Sorry, two Australians and a Scotsman walk into a bar.
Two Australians and a Shetlander dressed as an Australian convict walk into a bar.
An Australian in a Bundaberg Rum hat with a moustache, chops and jazz tuft drawn on his face; an Australian dressed in complete Surf Life Saver uniform with thongs and cap, a blacked out nose, a curly moustache, a monobrow and two cocks drawn on her face; and a 6 ft something Sooth End Shetlander dressed like a 1930s silent film robber with stripey shirt, black beanie and fingerless gloves, black eye mask and a Hitler moustache fall backwards through the door of Jinty McGuinty's on a dreary Saturday afternoon after a trashbag Aussie house party followed up by Bloody Marys and terrorising the public along Byres Road...
Jesus. Binge. Big binge. At which point did it start going downhill? It didn't. From answering the door to two angry police women at 3am while unknowingly having a big, curly moustache drawn across my face ("Is there a problem, Officers?" as she rubs the end of her 'tache with forefinger and thumb), to both toilets breaking halfway through the night and flooding both bathrooms leaving the party patrons to deal with wet feet and no flushes, to ciggie burns in a bedroom, to two girls taking my bed forcing my esteemed guest Smith and I to squeeze onto a couch each sans blanket while The Rippa slept sans bed in a heap on the bedroom floor. It was alright. Turning in after the sun had turned out. Waking and realising there was nothing for it but to hit the chilly streets of Glasgow in costume- cocks on face and all- and head straight to the boozer for Hair Of The Dog.
After the girl at the bar spiked mine and Smith's BM with too much tobasco and pepper, it was Guinness time next door. Dream Boat Bar Boy was a dream boat. Penises and moustache were a hit (must go back with a clean face).
Then on to Curler's for first meal in 24 hours, though not really a success. Gammon, for those of you playing at home, is like a huge piece of fleshy bacon. Lloyd Llegs doesn't dig on bacon. Gave it a shot but turned it in to Prisoner Number One. Then we were joined by the delicious Kurt Cobain aka Cork Hat Ben
and proceeded to get our culture on at Pere Ubu's Glasgow Film Festival show. So much promise, so little delivered. I could tell Convict and Cork Hat were hating it. Shame shame. Spoken word/play with intermittent music and dismal animation. Subway ride home proved most amusing. Entertaining the subway car and applause and accolades we did receive. Back to Water World for quality 10 pound pint slabs of Tennent's finest almost-out-of-date ale. 
It did end, sadly, eventually: it ended. On a couch under a green blanket it wound down. Then Smith was gone and all that was left was a big mess. And a hundred odd photos. And someone's black scarf and a few bottles of vodka with about 40mL left.ps- I'm sorry Jamie. It was me that gave Lyall the wedgie, not you. I had no idea he had such a strong sense of retribution.
