Hello there.
My name is Scott Webster.
If you can't be sacked reading the incoherent ramblings and all-round stupid bullshit I tend to shit all over your facebook news feeds, then now would be a good time to leave. I'll sum up what this blog is for quite nicely for you with this; I learned to just live with the clumsy, cringeworthy and often downright idiotic things that happen to me and develop a self-depreciating sense of humour a long, long, LONG time ago. This blog will contain many of these things, as well as anything hilarious I see elsewhere (e.g. the colourful antics of Fraser the Psycho from Helensburgh, who is effectively my arch-nemesis, the crazy jakey woman at Scotstounhill Station, Weird Ponytail Guy, Strange Willie and so on, each more worthless and despicable than the last)
If, for some inexplicable reason, you still want to read on, then be my guest. I'll try to make it worthwhile, I promise.
I sell programmes at Firhill, for the mighty Jags. Well, I say mighty, but by that I mean awful. Really, truly terrible.I still love them in spite of this, and will turn up, rain wind or rain, draw lose or draw (well, for home games at least) I'm a 5'11, hairy, skinny bastard who laughs at inappropriate things and loves football, though years of soul-crushing, abject failure from Thistle and the Scotland national team coupled with the apathy that comes from age has dulled that somewhat. My general weekend routine consists of getting shitfaced with some friends (often with Buckfast, and also smoking ludicrous amounts of cheap, nasty ciggies. What can I say, I'm a classy, classy young man) while we watch DVD's of anything from Wayne's World to The Griswolds. It's fantastic. Going into helensburgh's many mediocre, wanker-filled pubs afterwards is not fantastic, however. It is, in fact, a bit shit. Still do it though. I'm not even sure why anymore.
That'll do for now, I reckon, though I'll leave you with one of my favourite night-out moments; I once got horrendously drunk down at the pub. As in, I must have looked like an absolute drunken, shambling mess of a human being at the time. The last thing I physically remember from that night was downing tequila shots with some of my brother's friends.
Anyway; I went to the same pub the next week with no recollection of the nights events, and the bouncer says to me as I'm going in "Mate, I'll let you in, yeah? But see if I catch you smoking in the toilets again, you're barred, you understand?"
My expression was a mixture of genuine bewilderment and being mildly horrified. The bouncer goes, "Don't look at me like that, mate, I caught you doing it!"
I explained to him that it wasn't me trying to look like I was innocent, more just that I was *THAT* wrecked I couldn't physically remember what the fuck happened that night, so it was coming as a shock to me that I'd been snouting up in the loo.
He laughed, said I did look a bit worse for wear, I assured him it wouldn't happen again and I was allowed back in.
I think I ended up waking up my next door neighbours, who live in a house that looks VERY similar to mine (even more so after buckfast, tragically) by knocking on their door and trying to get in at around 4AM that night after my mates had shoved me in a taxi. That's a story for another time, perhaps.
(just noticed, I probably look like a raging alchoholic from this. I'm not, these are just the highlights picked out from the particularly horrific weekends) Most of the time I get tipsy at best, and sober enough to remember I'm still in cunting Helensburgh at worst.)
