ThistleWhistle

When we met Roses were red Violets were blue The rest of my life Was dedicated to you This time last year I’d spend a fortune in B&Q Go all Christian Grey And turned your arse black n blue This year though I’ve made my choice I’d rather stop in Watching The Voice. Because our eyes are red Nappies are shitty We’re ####in skint So enjoy this ditty. Night times are fractious Sleep totally compromised Feels like we haven’t made love Since the pope was canonized I can’t complain But work concentration this hampers Plus if she shits any more We’ll get shares in Pampers No worries on sex Now I just want my bed I know the girth of my penis Compared to her head. Milk costs a fortune And she only drinks half But when I complain You just start to laugh I threaten to fill her with diesel You say I’ve taken it too far But it really is cheaper Running the car. Our balance is red Relationship passive We can’t afford takeaways Yet your arse is still massive In a few months Is my brother’s wedding I dislike my sister in law So you’re not going in bedding You’ll expect roses And a three course dinner But I’ve hit on a plan And it’ll make you thinner Gym round the corner Have a half price offer You’ll drop a couple of sizes Whilst protecting the coffer I know you’ll be angry Twitch in your eye But to show I’m serious I’ve cancelled Sky Hopefully this proves It isn’t a stunt In the wedding photos I don’t want to see your arse from the front Wedge on the lycra It’ll chaff like sin But in half an hour I’ve booked you in Intermediate Spin Love Always Whistle

Couple of the lads in our pub team played for the same Lads n Dads team in their youth and would regularly reminisce about their various trophies. One of the lads had a season where he scored 50+ goals in a season. They agreed between them it was mainly down to the tricky left winger who had a wand and basically just crossed it on this lump’s big stupid napper 50+ times over the campaign. None of them knew who he was as he transferred after one season, hadn’t spoken much and was from a different school. About 5 year ago one of the lads said they’d been clearing out the loft at their folk’s house and had found a team photo taken with a cup. Turned out the tricky left winger nobody could remember anything about was Robbie Williams. Just liked the juxtaposition that various members of this football team, all with mundane jobs in essence, tried to work out who this lad was for ages over countless beverages and ended up being the most famous living person from Stoke. Always wander too if on one of his nights out he was ever like ‘Bono have I ever told you about that season I had nearly 100 assists with half coming from crossing it on to this big stupid lump’s 50p shaped head? Never said “Cheers” once nor invited me round his mum’s for Crispy Pancakes or nowt’

Look at the state of that ludicrously expensive weapon; of no use for anything other than to be rolled out for outdated and obscenely opulent ceremonies. What is it he's holding anyway?

We got a greyhound this year and she's amazing. Two twenty minute walks are enough, super loyal and sleep loads. Bit thick though as still goes batshit when next door's cat sits at the patio door for a laugh.

A surprised woman 3 inches from my nose and a carraige of people trying not to laugh. I'd been dreaming I was on the last run of my quest for glory in the ski jump and had obviously give it full beans. mate I travelled with said I roared as I launched out of my seat, arms thrust behind me, bent over the table and pulling a difficult jobby face.

A surprised woman 3 inches from my nose and a carraige of people trying not to laugh. I'd been dreaming I was on the last run of my quest for glory in the ski jump and had obviously give it full beans. mate I travelled with said I roared as I launched out of my seat, arms thrust behind me, bent over the table and pulling a difficult jobby face.

Offside was harsh to rule out fourth and the wheels came off after for a bit. Defending from both sides was piss poor. Bojan won't be at Stoke long - he should be playing for a Champions League side.

