Andy and Tojo work in a packing plant in Glasgow. Andy is a Celtic fan while Tojo is a Rangers fan. They both go their separate ways when they finish work at four o’clock every Friday, to return the following Monday, their respective moods determined solely by the weekend’s football results.
The week leading up to a Celtic versus Rangers match is particularly fraught, as each tries to outdo the other with audacious forecasts about what one team is going to do to the other, and indeed, the following week is enveloped in gloom and despair for the loser, and gloating triumph and joy for the victor. The state of mind of each protagonist is further enhanced, or exacerbated as the case may be, by the ritual wager. This means, in short, that if Celtic come out on top, Tojo gives Andy twenty pounds on the Monday morning, while on the other hand, if Rangers triumph, the money changes hands in the opposite direction.
Over the years this arrangement has proved to be a matter of honour for, no matter whether one side claims to have been robbed of victory by a biased referee - and this would appear to be the case every time, if Andy and Tojo are to be the judges - no matter how often the two of them argue over a penalty that ‘never was’, or a goal that was ‘clearly offside’, the loser always pays the winner promptly, during the Monday morning tea-break, and no arguments.
This was the situation until one Friday lunch break when Andy, Tojo and several work mates were eating sandwiches or smoking cigarettes and sipping cups of coffee, tea, or cans of ginger, whilst chattering happily about the weekend ahead. Andy was sitting on the floor of the rest room, his back against the wall as he rolled a cigarette. Tojo was in whispered conversation with another, much younger colleague.
The following is, verbatim, a description of the conversation which brought both the betting arrangement and a twelve year friendship to a sudden and irreconcilable conclusion.
Tojo approaches Andy and squats on the floor in front of him.
Andy, you know our wee bet.
Aye, whit aboot it?
Well, Frankie boy’s auld man’s got a dug runnin at Shawfield the night.
Aye, so?
Frankie tells me it’s a cert like. Cannae lose, know whit am sayin?
Am very happy fur yeez. As a matter o fact, a might hiv a wee bit on it masel. Whit’s the dug’s name?
Silver Bullet. It’s runnin in the fourth race. It cannae lose.
Silver Bullet? Ye’re pullin ma plonker.
Nae kiddin man. It’s a stick on.
Aye well, we’ll see then. Thanks fur the tip.
The thing is Andy. Am a bit barassic ye know. Ah’ve got forty quid comin fae wee Sammy the morra. But right noo am......
How the fuck can ye be skint? We only got paid yesterday.
Aye a know but a wiz intae the missus fur the rent a spent last week’n that.
How much ye wantin?
It’s no a loan mind ye Andy.
How much?
Jist the twenty.
Hawd oan a minute.
Whit?
Whit d’ye mean it’s no a loan?
Och a wiz thinkin. Ye know how we’ve got oor bet fur the morra.
Aye.
Well a wiz thinkin......
So ye keep tellin me.
If ye gae me the twenty the day, if the Gers win then we’re aw square. Ye won’t hiv tae gae me it on Monday.
An if the Tims win?
Well obviously a’ve tae come across wi forty. But that’s no a problem is it?
Aye but it bliddy well is a problem Tojo.
How? Ye’ve seen me awright in the past an a’ve never lit ye doon huvva?
Ah bit dae ye know see? If a gae ye this score on the basis ye’ve jist telt me, am puttin the mockers on the Tic fur the gemme.
How?
Fucksake Tojo. Think aboot it. Ye’re sayin tae me, gimme twenty quid an if Rangers win we’re aw clear.
Aye so?
Jesus man. That means......if a gae ye the money noo am as good as sayin, Celtic’s gonnae get fucked anyway so here ye are.
Naw, naw big man. A wisnae meanin it that way.
Maybe naw. But that’s the way it is.
So whit’re ye sayin then?
Am sayin......aw fuck man if ye’d only jist said, haw Andy geeza lenny twenty quid tae Monday, a’d a gave ye it nae sweat.
Whit? Are ye jokin man?
Naw am no fuckin jokin. Can ye no see? If a done that an we got humped the morra ah’d be gutted man. Gutted.
So ye’re no wantin tae gae me the money then.
Naw Tojo fuck. Aye a want tae gae ye the dosh. Only the way ye asked fur it is aw fucked up, right.
Awright Andy. Could ye lend me twenty quid tae Monday?
It’s too fuckin late noo.
Whit are ye on aboot?
Ye’ve planted the seeds in ma heid. It still means if you bastarts win ye don’t hiv tae pay me back. I’d still have paid oot on the bet afore the gemme.
So am no gettin the twenty then?
Naw. I mean aye. Aw fucksake how can I? If ye’d only jist asked me withoot mentionin the bet. Whit the fuck did ye hiv tae bring the bet intae it fur?
But if youse cunts win, or it’s a draw, ah’ll still gae ye twinty quid back fuck.
