Scotty walked up to the 'Green and said hallo to us. It was quiet and there was a good bunch about. It was Autumn. No more idle lunches sitting on the grass or sunning ourselves in the park whilst watching the slowly basting office talent.
Scotty was agitated. His tanned and skint head bobbed with what he had to share. A big and pulsing vein popped on his forehead. He stood into our circle and swore us to secrecy.
"Noot a menshun rye?" It was alright with us. Sure we'd wait til he'd gone before spreading whatever it was like wildfire.
"Soo aye wer dune n da fookin sella agin en aye wer diggin lye a JCB, ri?" "Right", we chorused although to be fair only two of us spoke pidgin scots.
"Wha deed aye deeg oot de wull oonly a fookin skull! A hool skeleton aye til ya! A hool fookin ole vikin! Sword n all! Am no kiddin ya!"
Scotty was doing a nixer while scratching the welfare so he landed a labouring job digging a basement in a Dame street pub. Digging up a Viking skeleton wasn't the problem. Sure Temple Bar was Viking central. The problem lay in declaring the find. If the builder rang the authorities the show would shut down 'til the Archaeological boys had sifted the site. Months. No work for Scotty, no finished pub, no builder paid.
We were all curious. Scotty looked happy. We should have guessed. "What did you do Scotty man, don't keep us in suspense!"
He sucked a centimetre off his badly constructed roll-Up.
"Ye min da skeleton?" He was some boyo for building tension. "Ooh aye....Ach wee fooked et inda skip!"
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