You butter believe it's not a woman

You know those mornings, when you wake up the day after a big session, and you immediately realise that something is not quite right? That terrible moment of realisation when the video recorder in your mind is set to rewind and you are paralysed by a memory from the night before. "Oh fuck!, I didn't text the ex girlfriend - please no"?, or "shit!, I didn't get my cock out in the bar again - did I"?, and other such questions. How many times have your intoxicated blunders resulted in you uttering the following sentence? "That's it, I am never drinking again!"


The tale that I am about to relay, exemplifies these 2 points perfectly. This story, unlike most of my other bizarre antics, remained untold for many years - for reasons which will become obvious. But, as with everything in life, time has diluted the incident and age has ensured that I don't actually give a fuck.


"If it's funny, it's in".




Slowly, I force one of my eyes open and peer around the room. As always after a heavy drinking session, I see that my clothes are strewn across the bedroom floor. Nothing alarming there! My next observation however, does leave me feeling slightly anxious. My bedroom door, which is connected to the kitchen that I share with my very conservative neighbour, is wide open. "Fuck"!, I think to myself - "I hope that I was under the covers when she walked past". I am given scant little time to dwell on this thought before the next level of anxiety kicks in.


I can't actually remember whether it was the sound of breathing or the sense of hot air on the back of my neck, that alerted me to the presence of the person lying behind me. Initially, this thought excites me. The possibility of a day of passion, supersedes any worries I may have, that my neighbour may have witnessed my actions of the previous night. However, the sudden flow of blood to my loins will not last for long.


Although the person does not speak, I can feel that they are awake. I sense their eyes peering into the back of my head. I want to turn around and face my prize, but I am a little nervous - "What if she's a minger"? I casually think to myself. However, curiosity soon gets the better of me and I turn over. What I am confronted by will haunt me for the rest of my life.


It's difficult to say whether it is the toothless grin, the weather beaten face or the beard which scares me the most. Although, a combination of the three was never going to be a winning formula. In total shock, I roll over to get away from this thing that occupies my bed, and in doing so my body makes contact with a solid object beneath the covers. Grateful for the distraction, I delve under the duvet to retrieve the said object. Great! Just when I thought that things could not get any worse, I re-emerge with a pot of butter in my hand.


He chooses this moment to speak for the first time.


"Alreet big man", he barks at me. (At least I think that's what he says).


"Fantastic", I think to myself, as if this situation needed a new twist of drama. He's from fucking Glasgow! The strong accent, whilst being easily mistaken for a Neanderthal man, is not mistakable as being Glaswegian.


Right now, my mind is all consumed with thoughts that should never occur, in any man's life time. These are not the normal, after drink muses, such as - Did I eat a pizza last night? How the fuck did I get home? Did I spend all my money? I would welcome these questions with open arms. The questions currently at the forefront of my mind, are of the following calibre:- Have I been date raped? Is my anal virginity still intact? Did I willingly invite this person back to my apartment? Has my neighbour witnessed this? How am I going to get rid of him?


The next 3 hours are uncomfortable to say the least. Imagine that you are on a speed date and have 3 minutes with the most awkward date ever. Exchange the minutes for hours and you have some idea of how it feels to share your bed with a naked, drunken, Glaswegian - who it turns out, is a Glasgow Rangers football hooligan.


During this 3 hours, I find out that Gary (he is quick to personalise our Sunday morning bed in), is from the Govan area of Glasgow, and likes nothing better than to smash people's faces in at football matches. He, moved to Holland (for that's where this story unfolds), 5 years ago - to escape his violent past. The conversation goes something like this:


Gary: "Ye see big man - where i'm fro - yoove either got to ren fasht or be a feighter - I'm feckin both, big man" - he chortles to himself. (he is telling me that if you are from Glasgow, you either have to run fast or be a fighter - Gary is both - in case you were wondering).


I make no retort, I am still trying to work out what in Christ's name, he is talking about (and what he's doing in my bed).


Gary: "Aye, I alwaes carried a blade big man. Wae yoost te tape tee blades togetha, we a gap tween big man. Da gash would be so big, hospitals, could'ne fix da faces" - this is met by a further bout of laughter. (Ok, here - he has just told me that he used to tape 2 blades together, so that his victims would be left with a cut too big for the hospitals to properly fix).


Yeah, you heard me right! I am lying in bed with a naked, Glaswegian psychopath. Who likes nothing better than slashing peoples faces, in such a manner that hospitals can't fix them. Now, I'd be lying if I told you that I did not like new experiences. I have found myself in more weird situations than most people would ever experience in 10 life times. Right now though, I am feeling much less comfortable than I wish to feel


The conversation continues in a similar vein for 3 hours, during which time, I hear a lot of things that I don't really want to hear - bottles in faces, knifes through necks, broken jaws, gouged out eyes etc etc etc. With each new tale, Gary seems to be exciting himself more. At one point, he tells me the story of the first black player in Scotland, Mark Walters, and how every fruit shop in Glasgow sold out of banana's at his debut game. Gary, cries with laughter, as he recalls how the pitch was literally covered in banana's, which took the stewards half an hour to clear up.


The only break I get, during this 3 hours, is when Gary goes to the toilet. During which time, I check the butter pot for penis imprints and my arse hole for any evidence of foul play. Thankfully, the pot reveals nothing more than a few old bread crumbs, and my arse hole does not feel like it's been jousted.


Eventually, Gary's blood/alcohol level and stories of football violence, both dry up, and he decides to head off.


I quickly return my neighbours butter to the fridge, close the door, withdraw beneath the duvet, and vow never to drink alcohol again.


A few weeks later, I am informed by my neighbour that she will be moving out.