Self Ful-fishing Prophecy

Please note: this piece contains strong language.

'Now come on Kevin, be quiet now, you'll upset the neighbours,' pleaded Kev’s maw in her soft voice, as she leaned oot the kitchen windae of their semi-detached hoose.

'YASSSS!!! YA FILTY BAM!' Kev screamed again, in his pre-pubescent voice, raising his new creation intae the air and pointing it at the scorching sun. His fat shadow lay across the length of his back gerden, and this contraption he hid made wis heavy weird.

'FILTHY BAM… ' echoed across the quiet and respectable housing estate. Kev wis the typical spoilt, middle class 90s ten year auld. He had a kind and doting maw that he treated like crap, a calm and respectable da he would moan at aw the time, and he had all the latest fads, toys and branded claes – baggy white Adidas t-shirt, Le Coq Sportif trainees, and for some reason EXTREMELY tight Nike joggy shorts… a mean, obscenely tight.

'Look, Kev, this is a bad idea,' a interjected, 'This isnae good… ye know… like your last 50 ideas… ' a tried to warn him, but aye, he ignored me…

'FILTY BAM!!!' he randomly screamed at me and Stevie; his big fat sweaty face turning red with excitement, an unfortunate but not uncommon bogey bubble exploding oot wan of his nostrils. He looked like some saddo, pathetic wannabe warrior, stawning there raising his bizarre invention into the air. What, a pure, state man.

Stevie wis stawning at the other side of the gerden fae Kev, because he wis terrified of him. Stevie wis the youngest of the group, eight year auld and a completely useless plank of wood.

A couldnae stawn this any longer,

'Kev, that is not a fishing rod!!' a said, 'That thing in yer hawn is just a brush pole, wire and a fishing hook ye hammered together! It is a disaster Kev, a DEATH TRAP!!'

'LET’S GO OAN A FISHING ADVENTURE, YASSS!!' Kev screamed, as he swung the brush pole above his heid in a hyper, unhinged craze, the wire whizzing through the air.

'Stop flinging that aboot, or you’ll hiv someb’dy’s eye oot ya dafty!!' a said, backing away fae the maniac.

Ma stomach droapped tae ma jakey Ascot trainers, and a felt a sense of dread. A heard a subtle and extended groan comin’ fae behind me – a am 97% sure that Stevie had jist shat himself oot a terror.

Gress, Dirties and Sticky Willies

A kept grabbing hawnfuls of sticky willies fae the long grass, and flinging them oan Kev’s big fat arse as he waddled through the backfields in front of me. Stevie wis behind me watching, and a could hear him sniggering away tae himsel.

Before setting oot oan our “adventure” (Jesus!) Kev had grabbed his “fishing rod” (oh god, so embarrassing!), his bumbag, and a half eaten packet of Opal Fruits. A big fanny wearing a fannypack, hahahaha! Anywae.

'Yas the backfields boys. At wan wae nature and ah that!' Kev said tae himsel proudly.

The backfields man. A mean, the backfields were an expanse of wilderness, aw gress and trees. Sometimes you’d be lucky enough tae see some of the local wildlife: some Southy dirties hivin’ a cheeky wee pump, or an abandoned double decker bus left by NEDs who had stolen it, or the local young teams drinking Buckfast, just waiting tae batter wee guys like us. A modern paradise a hear you say? Aye, absolutely.

A wis starting to get seriously fed up, and about to turn back and go hame when,

'We are HERE lads!!' Kev proclaimed.

Ma eyes followed his dirty, stubby finger pointing out to a stinking marsh land stretched before us. It weaved through the long gress, and clearly had ZERO fish in it. ZERO! A mean, best you could catch fae that water wis a used condom or typhoid… or both! What a win!

Dirty and disorientated, Stevie sat slumped against a tree. A stood next to him, watching an overly excited Kev swinging his bloody fishing rod aboot. Kev “cast” (a use the term “cast” with the most extreme sarcasm) his fishing rod intae the swamp again and again. He looked back at us, with a stupid, idiotic grin all over his dirty face.

'You go big man!' a said to Kev, questioning what I am doing wae ma life, when it happened!

Everything seemed to go in slow motion.

Kev slowly pulled the contraption, fishing rod, whatever the hell it wis, backwards.

The wire floated gracefully through the air behind him.

A glanced up, to see the hook get caught on a branch on the tree where Stevie sat below.

A tried to warn Kev it wis caught on the branch, but it wis too late.

Kev gave a severe yank of the brush handle, releasing the hook, and the wire swung uncontrollably through the air towards him…

'AHHHHHHH, AH, AH, AH MY EYEEEEE!!!' squealed Kev.

'Holy Christ!!!' a exclaimed, frozen on the spot. The fishing hook wis lodged in his eyebaw!

Stevie froze tae, and I am 150% certain he definitely shat himself. The smell wis undeniable.

Kev wis a sight to behold. Holding the fishing rod in the air (cause he couldnae let it go noo or it would rip his face aff), hook in his eye, blood dripping doon his face, wee tiny shorts, sticky willies aw er his arse, wearing his bumbag. Stunning.

We slowly made ur way back hame, tired, trundling through the same long gress, listening oot for NEDs, Kev’s constant whimpering, as the sun set in the distance.

After the longest, most awkward walk a have ever hid, the three of us arrived bogging and disheveled ootside Kev’s hoose.

Kev slowly opened his front door, looking back at me with the hook in his wee gammy eye. He clattered and maneuvered intae his patio wae that contraption; there wis a moment of silence, and then,

'WHHHHHAAATTT THE HELL!!!?????' screamed Kev’s maw in horror.