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A Christmas Council House Roast with Simon and Iain

04 Jan 2018 ="post-tag" > Written by  ="post-tag" >
A Christmas Council House Roast with Simon and Iain

This Christmas we're going to be spending a little time with our two instructor trainers here at Big Blue, Mr Simon 'Simo' Garrity and Iain 'Freezer' Goodfellow - not actually Iain's nickname here, which is a downright tragedy in my opinion.

For those unaware of these two rowdy ragamuffins, they're both success stories from of some of the most grim and inhospitable places on the planet, places where the sun never shines, drug-use is mandatory and mothers/aunts/sisters are usually one and the same person; Liverpool for Simo and some backwater stinkpit in Scotland for oor Iain - God's country if God was a blind mental idiot who liked frostbite, fighting stuff, sniffing glue and shopping trolleys. This Christmas both of them returned to the hell holes they call home, and the adventures they had are worth chronicling here I believe. None of these events actually happened, but never let that get in the way of a 'good' story eh?

Reports say that Simo decided to save money on the expensive flight and in true Scouse style simply cling to the plane wheel with just a Kappa trackie top and a bag of 'wobbly eggs' for the trip, eschewing the usual method as 'seats are for girls'. He IS the expert, if we look closely at those Speedos he's so fond of wearing! Is it that cold in Thailand Simo?

However, we all know the real reasons for bypassing the usual method is:

1. He's on the international 'no fly' list because he's a big fat meanie and said some terrible things about a ginger called James, amongst others.

2. Multiple complaints during flights about the residual stink of his 'Just For Men' hair dye that he absolutely doesn't use.

3. Speedos aren't appropriate flight-clothing, according to numerous complaints on the previous flights he's taken.

4. 'Snakes On a Plane' 

With the strength of a street urchin stealing an old ladies handbag he managed to somehow hold on till he was flying over the refugee camps of Myanmar, which he foolishly mistook for Liverpool and let go. Luckily he was able to glide down using his old-man flabby neck as a wingsuit. Go Simo! (for a facelift)

Iain, on the other hand, after years of saving the money he would have usually have used for personal grooming (he looks like a scarecrow on crystal meth most days) made Scottish history and splashed out the average salary of an Edinburgh resident (about three-fifty) on a budget flight on ScottAir, which coincidentally sounds like the name of our favourite DMT Mentor Scotty Frost in a Scottish accent. Fuelled entirely on Irn Bru, Haggis and other Scottish delicacies that taste like the hair pulled out of a plug-hole, the plane made it home on the fumes of Glaswegian threats alone, one of the most powerful fuels in the world and still used by NASA to this day to propel spider-monkeys into black holes or something.

Imagine, days later and to everyone's surprise, our very own Christmas Day miracle occured when from out of the piles of used syringes, chlamydia and dirty nappies the city is founded on, Simo appeared Christ-like in Liverpool's city centre, slightly dishevelled with a bit of dog poo on his pants. Immediately the local people saw he was one of them (the dog poo being a badge of honour in those parts) and carried him like a Maharaja on their shoulders to his home, the local park with swings and everything. A city-wide public holiday was called in celebration of the middle-aged messiah's return, before everyone realised that you have to have a job to take a public holiday from one, and no, shoplifting or drug-dealing don't count.
Iain, for those wondering, had during these joyous days immediately immersed himself back into to Scottish culture by developing a cracking case of herpes and a skag addiction that could fell a horse, which is incidentally what his Mam had prepared for dinner for him that night. Unbeknownst to him, he's already managed to father two kids in this time, both of which are now in a Scottish nursery school, or jail as we call it in the developed world.

As Christmas Day neared its conclusion, the sky goes from its normal black/grey hue to a slightly darker version, rather like Simo when he returns from holidays with black hair after leaving us with it flecked full of white - natural darkening from the grimy slappers of England? In Scotland, where the sky is always dark, the joys of the festive season are wearing off like the cheap cologne Iain has daubed over his Rod Stewart hoodie; the usual attire for the unwashed hoodlums that prowl the council estates that are so numerous in this wonderful country, and also the national dress of Scotland when paired with a skirt made of bus seat covers and a black eye. Iain returns to his family dwelling which is also the biggest, most stately home in the area - an allotment shed - to bid his farewells, and family Goodfellow toast him with the finest drink in the place, petrol and milk.

So, after the wailing and tears of the chip-eating glue sniffers they all bid adieu to the only man to make it out of bonny Scotland without any kids or a criminal record, the first man ever to take a 'Pop Music' degree and not get the crap beaten out of him and who still managed to drag himself a few rungs up the ladder of success to the lofty hights of dive instructor, one step behind the guy that makes the French Fries in McDonalds. He's the national hero of this wasteland second only to Sean Connery, Jimmy Krankie and that taxi driver who punched to death a terrorist on fire. We all love oor Iain and his tiny wee sesame-seed sized eyes, never leave us again bonny lad!

Simo on the other hand... well we can take him or leave him. In the time he was away crime rates on the island dropped to almost zero and the sales of hair dye and viagra quickly followed suit. The once semi-handsome young stallion is fit only for the knackers yard now, but like an old dog waiting for his trip to the farm in the countryside it seems like we're stuck with him like a brussel sprouts fart on Christmas Day; going nowhere fast...


We'd like to wish all of you a very merry whatever you celebrate, and a Happy New Year to all! Iain and Simon are available to change your lives in ways you can't imagine by simply sending them an email via This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it., or shouting into a stiff breeze and hoping for the best.

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Read 971 times Last modified on Thursday, 04 January 2018 09:06

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