Bring back the Royal Scot. 

It’s been a while. I’ve started several blogs and given up. I’ll trawl through the drafts folder later and see if there’s any sows’ ears I can fashion a silk purse from, blogwise. Don’t get your hopes up, mind. If you’ve other things to do by all means go ahead and do them. Unless it’s anything of a sexual nature, in which case I don’t want to know about it thank you very much, and certainly not on a school night. 

I’m heading out in a minute to have a denim frock taken up and in. I obsessively searched up and down the land (well, ASOS and Dorothy Perkins) for a denim frock suitable for sashaying around Paris on my forthcoming city break with the Fabulous One. 

Having searched the Internet to no avail, I found a “vintage” – and yes I’m rolling my eyes too – denim frock which I won for twelve quid on eBay. Victory is mine! Sadly when it arrived it looked like a sack o’ tatties on, and needs taken up a good six inches and nipped in at the waist to give me some form, which although currently ambiguous, will hopefully resemble female thereafter. So all in all it’ll end up a dear do what with all the modifications required. It’d be easier just to lose weight and be a normal shape but until they outlaw Empire Biscuits or make them a Class A drug I’m afraid I’ll keep poking them down my throat and on to my lardy arse. 

My next obsession is to find the perfect comfy shoe for stomping crabbitly round Paris in. I’m fancying a leopard print trainer. Well two, obviously, not just one. Let’s push the boat out and buy a pair eh? YOLO and all that. The search begins. I’m a size 6 if you’ve a mind to go a-googling on my behalf. 

(I’ve been out and am back again. Imagine a dreamy shimmery sequence here to indicate the passage of time)

I nipped in to Morrisons for various foodstuffs (Empire Biscuits and bread. Forgot the bread) and in the car park I encountered the biggest bastard seagull you ever did see. It just stood there looking at me like “What’re YOU looking at fatso? I can smell the Empire Biscuits in yer bag. Geez yin or yer gay dug gets it and I’ll make it look like a fuckin’ accident”. 

***Tourist Information***

“Come to Dumfries! Come to the fair Queen o’ the South where the seagulls are bigger than fat toddlers and will nick the Greggs sausage roll straight out of your hand without as much as a by your leave while they call you fatso and relentlessly bully you into handing over your Empire Biscuits”

While I’m obsessing about Empire Biscuits – do you remember when you were wee and you made Empire Biscuits with two Royal Scots, a daud o’ jam and a dollop of watery icing? Halcyon days. Whatever happened to the Royal Scot?  

  If Royal Scots were a relative they’d be your posh auntie who’s no really posh but married well and had delusions of grandeur and an astrakhan coat. 

Off to google leopard print trainers. Have I mentioned Empire Biscuits enough in this post? Hmmm.  Not said vagina for a while. Vagina. Boom. 


11 thoughts on “Bring back the Royal Scot. 

  1. Ah the Royal Scot was a bit like a prison version of the digestive, or something they would have had on tall ships to allay wait a minute that was limes. They used them in the primary school version of home econnomics. “Cooking” I believe it was called. On the the subjects of bygone biscuits, how about the “Ayton sandwich”? Now that WAS a biscuit, most substantial, diamond shaped affair. Does one recal mu’um?x Sold in Trotters the grocers. Along with barrels of sherry to wash them down . X

    Liked by 1 person

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