Monthly Archives: May 2014

Want to buy a Beaver?

Want to buy a Beaver Gary? I would hazard a guess not one of the many people who are reading this (23 people) have ever been asked that question. Even if yer names not Gary,still don’t think so.

Want to see ma Beaver? Possibly been asked. If yer 13.

There’s the problem with setting yourself up as someone who will buy anything stolen, you have to buy fuckin everything.

I should make a disclaimer here by adding this isn’t true (it is)

If you knock back stuff then people will stop offering you it, and word gets around “I took a fucking Antelope to the cunt and he didnae buy it, fucking raging by the way, fucking Springbok Gazelle, or something like that, it was a fucking belter!”

Oh aye, in case you are thinking I only specialised in exotic animals, they were rare purchases. It was mostly car stereos,and other opportunist items.

Open window?that’s handy…

I was only 18 at the time, and living at my mums meant I just didn’t have the storage space for the Antelope (Personly I thought it was a Thomsons Gazelle)

The beaver was a more managable size. It had been stolen out of a pub in Glasgow and the guy selling me it said it was a fuckin belter!( this was just at the start of the 1980’s when fucking belter was used to describe lots of things)
He also added his dog had pished on it.

As you do when owning a Beaver, you have to name it. This one was Boaby

Boaby the Beaver

I was 18 and knew nothing of Taxidermy cleaning, but I still bought it. Who wouldn’t?

This was years before Internet so I couldn’t Google the price of a stuffed Beaver, so it ended up just getting swapped for Acid and a bit of dope.


Ma man Dan…

I’ve gigged with a lot of “character acts”. These comics will dress up in some outfit, change their accent, and then do their stuff. There are some cracking acts out there.

Last night I did a gig with a guy who isnt a comic but just a tribute act. Dasak Dan is a Borat lookalike but due to legal challenges,can only call himself Dasak Dan. Now I’m not here to slag the guy off (but I will) as I’m sure he is a decent guy (I’m not sure,for sure) but the thing was, he was in character the whole fucking night.

I understand him doing this when walking about the room getting his photo taken, but sitting next to me for dinner was too much. “ayyyyyeeeee leek your stand up verry goooodd” Aye nae bother mate! I’m trying to have a normal conversation and he’s kissing both my cheeks while sounding like Manuel from Faulty Towers.

Are you gigging much Dan? ” eeeessss veeery ard to make the Skotish lovely people” look Dan I’m not lowering my intelligance by having this conversation with a cunt that’s no been on the telly in 5 years so be prepared to be blanked!

Dae you know any plasterers looking for a bit of casual work? See this is the normal shite we will talk about. You doing a power with the wummin Dan? Normal stuff.

I’m not 12 so it is pretty insulting him thinking I’m going along with this. I’m just an act like you Dan so lose the accent and lets hear “Fuck sake Gary I’m fucking sick of this Borat pish! Every night after a gig I go home and hate myself a wee bit more for having to act like a fucking imbecile in front of these steaming cunts! I was happy selling insurance, before some cunt said I looked like Borat”


To be honest I dont think he would use the word cunt as many times as I’ve imagined.

There must come a time though,when our carreers will run parallel. People telling me I’m not funny and people asking him who Borat is? No business like showbusiness. Well possibly Plastering.

Big man in a jaiket….

I bought a leather jacket last week. Apart from wearing one on my motorbike a few years ago, I haven’t owned a fashionable, or even unfashionable one in 20 years. A leather jacket used to be worn by everyone of my Da’s age. Mostly worn at the weekend, when it signified you were going for a night oot. The leather jacket meant business.

Every top man in Glasgow wore a black leather.Brown was for diddy’s

I remember growing up and seeing ma uncle Billy wearing a full length leather! Fuck! I thought. What a cool fucker he looked. The leather combined with the haircut of the day, the feather cut, well he was too cool for cats.