Ye’re no listenin are ye? The bottom line is, am still payin the bet afore the event. Och aye, if we win aw well’n tickety-fuckin-boo like aye. But fucksake fuck. Why did ye hiv tae mention the bet?
Fuck it then.
Whit?
A says fuck it. Stick it up yer fenian arse.
Hawd on a wee minute there Tojo......
Away’n stick it in the plate on Sunday ya cunt.
Ya fuckin orange fucker ye. Efter aw a did fur ye.
Fuckin shove it ya papish shitebag.
Ah’ll fuckin molocate ye ya wee loyalist arsehole ye.
Fuck off yan IRA bastart.
So it’s like that is it. Efter me’n the boys rescuin ye fae that bunch o sheep-shaggers doon the toon.
A only asked fur a sub fuck.
Naw ye didnae. Anyhow, a telt ye the money wisnae the issue. It’s the fuckin way ye asked fur it.
Aye so ye said fuck.
Aye well let’s caw it a day then.
Catholic scumbag.
Gonnae fuckin cut that out?
How?
Cos that’s how.
Away hame’n play wi yer rosary beeds ya cunt.
Right that’s it.
Aw fuck man, wid’ye dae that fur?
Cos a felt like it.
That wiz ma fuckin lunch ya rotten bastart ye.
Fuckin good.
Fucksake a cannae eat it noo.
Fuckin even fuckin better.
Imagine emptyin an ashtray ower a man’s piece fucksake. It’s fuckin everywhere ya cunt.
Probably done ye a fuckin favour man.
How?
Well, a’ve seen the shite that wife o yours feeds ye.
Whit’re ye sayin noo ya bastart? Are you castin aspirations on ma Jessica?
Jessica fuck aw. Her name’s Jessie. Don’t gae me that shite.
Never mind aw that. Whit’ve ye got tae say aboot ma Jessica?
Ye’re always moanin’n greetin aboot’er yersel fucksake.
A’ll moan aw a want aboot ma ain wife. It disnae gae you the right but.
Aw hawd yer weesht.
Naw a wullnae. You fuckin Mickey bastart are aw the same. Fur ever pokin yer noses inae other cunts business.
Aye well, if a gaed ye twenty quid’n Celtic lose a’d never forgive ye. An if we win ye’ll come in on Monday an say, here’s the twenty fur the bet, a’ll gae ye the other twenty nixt week. Then ye’ll never pay it back.
Aye a wull.
Naw ye wullnae.
Aye a wull.
Ye wullnae.
How wull a no?
Cos ye’re no gettin the fuckin money.
And so it went on, on on, and on . . .
The week leading up to a Celtic versus Rangers match is particularly fraught, as each tries to outdo the other with audacious forecasts about what one team is going to do to the other, and indeed, the following week is enveloped in gloom and despair for the loser, and gloating triumph and joy for the victor. The state of mind of each protagonist is further enhanced, or exacerbated as the case may be, by the ritual wager. This means, in short, that if Celtic come out on top, Tojo gives Andy twenty pounds on the Monday morning, while on the other hand, if Rangers triumph, the money changes hands in the opposite direction.
Over the years this arrangement has proved to be a matter of honour for, no matter whether one side claims to have been robbed of victory by a biased referee - and this would appear to be the case every time, if Andy and Tojo are to be the judges - no matter how often the two of them argue over a penalty that ‘never was’, or a goal that was ‘clearly offside’, the loser always pays the winner promptly, during the Monday morning tea-break, and no arguments.
This was the situation until one Friday lunch break when Andy, Tojo and several work mates were eating sandwiches or smoking cigarettes and sipping cups of coffee, tea, or cans of ginger, whilst chattering happily about the weekend ahead. Andy was sitting on the floor of the rest room, his back against the wall as he rolled a cigarette. Tojo was in whispered conversation with another, much younger colleague.
The following is, verbatim, a description of the conversation which brought both the betting arrangement and a twelve year friendship to a sudden and irreconcilable conclusion.
Tojo approaches Andy and squats on the floor in front of him.
Andy, you know our wee bet.
Aye, whit aboot it?
Well, Frankie boy’s auld man’s got a dug runnin at Shawfield the night.
Aye, so?
Frankie tells me it’s a cert like. Cannae lose, know whit am sayin?
Am very happy fur yeez. As a matter o fact, a might hiv a wee bit on it masel. Whit’s the dug’s name?
Silver Bullet. It’s runnin in the fourth race. It cannae lose.
Silver Bullet? Ye’re pullin ma plonker.
Nae kiddin man. It’s a stick on.
Aye well, we’ll see then. Thanks fur the tip.
The thing is Andy. Am a bit barassic ye know. Ah’ve got forty quid comin fae wee Sammy the morra. But right noo am......
How the fuck can ye be skint? We only got paid yesterday.
Aye a know but a wiz intae the missus fur the rent a spent last week’n that.
How much ye wantin?
