DADDY WAS A BANK ROBBER

It was a sunny, pleasant Tuesday and I was sitting in the alcoholic bowels of Bainsford’s now sadly demolished Big Bar, at the infamous bar itself. I was halfway through my second pint of lager, drinking and not thinking and just going with the Falkirk flow when a scruffy-looking guy wearing an old scabby parka entered and moved to stand at my right at the bar. It was a relatively warm day and his choice of attire was odd. I didn’t pay him much attention, and I barely noticed when the young blonde barmaid Kathleen wandered across to him and he ordered his drink.
      “A pint ay special please Kathleen.”
      She stood and looked at him for a second or two, arms folded, but made no move to pour his pint. She was eyeing this new arrival sharply and I began to get interested. Why wasn’t she serving him?
      “Huv ye goat the money?” she asked the unshaven punter. A strange thing to ask a customer, I thought.
      “Aye, ah’ve goat it, gie’s a pint ay special doll.”
      “Show me the money first.” Kathleen seemed unimpressed, still making no move to serve the guy.
      It was round about this point that I sussed out what the situation was. Here was a dubious character who’d probably been shady about paying his way in the past, maybe even to the point of not paying his bar tab. Which, in a place like the Big Bar, was not a good idea. Unless he wanted, say, his face smashed through the bandit, as had happened to one unlucky punter in the past. The dents from that wee infamous skirmish were still evident on the machine.
      I awaited further developments with vague interest.
      “Awright then, jist gie’s ma pint. Here ye go.” Unshaven Scruffy Punterman reached into his jacket pocket and threw a handful of five pences onto the bar. Kathleen just shrugged and began to pour the special.
      “Whaur’d ye get that? Rob a bank or somethin?” she mocked drily.
      Her target smiled and nodded vigorously, pleased at the sight of his life-saving drink being poured.
      “Aye, the wean’s, the wean’s.”
      I tried not to laugh as Kathleen handed him his pint and scooped up the silver from the bar. I hoped this chancer wasn’t looking for a small gift from his kid at Christmas otherwise he was going to be sorely disappointed. Then, as the bank robber began to drink his ill-gotten gains, I raised my own glass and swallowed some lager in a private toast to caring and responsible fathers all over Scotland.

Slainte!

END

(True story. Kathleen was not the barmaid's name. No idea what it was, this happened years ago. The bit about the bandit is real, too. The Big Bar was a very classy institution.)