Cockburn and Cumming

As a roundhead, the rough woolen cloth of my kilt rubs my head so much my little pecker shrinks back into a miniature cavalier position and my whole scrotum tightens up to a defensive position – as if I am about to go into battle with The Bruce against proud Edward himsel. Amongst us True Scotsmen, feeling the prick of my thistle, I have always felt glé jealous of the cavaliers who seem to experience more loose hanging relaxed freedom up amongst the heather in the hills of Bennachie. Perhaps the heather is more purple on the other side of the fence. For a moment I do enjoy the tightness of my residue foreskin as, at the end of sweaty night reeling and hootin, I eventually emerge revealing my true Lion Rampant – my purple headed mountain – free at last. Well we might cry FREEDOM but the Scotsman’s kilt isn’t always his castle. Apart from Stiff breezes up your Caledonian canal, why do you think my ancestors fought nude? For the thrill of all those Essex boys holding their pikes? No… Cockburn and Cumming are two very popular surnames in our neck of the stiff woods. We’re hard men, us Cocks o’ the North. Bob

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