DADDY WAS A BANK ROBBER

It was a sunny, pleasant mid-1990s Tuesday and I was sitting in the bilious alcoholic bowels of Bainsford’s now sadly demolished Big Bar, at the infamous bar itself. I was halfway through my second pint of lager, idle thoughts drifting through my brain as I wistfully eyed Kathleen, the facially scarred blonde barmaid who was one of the only reasons to occasionally drink in this mental gaff. I was drinking and not thinking and just going with the Falkirk flow when a scruffy-looking guy wearing a ratty old parka came in and moved to stand at my right at the bar, next to the bottles of cheap beer illegally imported from France in a van. I didn’t pay him much attention, and I barely noticed when Kathleen wandered across to him.

“A pint ay special, please, Kathleen.”

She just stood and looked at him for a second or two, but made no move to pour his pint. She was eyeing this new arrival sharply and I began to get vaguely interested. Why wasn’t she serving him?

“Huv ye goat the money?” she asked the unshaven punter. A strange thing tae ask a customer, I thought idly.

“Aye, ah’ve got it, gie’s a pint ay special doll.” He said it as if she’d just asked him the stupidest question in the world, and maybe she had.

“Show me the money first.” Kathleen looked unimpressed, still making no move to serve the thirsty guy. It was an unseasonably hot day for Scotland, and I bet that anybody dressed for completely the wrong weather, as he was, would have a serious dry throat on them.

It was round about this point I sussed out what the situation was. Here was a chancer 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 great idea, if the bashed-in bandit, where somebody’s face had gotten put through it, was anything to go by.

I boredly awaited further exciting developments with pulse pounding.

“Awright then, jist gie’s ma pint. Here ye go.” Unshaven Scruffy Punterman reached into his scabby jacket pocket and splashed a skittering handful of five pences onto the bar. Kathleen just shrugged, tutted, and began to pour the pint.

“Whaur’d ye get that? Ye rob a bank or somethin’?” she mocked him drily.

Her target smiled and nodded vigorously, pleased at the sight of his life-saving bevvy 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 scummy desperado wasn’t looking for a small gift from his wee yin 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 Arcoroc France pintglass and swallowed some lager in a private toast to caring and responsible fathers all over Scotland.

THE END