Runkin raised a wry eyebrow as he overheard some poor idiot order a Glenfiddich at the bar. All eyes subtly turned to witness the imminent humiliation of this naive soon-to-be-ex customer.
“A Glenfiddich sir? A Glenfiddich is it? No, I’m afraid sir that we do not sell spirits manufactured by William Grant and Sons Ltd in this establishment. No doubt you will be aware of the simple reason for this omission?”
Hamish the barman’s smile froze, and every ear was tuned in for the response.
“Naw. Why no? It’s a good dram that Gl…!”
The last word was lost as the poor bastard’s heid was thumped firmly but gently onto the top of the bar and held there, and Hamish pushed his bearded fizzog close to the customer’s terrified and confused face. “Because, ye daft eejit, William Grant and Sons Ltd, manufacturers of said whisky, invested a sum of one hundred thousand pounds supporting the campaign to retain the Act of Union, itherwise known as No Thanks, Better Together, or UKOK. So we dinnae sell their pish here, and we dinnae serve any type of beverage to ignorant wee shites who dinnae ken any better.”
The head was released, and Hamish’s grimace became a pleasant, but forced smile. “Now if that’s all sir, I’ll thank you to be on your way. Dinnae let that door hit yer erse on the way oot.”
Act as if you were in the early days of a better country.