What kind of a langer is Bertie?
No. I’m quite serious. What kind of a dipshit is he? Does he think we’re all idiots? What’s this nonsense about the Manchester thing? Apparently, there were about twenty Manchester people at this talk he gave, plus maybe another fifteen Irish people, and they kind of – spontaneously, in an uncontrollable burst of generosity – got together and gave Bertie Ã‚£8000. Cos that’s what we Irish are like, and what makes us so loveable, isn’t it? We’re just so fucking spontaneous!
“Here y’are Bertie. Here’s eight grand.”
What did they do? Did somebody go around with a hat, or maybe an old toupee? “Come on, lads. We agreed on eight grand. That’s Ã‚£533.33 each. A nice round figure.”
What happened then? Did the guy with the big red nose empty the money out on the hotel carpet in front of Bertie and stick the wig back on his fat sweating head? “Sorry about the change, Bert.”
I mean, what did Bertie make of all this? Was he surprised? “Ah Jayz, lads, no, th-th-th-th-there’s n-n-n-n-n-no need for this. I done, I done nothin I wouldn’t a-done for yiz anyhow, an’ I never seen this comin’, honest!”
But in the end, Bertie took it. He took the fucking money. He spread it out on the bed in his room after the meeting, he picked out the bits of false red hair and dandruff, and he pocketed the notes, and then he probably ambled back down to the bar with the spare fifty in coin, cos that’s what he’s like, y’know? One of the lads. And he probably bought all the lads a drink, with their own money.
All except Charlie Chawke, of course. One shot and he’s legless.