In the number ten bunker a large and slightly disheveled character sits with a half consumed bottle of malt whisky. Muttering quietly to himself he notices an image enter the room.
Shite!
It has long greasy hair, a cadaverous face and frame and a sallow complexion. It is dressed in a poor quality black suit.
Gordon! It's guid to meet you at last.
Jimmy! As I live and breathe, is it you?
Aye.
Gordon pours himself a large one and offers Jimmy a dram.
Och weel! I have nae had one this year, so yes.
God Jimmy! I did nae think it would be so fucking hard!
Gordon, you need to watch your language, and the drink nae doubt!
Bugger that. You've no idea what the bastards are capable of.
Remember, Gordon, the essentials - Socialism in oor time; vote Broon save the children. Och weel we can't have everything! Have ye got a fag?
No allowed Jimmy!
Well, well are we still allowed tea?
Yes, but have another, a large one.
Now Gordon; you know I only drink in moderation once a year or thereabouts to show willing. I could murder a tea though, lashings of tea!
I'll see if I can raise one of the little people to do a brew!
Don't fash yerself, I'll be off. I just thought you need to be reminded that eventually someone is going to stand up and say:-
Sit down man! You're a bloddy tradgedy!
Gordon slumped and poured the rest of the bottle into his glass!
