all merrily smashed by midnight. The game moved on, get a guy to give you his boxers, then tell him if you want your boxers back, you’ll have to pick them out some girl’s cleavage with no hands. So we had various items plucked from out bra cleavages by willing mouths. Then onto double dares, me and wee Mags were told to get a guy’s shirt button, that seemed easy, but it was the hardest task we’d had all night. All the local guys had been patient until this point, but every one of them flatly refused to pop off a shirt button. Now I can’t remember much but there was a full bottle of champagne at stake here for the most daring, so we needed a shirt button each. What did we do, we walked up to this random chubby tummed guy and started to chat away to him, it was a shame really coz Mags was going in for the full flirt. I had to put a stop to the guy thinking he was onto something, so I walked up shoved Mags out the road and ripped his Hawaii shirt open like I had just split a kipper. His reaction was fucking superb, and most unexpected. He shouted, what the fuck did ye dae that fur? Mags split her sides laughing and thought this was a great idea. So she stoated up with wobbly heels and tapped a guy on the shoulder, when he turned around, she just kippered him, and all the buttons flew off. We both landed on our knees picking up the tiny white dots. A bit like adult tiddly winks. I was already running to claim my stake on the bubbly prize and we both crashed into each other and landed skidding like five year old’s on ice under the tall bar table. Our knees sticky and dirty from the pub carpet. The whole table couped over and all the drinks went over the girls at the other side. Now that we were all truly soaking wet, someone hit Mustang Sally on the Jukebox and we all started writhing like pole dancers at a strip club. We all got papped out at that point, the whole place was in an uproar. So we took our fun and games into the city. We went to Ivory Blacks that used to be on Oswald Street, and continued dancing with strangers then ripping off their shirts at the end of the song. One right unhappy cunt went straight to the bouncers and our button popping fun was almost over. Like a real game of candy crush, very addictive. I looked up at the massive bulldog of a 7ft bouncer, big leatherneck and shooders like a silverback. He was wearing a dashing suit, bow tie and a lovely white shirt, all pearlised with tiny white buttons. I was in a fun giddy trance and could see no consequences. I put my hand on his chest, looked at him through my hair, kinda coy-like and the mischief took over, yes, I shouted like a fitba hooligan whose team just scored. I had the technique honed and with one last wild jerk of the hands and it was all over. He tried in vain to stop it but I was too quick. I won. Mags last rip was stopped short and we were both frogmarched out the club and barred. We both went home pissing ourselves laughing at the thought of all those men trying to explain it away, guilty or not guilty. We chinked our flutes and shared the bubbly prize.
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About the Book
A book with true life stories and poems that have been fictionalised. Some themes have a disturbing aura of sex, violence and abuse of women and children. Other stories are full of love and romance, where some themes have comedic properties and adult language and scenes that are not suitable for children and under 18s. Other stories have themes of gang culture or the occult and the devil, which may be disturbing to some readers. All of these creations are purely and completely from the author. Influences that created the different ideas are from her native Glaswegian upbringing in various Glasgow inner city townships, including, Dennistoun, Maryhill, The Gorbals, The Milton, Easterhouse, Carntyne, Ruchazie, Garthamlock, the East End of Glasgow in Shettleston where she worked as a secretary, in Baillieston where she was a bar-maid and in the city and Lanarkshire where she worked as a recruitment consultant, works administrator and senior journalist for Trinity Mirror and Media Scotland.
About the Author
Sandra has been writing poetry and prose since a teenager but qualified with a diploma of HE in journalism and a BA in Journalism with broadcast. She became a journalist in 2005, and received the inaugural Isobel Connor Award for proficiency in Journalism. She was also listed in the top ten of 1000 entrants in The Write Stuff competition. She worked as a reporter and senior reporter with Trinity Mirror and Media Scotland. She is also a qualified community development worker, and qualified with a B A Degree in Community Education. She is currently studying a certificate in HE for Creative Writing and will go on to complete the HND and an MA in Literature., over the next year or so. She’s always been interested in writing, and writing from the heart. Her poems and short stories, monologues and short plays or other prose is written in English and some in the native Glaswegian tongue. She enjoys using different writing and narrative techniques, leaving the reader room for their own imagination and to form their own little world within her stories. Sandra is married to Dougie. She has one son Grant, his partner Michelle, and four step children Lee-anne, Cheryl, Douglas and Andrew, and three new additions to the family, grandsons, Liam, Carson and Alfie. She lives in Whitehill in Hamilton with her husband and two little Jack Russell Terriers, a black and white beauty called Ruby and a little white and tan cutie called Molly.