Took a punt about seven months ago, after a year of very unsexy sex on demand, that I'd obviously taken enough balls to the balls at fives to ruin any chances of a Thistle Junior coming along so decided to buy a Cooper S. Probably down to some sort of psychological regression coming to terms with being a Jaffa but before the V5 in my name has even hit the mat Mrs Whistle is throwing up all over the shop. Had a flyer too that I could reduce the Scottish Gas DD's around that time after the mild winter only to find my wife now has the heating on full tw@t on a daily basis as it's got a bit parky. Understandable really as every window in the gaff is wide open due to the dog; me; the Glade Winter Fjord Plug-in turned to 11 after she heard the dog fart once last December with the living room constantly now smelling like an elf on the pull and; anything edible which is even remotely tasty making her projectile vomit. One such occasion, after I'd made my household renowned Bolognese out a jar but with liberal amounts of fresh peppers chucked in, she turned white at one look and ran for the bathroom. Within 5 seconds of reaching the toilet shouted to me that she was ok and started making her way back to the kitchen- thought to myself 'Bet you aren't' and sure enough within two seconds she'd turned around and sprayed the bathroom walls, floor, towels, my toothbrush, etc with copious amounts of vomit. Not a great win; we argued a little about who should tidy it up as I thought the abject stupidity of having just a cursory glance at the bowl before deciding all was clear negated me any responsibility. On mediation via NetMums the threat of an angry flash mob turning up outside, most of whom would like to remove parts of me I'd become rather attached to with a text vote open regards which of a wide variety of blunt objects would be utilised, cleared my judgment allowing contemplation of 7 months of dry chicken and rice. Last month my Mrs woke me in a total panic, fear dripping from her shrill voice, in the middle of the night. Took a drowsy gamble that she'd heard a burglar, or worse Oscar had popped round and was about to start enquiring if rooms were occupied in his usual manner, so leapt naked drenched in sweat from beneath our 564 toggle duvet. Still remember the strange sensation of the cold night breeze making my plums shrivel whilst simultaneously pain shooting through me due to burning my arse on the scolding hot radiator. Assuming the Daniel Son karate pose that had led me to my Yellow Belted glory back in the day I earnestly tried to elicit a 'fight' response from deep within rather than the 'jump oot the windae pronto' response that was threatening to consume me. 'Whistle! We haven't even got bumpers for the cot! Are you going toilet - can you get me a water?' As my heart returned to ground level I pointed out it was 5 months before baby would be in a cot and, more pertinently, Mothercare aren't open at 3 in the f**king morning! She wished to continue this conversation, comparing our state of readiness to my brother's wife, but wanting to sleep before 7 am a week on Tuesday I told her to shut up. Not a wise manoeuvre and Mount Crazy exploded like the Icelandic volcano. Not wanting to cause travel chaos for winter sun seekers I capitulated and agreed to go to Mothercare with her that week in the hope the lid would unflip thus reverting to just the usual mild steam from the ears on the hour. I again lost a bet with my happy, but now annoyingly smug wife, that half of Mothercare would fit in the Mini if we put the seats down and shoogled the shopping around a bit. I cursed that stupid f**king car all the way home, all the way back to the store in my brother's more practical vehicle and all the way home again. I won a bet with the Mrs that, after she'd gone rogue and reneged on the original dusted pink/intense biscuit combo for nursery, instead going for what can only be described 'Eurovision Pink', that it would be overtly loud unless the latest scan revealed we were possibly having a transvestite. Pyric victory as Intense Biscuit wasn't intense enough to kill the two walls I managed to do Tranny Pink, before collapsing from a migraine, in less than 3 coats. Wagered the wife would change her mind on the swivel chair for nursery we were buying. Foolishly told her the 3 piece was paid so got dragged to DFS. I took her up to the ex-display stuff, situated one stop from the skip where not even trainee sales staff venture, in the hope that something thousands of sweaty arses had tried before may take her fancy. Nope, she was adamant we were going to an even smaller section of the store - the full price section. Sales staff were all over us now: one was taking the order; one was on coffee; the token lass who is usually hidden in the back for admin roles, aftersales arse slapping and 80's innuendo was allowed out on day release on the strict understanding she could only speak about babies and; one lad phoning head office to let them know Dundee was the first store in history to sell someone a full price item. I'm expecting balloons to drop from the ceiling and my face to be trending on Twitter as the orange salesman in a shirt two sizes less than required takes a selfie for posterity #DFSXmasBashSorted #Mug with even Darwin Award Winners pissing themselves - 'I know I stapled my bollocks to my