good job nobody knows i'm actually the chook of argyll, (chook, small hen or chicken) i'd never hear the end of it, what with all my land and titles and death duties(still paying off the grandfathers) then theres thon pictures of my great aunt and the headless man, oh the scandal, nearly brought up my gin and tonic there at the very thought(gobbler, a kind of turkey)
still, if you take away the itch of those bloody tartan breeks they make me wear everytime i have to mingle with the prols(calamine lotion) its not such a bad life, how do you think i have time for this mire i'm blethering in? you'd have to have a private income to make the time to chunter on here with some of the riffraff you get, bloody good job i have those boys in kilmory in my hip pocket, i'll dem well mek sure the don't have a decent road into the place, keep the scruffs at the south end of my little kingdom, i see them all the time, not paying for parking, limbo dancing under the turnstile to use the facilities and they will go on about the price of a cheese roll, you'd think you were asking them to part with the crisis loan they'd just got so they could go up the road to watch the "old firm" and buy a new summer wardrobe in primark for a tenner.
in my father's day it would have been both barrels from the ghillie's 12 guage and they wouldn't stop running till they reached whitehouse, sadly that was in the days when scotland was free, free of scroungers, liberals and bloody socialists!!!!!