It’s no a loan mind ye Andy.
How much?
Jist the twenty.
Hawd oan a minute.
Whit?
Whit d’ye mean it’s no a loan?
Och a wiz thinkin. Ye know how we’ve got oor bet fur the morra.
Aye.
Well a wiz thinkin......
So ye keep tellin me.
If ye gae me the twenty the day, if the Gers win then we’re aw square. Ye won’t hiv tae gae me it on Monday.
An if the Tims win?
Well obviously a’ve tae come across wi forty. But that’s no a problem is it?
Aye but it bliddy well is a problem Tojo.
How? Ye’ve seen me awright in the past an a’ve never lit ye doon huvva?
Ah bit dae ye know see? If a gae ye this score on the basis ye’ve jist telt me, am puttin the mockers on the Tic fur the gemme.
How?
Fucksake Tojo. Think aboot it. Ye’re sayin tae me, gimme twenty quid an if Rangers win we’re aw clear.
Aye so?
Jesus man. That means......if a gae ye the money noo am as good as sayin, Celtic’s gonnae get fucked anyway so here ye are.
Naw, naw big man. A wisnae meanin it that way.
Maybe naw. But that’s the way it is.
So whit’re ye sayin then?
Am sayin......aw fuck man if ye’d only jist said, haw Andy geeza lenny twenty quid tae Monday, a’d a gave ye it nae sweat.
Whit? Are ye jokin man?
Naw am no fuckin jokin. Can ye no see? If a done that an we got humped the morra ah’d be gutted man. Gutted.
So ye’re no wantin tae gae me the money then.
Naw Tojo fuck. Aye a want tae gae ye the dosh. Only the way ye asked fur it is aw fucked up, right.
Awright Andy. Could ye lend me twenty quid tae Monday?
It’s too fuckin late noo.
Whit are ye on aboot?
Ye’ve planted the seeds in ma heid. It still means if you bastarts win ye don’t hiv tae pay me back. I’d still have paid oot on the bet afore the gemme.
So am no gettin the twenty then?
Naw. I mean aye. Aw fucksake how can I? If ye’d only jist asked me withoot mentionin the bet. Whit the fuck did ye hiv tae bring the bet intae it fur?
But if youse cunts win, or it’s a draw, ah’ll still gae ye twinty quid back fuck.
Ye’re no listenin are ye? The bottom line is, am still payin the bet afore the event. Och aye, if we win aw well’n tickety-fuckin-boo like aye. But fucksake fuck. Why did ye hiv tae mention the bet?
Fuck it then.
Whit?
A says fuck it. Stick it up yer fenian arse.
Hawd on a wee minute there Tojo......
Away’n stick it in the plate on Sunday ya cunt.
Ya fuckin orange fucker ye. Efter aw a did fur ye.
Fuckin shove it ya papish shitebag.
Ah’ll fuckin molocate ye ya wee loyalist arsehole ye.
Fuck off yan IRA bastart.
So it’s like that is it. Efter me’n the boys rescuin ye fae that bunch o sheep-shaggers doon the toon.
A only asked fur a sub fuck.
Naw ye didnae. Anyhow, a telt ye the money wisnae the issue. It’s the fuckin way ye asked fur it.
Aye so ye said fuck.
Aye well let’s caw it a day then.
Catholic scumbag.
Gonnae fuckin cut that out?
How?
Cos that’s how.
Away hame’n play wi yer rosary beeds ya cunt.
Right that’s it.
Aw fuck man, wid’ye dae that fur?
Cos a felt like it.
That wiz ma fuckin lunch ya rotten bastart ye.
Fuckin good.
Fucksake a cannae eat it noo.
Fuckin even fuckin better.
Imagine emptyin an ashtray ower a man’s piece fucksake. It’s fuckin everywhere ya cunt.
Probably done ye a fuckin favour man.
How?
Well, a’ve seen the shite that wife o yours feeds ye.
Whit’re ye sayin noo ya bastart? Are you castin aspirations on ma Jessica?
Jessica fuck aw. Her name’s Jessie. Don’t gae me that shite.
Never mind aw that. Whit’ve ye got tae say aboot ma Jessica?
Ye’re always moanin’n greetin aboot’er yersel fucksake.
A’ll moan aw a want aboot ma ain wife. It disnae gae you the right but.
Aw hawd yer weesht.
Naw a wullnae. You fuckin Mickey bastart are aw the same. Fur ever pokin yer noses inae other cunts business.
Aye well, if a gaed ye twenty quid’n Celtic lose a’d never forgive ye. An if we win ye’ll come in on Monday an say, here’s the twenty fur the bet, a’ll gae ye the other twenty nixt week. Then ye’ll never pay it back.
Aye a wull.
Naw ye wullnae.
Aye a wull.
Ye wullnae.
How wull a no?
Cos ye’re no gettin the fuckin money.
And so it went on, on on, and on . . .
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