thigh but look at what this bell end has gone and done!' During halftime in the Poland game took an absolute flyer that I could investigate the safari mating noises emanating from the bathroom before the second half kicked off. It was like a science practical - speed of light lets me realise first what was causing my Mrs physiognomy to contort like a gurning champion has ceased to be an issue. This is followed by the speed of sound as the chunty nearly cracks after a direct hit from her depth charger. It's at this point I realise she's started taking the Iron tablets even though I've been subjected to eating more spinach than even Popeye after getting a great deal on Laterooms and planning on using it to Tantric sex the sh!t out of Olive Oil over a bank holiday weekend. We then enter an inane conversation that only couples can whilst she reloads the shoots to go U-Boat hunting again but after about 60 seconds it smashes in to me like a car crash - the speed of smell. It's like the HMS Albion has allowed the crew leave to drink nothing but Guinness, it's facilities have subsequently packed in on return so they've docked off Carnoustie Beach, all rowed ashore pure pegging, our house is the first to answer and whilst the sailor who shouted 'Shotgun' gets the throne the other 599 grew impatient and just shat in the bath. I was determined to remain conscious though as ironically it's the only room in the house with a closed window so I need to fling it open before paint starts peeling from the walls because there's no way I'm letting her back behind a Dulux colour wheel any time soon. With my head light from lack of oxygen I stretch to the window and realise a searing pain in my gonads all of a sudden. It's not totally unpleasant as takes my mind off the smell. On looking down though I realise the wife has hold of them and is looking me square in the eye 'You and me Now!'. I'm about to argue as the football will be back on but she reads this and squeezes tighter to the point a second child may still be possible before I can counter. I know I'm doomed to miss at least 10 more minutes as her fat ankles, my angry bell end being inches from our baby and the smell of shite pure hanging from her are total turnoffs. I go straight in at number three from the bank - Geography teacher, field trip to Warwick Castle, leather trousers, no bra and almost dry humping the guide. My mum told the story of the 24 single sock wash week after that excursion to every lady entering my life; even a random lass I got paired with at uni for only one project - we got 12/15 but understandably didn't maintain contact. No good - number two the cougar from first work who wanted to give the 19 year old me a lift 25 miles totally out of her way after a fancy dress party where she went as a school girl whilst her husband was away with the army. I said 'no thanks' not of fear of him but fear she would totally ruin me! Still no good so fail safe number 1 is out; Scotland could be winning by now so don't let me down. Part time yoga teacher who only wears short skirts and has demonstrated the splits in the office. It usually ends with me bending her over the photocopier, taking a scan of her sexually ecstatic coupon and emailing the resultant 'ImYourDaddy' titled document around the office. On this occasion though I've emailed the office, the claims folk in Edinburgh, our partners in Singapore and the back office folk in Mumbai using their full names rather than Dave 27 and everything. This has gone from a sexual fantasy to an Office Junior role and is getting me no place - Scotland could be kicking off v Ireland by now! I realise I've had my eyes scrunched up way too long and she'll know the crack if she clocks me. On opening them, things get worse as I see a little hand popping out of her belly in a sign that is universally understood to mean Stop. Not even born yet and I have to disappoint her as, if I do alight, her black widow mother is likely to kill me on the spot. Hang in there baby I'll finish this for both of us - then it hits me - it is so obvious it is untrue - romance isn't dead - I'll pretend I'm making love to my wife before she had the ankles of an elephant and shat like one too. I'm about to get back on it with added gusto, tongue out to the left, when I hear what goes straight in to the top spot of worst sex talk between us ever and there's some sizable competition for that accolade: 5) Ceiling could do a lick of paint 4) Has that f***ing dog farted again! 3) What time's Strictly? 2) Your mum prefers your brother's wife to me. And straight in at number one - a snore. I'm not sure to start with so retract the tongue slowing the pace but second time it is beyond doubt. I'm busting a gut back here, baby already hates my guts and she's fallen asleep. Even I draw the line and withdraw defeated and deflated. Remembering my objective, I'm out of the room naked before she's finished mumbling that it was 'amazing', and sadly I mentally chalk it up, before bounding down the stairs four at a time. I get to the tele in time to see we're winning but just as Poland's second unfolds and my Scotland 2-1 is up the swanny! I've gone for ICT, Stoke Draw, Real and Chelsea this weekend so probably best to stay away from those based on my form this year. Mini Cooper S 2006, 70,000 miles - PM me if interested. May swap for a Picasso.

