The Fuckwits

These are the fuckwits, and this is their story:

We met them through gaydar when we lived in our wee flat in Mortonhall, Edinburgh.

They seemed pretty nice at first. Thomas (the guy with dark hair) was a psychiatric nurse and Gordon (the fat one that looks like he's got the mental age of a four year old) was in logistics. Turned out, that meant he was an administrator for a bunch of lorry drivers.

We went for a few evenings out with them to pubs and clubs in Glasgow and for walks with our dogs (we didn't have Mary back then). Their dog was a Border Collie X called Domino. We spent a few evenings with them, too, at thier home. You know, the usual, meal, drinks... They came to us once or twice.

It would seem, like most people, they were on their best behaviour when we first got to know them. They were polite, funny, friendly... And before too long, we'd organised to go on holiday together, largely thanks to my brother belonging to some kind of holiday villa club. He couldn't go away that year, so rather than lose his time in one of the properties, he offered us the choice of many villas and apartments around Europe and North America. We chose a place not far from Faro in Portugal.

It was all left to me to book, which I did, six months in advance. I bought the aeroplane tickets and, with my brother, booked the villa.

I'm not a materialistic person, really I'm not, but I was slightly annoyed. It took the fuckwits about five months to pay for the flights. The accommodation was free, thank the lord. I don't know what would have happened if I'd paid for that, too. The trouble was, it was no big deal to them. They just came up with some lame excuse about the money or that they'd forgotten. I was very tempted to tell them that it wasn't a loan...

That was all very well, but as the six months went on, we learned more and more about the fuckwits, things we didn't like. Nothing earth-shattering, just horrid little habits and immature behaviour.

Gordon wasn't out to his (adoptive) parents. He simply said it was none of their business. Though, if the truth be known, reading between the lines, he suffered from an accute case of internalised homophobia. He didn't like the fact that he was gay himself and so could not accept the fact that his parents would like it. He was as camp as knickers, the whole time, apart from when someone from his work would call (he was on call 24 hours a day). He'd immediately drop his voice two octaves and strut around with his mobile telephone like some neanderthal.

Gordon, it seemed, also had a very short fuse and hated their dog, Domino. They would often have huge arguments about the dog in front of us. Thomas would wind Gordon up even more by remaining as calm as possible and laughing in his face. Not a pretty sight.

Thomas, as I said, was a psychitric nurse and had, in my humble opinion, been to one or two too many sociology lectures. It seemed he was a past master in the art of annoying people and getting what he wanted.

One time, after a night out in Glasgow (where I drank fourteen bottles of Stella Artois) we stayed over at their place. Meg and Domino were housed, outside, in their garden, in some strange enclosure with a wee dog kennel in in. On our return, Meg had bitten through the posts and was waiting at the back door, wagging her tail! Oops!

No-one was too bothered though...

I put Meg in the living room and went up to bed. Thomas came in. "Meg can sleep in here with you if you like!" he said. Ian told him she'd be alright downstairs. He said it was no bother for her to be upstairs. Ian repeated that she'd be ok down there. She never slept in our bedroom. "I'd prefer it if she were in here with you!" he snapped.

Christ.

What a child.

And they really did act like spoilt brats the whole time. It was very annoying. They were always bickering, always bragging and forever making themselves look like complete idiots.

We were beginning to regret booking this holiday with them. But booked it, we had, and there was no turning back.

We were going to Portugal in August/September and this was July. We just moved to our house in Armadale. The fuckwits came across with their dog. It shat all over my garden. They thought it was funny, then said, "It must have been Meg." Meg's never done a yellow or a brown in any garden of mine. I trained her well! Some other friends of our's came across too, and we had some kind of dinner party. Our other friends hated the fuckwits and hardly spoke to them. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. It was dreadful.

Only a matter of weeks later, and we're off on holiday.

Oh holy shit.