In the 1980’s I spent £800 on a full length leather.This was when E’s were £20. This doesn’t justify spending that kind of money, but it does show you how much a fanny I was. This was the kind of jacket a SS Captain, or a Goth King would have worn. It was a fucking belter. I remember the first night I wore it. Swaggering down Gt Western Rd speeding out my box,I thought I was Mr Fucking Cool. This lasted 5 minutes till I walked by 3 bams who, giving me 50 yards,shouted “haul Batman! Where’s fucking Robin?”
I sold that coat for £30 on Ebay 15 years later. A fat goth is now swaggering about somewhere stinking of petula oil.

I realise as I get older the chances of me being a champion at anything are slim. I’m clinging on to the dream of being a champ in the veteran category in Table Tennis. A dream.
Last week though,I thought I might take a title off an old nemesis of mine, Allan Miller. Allan is not only a funny guy but also holder of the Throwing a Satsuma Furthest title.

I had my first run in, with Allan back in January when I took the Eating A Full Haggis In The Quickest Time title, which Allan had held for several years. Devastated is as good as any 10 letter word to describe how Allan felt losing to me.

Knowing he held the Satsuma title meant it was only a matter of time before I challenged him. Monday then saw 2 warriors in full battle dress (denims and jumper)meet at Springburn Park in Glasgow. A park that had witnessed many battles before today, mostly with bottles, knives and bits of fence.

I’ll be honest and say right now, my naivety in Satsuma Throwing meant I thought it was a formality and my brute strengh( big erms) would see me through. I was wrong! I was beaten by a Satsuma Thrower of the highest quality.

I could go into more detail, but right now I’m boring myself so a photo of the event should do.

Record Satsuma Throw

Don’t call me mate…

I’ve had an eventful start to the week. I was volunteering at a local community centre and I’m trying to get the youth interested in stuff outwith their housing scheme.
Monday saw the arrival of Naomi Campbell, who gave a talk on “racism in the fashion industry”. It was well received, and after it she answered a series of thought provoking questions, such as “did Boaby de Niro shag you?” and “dae you know Pamla Annerson?”

Tuesday saw the arrival of a new volunteer. His name is Paul. he is outgoing, polite,generous and helpful. I’d imagine by the end of the week everyone will hate him.

I think people are genuinely confused when they meet constantly happy people. I know I am. I start thinking “what the fuck are they so happy about?” I’m not saying to people just be miserable, just go easy on the happy, smiley faces.

How easy is it to call every person you meet, Mate? Correct, dead fucking easy! How lazy is it? Well you can guess the answer. It seems as if Mate is now just everyone on the fucking planet. I also get called Chief, Da, Mucker, Pal and the much rarer, Capistrano. These are just variants of Mate and they are not my name. I realise I’m verging on Grumpy Old Men shit here, but just call me by my name, Mate.

Having always owned dogs,people I know assume that I’m a bit of an expert on them. If knowing the dogs not well when it has the shits all over the kitchen floor makes me an expert, then just call me the Dog Whisperer. Many years ago I used to get stuff(code for drugs) from a family who lived in the scheme. Three brothers who stayed with their mum and a dog Lucky. One time I went round to the house to see the brothers all standing outside the house. Turns out wee Lucky had dug up 1kg of stuff(speed) that they had buried in the back garden. Their mum was going mental as she was convinced the dog was going to die. Or at least stay awake for 6 days. They asked me, as an expert, to try and show their mum that the dog was ok.

Their mum was only too happy to let me in the house and examine Lucky. “They bastards have poisoned ma wee Lucky, Gary” I had watched All Creatures Great And Small so I knew what I needed to say. ” whit’s wrang wae it?”
“It keeps going tae the front door and when a open the door it just runs back upstairs,panting”
Like most people I’ve watched Crufts for years so I just kneeled down in front of Lucky,grabbed his head, looked at his teeth. Then I ran my hands down his sides, stood up and confidently announced ” the dugs brand new!”

(Lucky on his comedown)

It’s amazing how people will trust someone if they think he knows what he’s talking about. Cheers