Yesterday someone admitted to voting No but waking up feeling disappointed it wasn't a Yes. I felt sympathetic towards them but over the course of the day 5 others said exactly the same. I was annoyed that either they're already ashamed of their choice or, worse, wanted a Yes but hadn't the bollocks to put their cross to it. I was livid seeing the pictures from George Square and that isn't the Scotland I want to live in. I still feel a deep rage in me today as I am still convinced with even the slightest help of the media it would have been but want to channel it in to something rather than just stewing. I might sign up for the SNP but if something like 'Yes' carried on and was involved in all sorts of charity activities to keep up the profile I'd prefer that.

You voted to be essentially the northern most region of England so the least you could do is learn the lingo. That's just words spewed on to a page like arse gravy after a curry.

Sums it up perfectly for me. Thought we could have started something amazing; another path others could follow. Instead we get this shit. Ironically I feel foreign - this isn't how I've ever pictured Scotland.

If 45%-50% of the population are unemployed surely you can agree we need change.

I'm in a totally weird place. After trying off, on, off, on, off, on, off, on for about 18 months, Mrs Whistle is expecting our first in December. Utilising the Johnny Walters close eyes and smash it down the middle penalty routine I figured one would hit the target eventually and thankfully it did. We had mechanical fornication at times the graph said to; exotic love making in foreign locations such as the spare room where the wife whispered seductively in my ear 'ceiling needs painting' and; even a time I took her by surprise, wearing nowt but my Optimus Prime helmet and socks, over the breakfast bar whilst enquiring if she knew as to the identity of her father in the Autobot Leader's melodious tones. Every single time as we reached the final stretch, even on the occasion I hadn't 'transformed' in to a Latin love god putting in a performance over the usual 7 out of 10, the good lady would shout, scream or, even in a timorous whisper, expel 'Yes'. Never 'No' because that's rape George and that's an even more serious crime than the Fudora. Nor did she ever get to the moment of climax and suddenly suggest a third way involving something vague about jam to be given in a time somewhere between next week and doomsday, avoiding being pinned down on flavour, whilst in general sounding like a lot of bollocks any way. It could end up being gooseberry jam and who in their right mind under 65 wants that? 'No' offers little in the way of opportunity and less to get excited about, and regarding the third way, I offered to keep taking it out 18 months ago so it was all in or nothing, shit or bust; no fudges now baby when she refused at that juncture! We found out a month ago it's a girl and I sway from extreme excitement to being absolutely petrified between heartbeats. I have a brother, all my cousins are male, so I have no scheme of reference. I like football, Football Manager, Guinness and boobs and, even though I'm quite happy girls could be in to all four of those things these days quite openly, I worry how I'm possibly going to start from zero to progressing towards doing our gift justice. I've lain sleepless worrying about it and that's before I think about what happens if: I lose my job; one of us takes ill; her first boyfriend is an Old Firm Fan who uses the 2030 equivalent of 'Chilax' in conversation etc. What are the alternatives though? Maybe the wife and I could have not bothered with kids and where would we be in 20 years? Maybe we'd be cruising the world whilst at home Gillies furniture and a pristine lawn await; maybe we'd be roughly where we are now or; maybe we'd end up in a boring, pointless, lifeless marriage doing neither of us many favours. In those scenarios there are varying levels of success but in none of them would we leave anything meaningful behind in all likelihood. I don't want to be sitting in my conservatory amongst the ghosts of a couple of pets and an Open University degree in Theology, or alternatively, in an rundown house on a knackered settee eating Watsits from the crotch pouch of my favourite lounge trouser watching Soccer Saturday again, whilst wandering what just might have been. The thought of that missed opportunity and the worry of constant regret over wasting my life to pursue living it in a presumed artificial security blanket makes me realise that having a baby is, without doubt, the most difficult and challenging route but by Christ it will hopefully be the most rewarding. A eureka moment hit me one night after hearing someone say 'Babies don't come with instruction manuals' though. That is obviously true but it was the realisation that I will co-author our own specific instruction manual that made me realise how exciting this all is. All I need to do is take the first step, assess where I am, look at role models around me for inspiration, take guidance from those who we wish to emulate, and maybe we can create a life that'll make us as parents proud; if we're really lucky maybe offer something back to society too. It doesn't matter that we have argued about the colour of the nursery because allegedly certain colours raise certain character traits. Exasperated at my previous knock backs a final suggestion of pink, purple, blue and green stripes got met with derision from an aesthetic perspective. This was followed with apoplectic rage when I concurred but noted at least the colours would help her grow up to be a cold, angry, ego maniacal, selfish witch just like her maw. Of course we mediated and, even though previously my wife was adamant no pink and that I'd better come up with another option pronto, finally agreed on a nice pink after the crowd in B&Q died down. Maybe we nurture a scientist who cures cancer, a doctor who helps sick people in Africa, a secretary who ends up being a wonderful mum, an average Joe, the awkward family member you're compelled to invite for Christmas or duplicitous anchor for the BBC. In any event we can look people in the eye with absolute pride at best or the consolation of having tried at worst. I can't help seeing similarities between this and the referendum whilst I know it is not a perfect metaphor by any stretch. This is a journey for five million people and in the future we could be hugely proud of what we achieved in trying to break from the greed of this political norm or consoled in the fact that we stood up and gave it a real go. Who could begrudge us that? With the status quo I struggle to see Gillies Furniture on the horizon and jam seems equally forlorn; even gooseberry. I can see us waking up in 20 years after another couple of oil paid wars under our belt, people still hungry, NHS fucked, Daily Mail readers still ok looking down on others whilst demanding help from society when their world tremors slightly, students indebted over their eyes, cats getting fatter. The status quo aren't offering hope, chance, dreams other than the hope those who have gain further, chance they can get even more rotund and dream of taking the piss out of our subrogation. I dread the day of looking my daughter in the eye and telling her that the Scottish people, after years to critically analyse the proposition with the world wide web at their fingertips, decided, or were coerced into believing, this grey, bleak path was the best for us to travel down. All we can say then is 'We were scared' and we could easily be grudged that. What I'm really getting at I suppose is the first step is to strap your sex helmet on and enquire as to who David Cameron's father is by democratically screaming 'Yes' in an orgasmic cacophony of collective hope over fear. Gees our jam back; you've wasted it for too long.