VVV cont'd...

Job #3 - Regatta Bingo

An alcohol-related error in my UCAS form - surprisingly easily done in post A-Level euphoria - had resulted in me being allocated a place on entirely the wrong course at a University that didn't even actually run the course that i'd intended to study (Journalism was the intention, Print Mechanics the outcome), and I therefore found myself alone in the great city of Edinburgh with nowt much to do, shivering in my Trimm-Trabs and duffle coat, with my Ian Brown haircut getting gently soaked in the drizzle coming in from the Forth.

Perhaps my senses were jarred by the all pervading smell of mince and tatties from the still-brewing breweries, or maybe the intoxicating qualities of Tennents Eighty Shillings and golden dripping deep-fried haggis knocked my common sense askew, but I quickly lost my heart to a fair high-kicking highland maiden who went by the name of Louise Sutherland. Aah, the lovely Louise Sutherland...

Sadly, the lovely Louise Sutherland had no desire to take my heart, preferring instead to playfully toy with it and occasionally jab it in moments of boredom - however I remained blissfully unaware of this, following her around like a lovelorn little indie puppy, convinced that our future lay in "Monarch of the Glen" style splendour. A stolen kiss after she had spin-kicked me in the head one evening (I had agreed to let her practise her Ju-Jitsu on me) was all I needed to convince me to apply for a job at the bingo hall where she worked just off Tollcross. This, in retrospect, was a mistake.

Those not in the know may imagine bingo halls to be places of quiet, the harmony only being disturbed by the odd croak of "house" and the occasional bout of octogenarian flatulence. This is not the case. Bingo halls are frequented by very old ladies who, although they may appear meek and mild in everyday life, mutate into snarling spitting savages at the faint trace of a bingo caller on the wind. All semblance of order goes out of the window as soon as the game starts; it is open warfare.

My duty was to man the bar. An easy task? Oooh no. You see, there is generally only a five minute window to visit the bar during breaks in play. The bar was very small, and the ladies were many. If you have never witnessed a bingo bar stampede, it is akin to a scene from "Shaun of the Dead". A hundred or so broken bodies with violet tints and nasty brooches and once-glam debutante dresses from parties where the band stopped playing long ago, all shambling and shuffling at speed (they are surprisingly agile when they catch the scent of gin), clutching and grabbing, biting and spitting:

"Ah wis first, eh!"

"Dinnae listen tae her wee laddie, i'll hae a haf an' haf..."

I was also appointed unofficial bouncer, meaning that it was my job to escort troublemakers from the premises. What's that you say? It can't be too difficult to deal with frail pensioners? You rather eject a pensioner than a six foot shaven-headed thug with teardrops tattoed down his cheek? Gosh no. I will tell you now that it would be infinitely easier to escort an entire battalion of aggrieved squaddies from the premises than one bingoed-up great-grandmother.

The problem, you see, is that they are breakable. Very breakable. That doesn't mean that they can't do you damage - I still have the scars today - but essentially, due to their skin-and-bones composition, they are impossible to lift safely. I would equate it to a removal man attempting to carry a very old, very delicate antique bookcase down a steep flight of stairs. A bookcase that bites. There is no grabbable part that is immune to snapping off. They are, in short, immensely awkward. And breaking them is frowned upon.

I lasted a month, and never got to see the fragrant Louise anyway, as she worked in the foyer. The manager's parting words were "Son, ye'll never make it in the bingo industry". I agreed with him. Still do.