“I guess it’s just that time of the night,” I told everyone.
“It’s always that time of the night!” John the Scot laughed knowingly.
His friend Peter had just whipped out his tattooed cock in front of me and my dad.
“You don’t think I’m mental?!” Peter exclaimed before doing it.
Minutes before he had been talking about the heaviness of military service in Kosovo, finding dead kids in cars, and other war-related traumas.
“But let’s turn to lighter subjects, eh?” Peter said.
Apparently lighter subjects involved pulling out his cock for a few seconds while making eye contact in intervals between me and my dad.
Peter was a Liverpudlian, a true son of Liverpool, just another Scouse bastard living as wild as possible in the moment. He loved that me and my dad were going on this trip together.
He kept saying, “All you have is these moments.”
Falkirk is a wild place.
Two days before we would ever see Peter’s cock, we were in Perth. Perth is nice enough, but it was a little sleepy. We left Perth without too much fanfare. All we did there was go to the Old Ship Inn, a really old pub from the 1600s.
After leaving Perth we came to Stirling, and visited the castle at the center of Scottish geography and history. I ended up scaling its natural defenses, a sheer cliff with branches and bramble, on my way to a walk in the park. Then I met up with my dad at Settle Inn, a cheap little local watering hole where my dad made friends. Anytime my dad makes friends in Scotland, you can be sure that he’s going to be hungover the next day.
And it was in the spirit of that hangover, that we dragged ourselves to one of the shittiest, and I say that with love, towns in Scotland: Falkirk.
And the rest as they say, is history.
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