Have you tried this whisky, Boomy?
Beet-Feet lifted a bottle of something dark and brooding and waggled it bewitchingly at me.
No, what is it?
I set my beer down and leaned over to get a better look.
It's an Auchentoshan, Blood Oak. It is fucking lovely if I do say so myself. Aged in red wine and bourbon casks. That's why it is so dark.
Beet-Feet caressed the bottle as if it were bedecked in flimsy lingerie and called Naughty Natalie.
Beet-Feet was a neighbour a few doors down and had invited me and some of the other neighbours around to celebrate getting his wife up the duff.
I hadn't wanted to go as I saw this as something little better than celebrating ejaculating into a handkerchief but the Good Lady had actively encouraged me to go along, her words of wisdom ringing in my ears still.
You keep saying all the neighbours are wanks but maybe you are just being too harsh on them?
And thus, I had found myself in a garden full of wanks being fed beer and peanuts like an alcoholic monkey.
The night had been civilised and a bit dull. Beet-Feet had repeatedly shown us the 12-week scan of his child to be whilst stating that the child was gonnae be a wee fuckin smasher.
I fucking hate children at the best of times, more so the unborn but had done my best to smile and chuckle along with all the other wanks.
As it neared midnight much of the wankage slithered away with mumbled talk of various suburban tasks that had to be carried out the next day.
I was about to make up some random excuse myself when Beet-Feet pulled out the broodingly dark and flinty bottle of whisky. His eyes flashing in the low light of the lamps on the deck made him seem slightly demonic.
Which was good enough for me to accept.
He poured me a healthy measure of the dark muck and we both took a sip.
Oh aye, that's fucking lovely.
We both remarked in the way of Scottish men who have no need of flowery nonsense to describe the Water of Life.
We finished our whisky and Beet-Feet eagerly poured me another whilst regaling me with tales of working on the oil rigs and the high jinks they got up to hanging above the sea.
Is it true that every week you have to draw lots and if you get the short straw then you have to be Molly and suck all the cocks?
I asked innocently. My experience of Oil Rigs being rather limited.
What? What the fuck no? There's none of that caper.
Beet-Feet laughed.
You are a funny cunt, Boomy. I like that.
He poured us another whisky which seemed to get smoother by the second.
You know, I can't wait to be a Dad. It will be amazing.
He took a big swig from his glass and looked up at the stars which gazed back at him pityingly.
Aye, it's amazing alright.
I lied artfully so as not to alienate myself from further Blood Oak pouring. It seemed to work because he poured another and burbled some shit about getting in trouble with his missus if he didn't get to bed soon.
I agreed and hauled myself up and headed home after some mutual fist bumping and promises to drink his whisky again.
Good morning, Daddy-Bear! How was your night? Have you revised your opinion of the neighbours now?
The Good Lady swept the curtains open and smiled down at me as I lay bleary and broken on the bed.
I cracked a crusty red eye open and thought of the night before and the fine Blood Oak that had flowed in my veins. I couldn't help but smile even through the hangover at the pleasantness of it all.
I opened my mouth to say something about how lovely it had all been but with a start I realised I had a reputation to uphold.
Nope, they're just the same. A bunch of wanks.
