So there we were, the Doll and I. Spats had turfed us out of the caddy onto the murkiest looking sidewalk this side of the Hudson. Something to do with kilts and a skid mark... we may never know the whole story.
But what we did know we did not like.
The Doll was bereft - she'd left her lippy and her all time favourite gum-guard in the back of the Spatsmobile. There was no consoling her.
Perhaps a warm soup and a cheery crust may just do the trick.
With my eye on the main chance and looking for peck on the cheek, not a punch in the face, we took cover in the first doorway to hove into view - Rab Ha's - known as the glutton haunt of Glasgow - food, fine wine and a comfy bed should the need arise.
But instantly I was confused - the door opened outward. Not that confusing I hear you cry, but just wait till you do it yourself. The tiny step up is just in the wrong place and as I try to let the doll pass me gallantly I can't help but to have to spin round on a dime to avoid the heavy set door. I crack her one in the jaw. Lucky old spare gum guard.
Once inside, the noise is pleasant. The warm tones of a Limey voice echo above the faint chinks of glasses and the soft clatter of kitchen atmos from below decks. There is a cold tension in the air but the vibe is hot 80s pop from the musicola. Jermaine Stewart doesn't want to take his clothes off, but the Doll is already down to her over garments - the hat, scarf and corrective footwear are stacked neatly by the Gaggia. Without missing a beat the bar tab was set and the doll charged in amongst the menu to crave the super silky soup she yearned for. It was Spats who'd promised her soup, so when that particular plan hit the skids I had no choice but to cater in his absence.
So soup it was. But with a twist.
In this particular establishment there appears to be an anomally.
No sourdough loaf on the side here... oh no.
No cheeky Ciabatta. No crusty crouton. No flaky french.
Not even a hint of the mother's pride.
No. No siree.
With this tasty tureen come a quiz...
And one like no other. It soon becomes clear that the limey voice drifting above all the other noise belongs to one mean looking dude - Specky, big smile. Even bigger lapels..... and shiny. He's very shiny. And royal.... He's very royal. With a capital R. And scary with a capital 'F*ck You'
Sir James, as it turns out, is the bastard son of QE2. Some say she'd been taken up her barnacle bill-end by Messers Harry & Hill of London one eventful night on the upper deck of the royal yacht Brittania. And who are we to disagree. It can be the only rational explanation. I repeated this turgid tale to the doll who instantly fainted with fright at the mental image of the bastard son of Harry Hill and QE2 exploding into the world and onto the floor of the Buck house birthing suite. The doll was so unsettled by this she fainted 3 more times... without once coming round. That was the last I saw of her.
Needless to say I stayed in position - there was a quiz to be won and it was going to be easy. The competition was poor...
Some loud crowd at the other end seemed to get most things right. Annoyingly they claim some degree of superiority as a result and become the most hateful quiz team in Europe. The Gullibles are smug b*stards. The other teams fair no better but no worse.
A mixture of cock jokes and guess the year questions are peppered throughout some tricky posers and teasers with a bonus round which, legend has it, was better when you just had to guess the answer for a set number of points. Apparently, in a brain meltdown of catatonic proportions, Sir James decided to revert to old rules this evening to "bring parity amongst the teams and increase the drama through a more cohesive and transparent set of partnerships" . These days you just have to write down the first 10 examples of something. This week - monsters ! In, what turned out to be a rare moment, some feisty young cove began to doubt the intergrity of both the Gulibles and Sir James. This was met with fervent abuse from all present. How could the Gullibles have got such a list together so quickly? They must have cheated. And I quote."This is bullshit"
Turns out that if one has half a brain and one can use a pencil and paper, the task is not too hard, particularly if two people are writing at the same time But for the young man who questioned... get a grip.
The quiz progesses until the ultimate showdown. The winners and the losers share a joke at the expense of Sergio Gullible. His team-mates were just a degree off wringing his neck for being pussy whipped into submission after a score re-trial debacle at the tie break stage. But the man was right. Hail Sergio - wisest of all Gullibles everywhere.
In the end everyone goes home happy - except the doll. No soup. No Nothing. Not even Sir James's big sack of cack with the glittery pencil.
A great night - everytime. See you there on Thursdays at 9pm read more