tartan

Och, here we gae again wi’ another daft tale aboot Kevin an’ Lance. This time, the two halfwits decided they’d start a band, thinkin’ they could become the next big thing in Glenfinnan. Kevin, the loudmouthed eejit, decided he’d play the bagpipes, while Lance, nae much brighter, took up the bodhrán drum.

They called themselves “The Tartan Terrors,” thinkin’ it wis a name tae strike fear intae the hearts o’ their rivals. But a’ they did wis strike fear intae the ears o’ anybody within hearin’ distance. Their first gig wis at McDougal’s Pub, where they managed tae convince the owner, Old Man McDougal, tae gie them a shot.

On the night o’ the big show, the pub wis packed. Folk had gathered oot o’ curiosity, hopin’ tae see a train wreck if nothin’ else. Kevin strutted on stage, his bagpipes tucked under his arm, while Lance followed, lookin’ like a right muppet wi’ his drum.

“Aye, ye bunch o’ bawbags! Are ye ready fer some real music?” Kevin shouted, his voice crackin’ like a pubescent laddie. The crowd groaned but cheered, ready tae see the spectacle unfold.

They started wi’ their first tune, “Auld Lang Syne.” Kevin squeezed his bagpipes, but instead o’ a melodious note, a godawful screech pierced the air. It sounded like a cat bein’ strangled. Lance, tryin’ tae keep up, banged his drum wi’ all the grace o’ a drunken monkey.

“Ach, whit in the name o’ auld Nessie’s erse is that noise?” someone shouted frae the back.

But Kevin, oblivious tae the catastrophe, kept playin’, his face turnin’ red as he puffed his cheeks like a bluidy blowfish. Lance, sweatin’ buckets, tried tae follow the beat, but he might as well hae been playin’ wi’ his feet fer a’ the good it did.

The crowd, nae langer able tae stand the racket, started throwin’ things. Auld boots, half-empty pints, an’ even a cabbage or two – likely left ower frae the market incident – flew through the air. One boot caught Kevin right in the face, knockin’ him on his arse, his bagpipes lettin’ oot a final, pitiful wheeze.

Lance, laughin’ at Kevin’s misfortune, lost his grip on the drumstick an’ sent it flyin’ intae the crowd, hittin’ Old Mrs. MacTavish square in the noggin. She let oot a roar an’ lunged fer the stage, ready tae clobber the pair o’ them.

“Ye daft bastards! I’ll show ye how tae play!” she screamed, climbin’ up an’ grabbin’ the drum frae Lance’s hands.

In the midst o’ the chaos, McDougal himself stormed on stage, red-faced an’ ready tae explode. “Ye eejits are barred! Get oot afore I boot yer arses intae next week!”

Kevin an’ Lance, their dreams o’ stardom shattered, scrambled aff the stage, dodgin’ projectiles an’ curses. They legged it oot the pub an’ hid behind the auld kirk, pantin’ an’ laughin’ at the disaster they’d created.

“Well, that wis a right shite show,” Kevin said, wipin’ a tear frae his eye.

“Aye, but at least we made a name fer oorsel’s,” Lance replied, still chucklin’.

An’ so, the tale o’ “The Tartan Terrors” wis added tae the annals o’ Glenfinnan’s legends, a cautionary tale o’ two eejits who thought they could be rock stars but ended up as the laughin’ stock o’ the toon. If ye ever hear a screechin’ bagpipe or a drum bein’ played like a pile o’ shite, jist mind Kevin an’ Lance, the kings o’ calamity an’ chaos.