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It was a Saturday afternoon in Glasgow. I bumped into Brendan in Sauchiehall Street. He was on a break from his job at a nearby pub; I was walking back to the West End from the city centre. It was warm and I was thirsty, so we popped into R.S. McColl’s to get a drink. As I tried to decide whether to get a Diet Irn Bru or an Oasis Summer Fruits, Brendan began flicking through a magazine – FHM or Loaded or something. I can’t remember which exactly, but one with young TV presenters posing in their underwear.
I bought my drink and said, “Alright, Brendan,” looking over his shoulder and indicating that I was ready to leave.
“Right,” he said, not looking up from the magazine.
I decided I quite fancied a Biscuit Boost, and picked one up and headed back to the till. A small, somewhat hunched, elderly lady shuffled in. She had a warm hat and coat on in spite of the heat. She wanted to buy a newspaper located somewhere around Brendan’s knees. She moved next to him as Brendan turned the page of the magazine, without seeming to notice her presence. But he must have noticed, because he leaned his head over slightly, still looking at the young TV presenter and showed the picture to the person now standing next to him, who he had failed to notice was not actually me.
“Fuck me!” he said to the old lady, “She has fantastic tits!”
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