They drove across to our house, we left our car at home and drove with them, to a secure car-park near Edinburgh airport. Gordon had booked it, saying he'd used it before, how cheap it was and how great it was... Ian told him to cancel it as there was one much nearer to the airport and considerably cheaper. He refused and got in another strop.

On arrival, something like four in the morning, a mini-bus was supposed to take us to thei airport. The guy on the desk told us the first mini-bus was at six. We told him our flight was at six...! The guy insisted there were no flights before eight in the morning from Edinburgh. He was a complete knob. Ian and I said we'd get a taxi, get checked in etc while Gordon sorted it out. We got our taxi to the airport, checked in and breathed a sigh of relief.

They soon joined us, telling us that some other bloke had come to the desk and said the other one didn't know his arse from his elbow and that we could now check in. We told them that out of fear of Ian and I not sitting together, we'd already checked in. Gordon got in a right strop. As it was, the two seats across the aisle from us were not taken, so they were booked in there.

Then we went to the bar for breakfast. Yes, that's right, the bar. Thomas had gin, Gordon had a pint and a whisky chaser. Ian and I had coffee. Now, I'm not opposed to booze - but at five in the fucking morning on an empty stomach???

We got to Faro about lunch time and I'd already had enough of them. They were moaning, fighting, sulking and generally acting like children the whole time. I was very close to telling them to have an early night.

We got to the villa... They put their bags down and headed to... Guess where...!? That's right, the pub. We went upstairs and put our things away in a wardrobe in one of the bedrooms. The fuckwits came back about an hour later and put their things away. They were furious because we'd taken the bigger room.

Christ alive!

It was about one square metre bigger... And who were they to complain? They were staying there free thanks to my brother's charity - and all they could do was complain?

That afternoon, we went to the beach. Then, in the eveninv, they wanted to go to... Yes, you already know... The pub.

And so it went on for another couple of days. Beach and pub. Pub and beach.

We'd aready hired a car and decided to split the cost of it. It wasn't being used (by them at least) as they only ever wanted to walk to the beach or walk to the pub. Both were less than ten minutes away on foot.

We decided we'd like to go to Lisbon and asked if they minded if we take the car. I think it was about a four hour journey. They told us that we could, but if we did, they weren't going to share the cost of it. Fair enough. They'd not used it anyway, the idiots.

They went off to the pub. The Jolly Jack Tar or something like that. I hate going abroad and finding little England, full English fry-ups and Sky Sports showing at Ye Olde Oak. But they were happy with that, so we went our separate ways for a few days.

We came back to find them having had a huge fall out and not speaking, though they wanted to go for a meal. By now, Gordon had an enormous cold sore on his lip and was continually licking it. He looked like a complete tit. We went to a restaurant and had a meal. They both complained, obviously, about, "all this foreign muck," but we all ordered anyway and got on with it.

Gordon had melon. Instead of eating it with a spoon or fork, he picked it up and ate it like a monkey, the juice spewing out of his mouth and all over the floor.

A bunch of Portuguese women were sat on the next table to us. Evidently, it was someone's birthday. We saw who it was and wished them many happy returns of the day. They then offered us a piece of birthday cake, which we gladly accepted. Then Gordon said we should buy them a drink, taking on his butch/masculine/ape-man persona again. I said I didn't think it was such a good idea. "See how it looks," I said. "Four blokes out with no wives or girlfriends offering to buy some single women a drink. It might make them nervous." He told me he thought it was disgraceful and went off into another strop. I think he was most upset because our not buying them a drink might add fuel to the fire of them thinking we might actually be homosexuals... But, hey, ho!

Much licking of the cold sore went on the whole time.

We did our level best to avoid them for the final week. They went to the pub and to the beach every day (where they pallied up with some English schemies/chavs/neds) and we went sight seeing. We had a great time.

Then it was time to go home. I couldn't wait.

We were soon back in bonnie Scotland. Yay! They drove us home, we were all very polite and courteous, even chatty. But that was the last time we ever saw or heard from them. They must have known how we were feeling as they didn't bother themselves...!

Cunts!