scottish

Ach, gather roond, ye daft bastards, fer the tale o’ Kevin an’ Lance’s infamous pub crawl. It wis a cold night in Glenfinnan, an’ our eejit hero Kevin decided tae organize a pub crawl, thinkin’ it’d be a grand idea tae get the village pissed as farts.

“Right, Lance, we’re gaun tae hit every pub in the toon an’ drink them dry,” Kevin declared, already half-cut frae the pre-drinks.

Lance, nae any smarter, agreed. “Aye, let’s dae it! We’ll show these bawbags how tae party!”

The first stop wis McDougal’s Pub, where they started wi’ a pint o’ the strongest ale. Kevin, in his drunken wisdom, thought it’d be funny tae challenge the barman tae a drinkin’ contest. The poor barman, nae wantin’ tae be outdone by a muppet, agreed. Within minutes, the bar wis in uproar, folk cheerin’ an’ yellin’ as Kevin an’ the barman downed pint efter pint.

By the time they staggered oot o’ McDougal’s, Kevin wis stumblin’ like a blind man in a brothel. Lance, nae much better, decided it wis a grand idea tae steal a wheelbarrow frae outside the pub an’ push Kevin tae the next bar. “Hop in, ye daftie!” he slurred.

Kevin climbed intae the wheelbarrow, an’ off they went, careenin’ doon the cobbled streets like a pair o’ lunatics. They crashed intae the door o’ The Drunken Laird, causin’ a commotion as they tumbled inside.

“More ale, ye bastards!” Kevin roared, clamberin’ oot o’ the wheelbarrow. The patrons, already in their cups, joined in the chaos, an’ soon the whole place wis a riot o’ drinkin’, swearin’, an’ general debauchery.

As the night wore on, they moved frae pub tae pub, causin’ havoc wherever they went. At The Thirsty Thistle, Lance got intae a fight wi’ a burly farmer efter insultin’ his sheep. The farmer, nae takin’ kindly tae the slight, knocked Lance on his arse, an’ a full-blown brawl erupted.

Kevin, in his drunken state, decided tae climb on the bar an’ give a speech. “Ye’re a’ a bunch o’ shitebags!” he declared, wavin’ a bottle o’ whisky. “But tonight, we drink like kings!”

The crowd cheered, an’ the chaos continued. By the time they reached The Last Gasp, Kevin an’ Lance were barely able tae stand. They stumbled intae the pub, only tae be thrown oot immediately by the barman, who’d heard aboot their antics.

“Get tae fuck, ye eejits!” he shouted, tossin’ them intae the street. The duo, nae ready tae call it a night, decided tae continue the party ootside. They set up camp in the village square, singin’ bawdy songs an’ causin’ such a ruckus that the constable wis called.

The constable, auld Hamish, wis nae in the mood fer their shite. “Right, ye pair o’ arseholes, ye’re comin’ wi’ me,” he growled, haulin’ them tae their feet.

Kevin an’ Lance, laughin’ like idiots, were dragged aff tae the village jail, where they spent the night sleepin’ aff their drunken stupor on a cold, hard bench.

The next mornin’, they awoke wi’ heads like anvils an’ memories as foggy as a winter’s morn. “Ach, what the hell happened?” Lance groaned, clutchin’ his head.

Kevin, barely able tae open his eyes, mumbled, “I think we had a grand night oot.”

An’ so, the tale o’ Kevin an’ Lance’s disastrous pub crawl wis added tae the annals o’ Glenfinnan’s legends, a cautionary tale o’ two eejits who thought they could outdrink the village an’ ended up in the clink. If ye ever think yer night oot is gettin’ oot o’ hand, jist mind Kevin an’ Lance, the kings o’ calamity an’ chaos.