“Ah dinnae feel too hot” she says tae us.

“Away tae fuck, it must be 85 degrees at least still” ah reply.

“Naw” she says, aw moany like, “ah mean ah dinnae feel too well.”

The nearest thing that Leith ever gets to sunshine

Ah takes her back up tae the room, thinkin’ maybe it’s just an OD on sunshine. Right enuff she’d hud mair in the one day than we’re used tae in a normal Leith month. Or three.

A wee lie doon and a nice drink ay cauld water an’ she’ll be right as rain.

And then she gets the squits. “Och shite Rab, ah’ve got the dire horrors” she moans.

Suddenly that anchovy salad she hud fer lunch is ringin’ alarm bells in baith wur minds. Ten minutes later, the vomiting starts.

First time, ye think, “poor lassie. Better oot than in though.”

Second time, ye think, “poor lassie, she’s missed a bit.”

Third time, ye think, “Jesus, wherr the fuck’s it comin’ fae?”

Mrs FaeLeith isn't as attractive as this pumkin though

By the fourth time up, any trace ay a suntan has been sooked fae her face.

And then the shaking and convulsions start. It’s no lookin’ good.

Even if we’d packed the Diocalms it wid be like chuckin a face towel intae Loch Ness tae soak it up, ken whit ah mean? There wis liquid pourin’ ootay every orifice and aw at the same time.

Noo, ah dinnae ken if ye’ve ever hud the squits and vom simultaneous like, but it poses a particular problem unless ye happen tae huv a double toilet bowl. Ken, unless ye’re a dug ye cannae huv yer arse and yer face in the one place at the same time. Tae spare Mrs F’s dignity, let’s just say the bathroom flair got awfy slippy.

“Och shite, this is serious” ah’m thinkin’, wishin’ tae fuck ah hud paid the extra fer insurance cover. There’s nae time tae lose here.

Ah phones Reception and screams “Ah think ma wife’s dyin’, dae ye ken a cheap doctor ye could call oot?”

The receptionist calls the doctor and tells us he’ll be aboot half an hour. Nae bother, ah think. Sorted.

But then we get vom numbers 5-10 in the space ay 20 minutes and Mrs F. is in a sorry auld state, convulsing and shaking, and ah’m fuckin pure shitin maself even though ah didnae huv the anchovies.

It wisnae lookin like it wis gonnae be the best nite ay the holiday, that much wis certain. As fate wid huv it though, ah hud a decent size carry-oot in the fridge and some crisps and a couple ay Toblerones, so even though there wis obviously nae way we were gonnae make it oot tae dinner, the nite wisnae a complete washout.

The Doc arrives. “Thank fuck” ah think as ah see his car draw up.

Harold Shipman, the UK’s friendly GP mass murderer

“Aw fuck!” ah think, as ah see him walk up tae the door. The man’s a dead ringer fer Harold Shipman, the UK’s friendly GP mass murderer! Ma mind is suddenly pure racing.

Ah dinnae trust this man. “He wants tae kill yer wife. He’s going tae kill yer wife!” the voices in ma heid are sayin’.

“Get tae fuck!” ah reply.

“Pardon, Signor?” the Doc says.

“Err…she’s in the lavvy” ah blurt oot.

The Harold Shipman thought just willnae leave ma heid. We discuss fees. Ah beat him doon fae 90 tae 50 Euros.

Normally, ah wid huv considered this a wee triumph, but all ah can think is “ah’ve just peyed the Spanish Harold Shipman 50 Euros tae kill ma wife.”

AH NEED TAE GET A SERIOUS GRIP HERE.

Calm doon, Rab, he’ll just gie her a couple ay Alka-Seltzers and fuck off oan his way a richer man, that’s all.

The doc gies Mrs F. a cursory touch on the tum and announces “Si, I know the problem.”

Aye sure pal. Here comes the 50 Euro Alka Seltzer nae doubt.

Anyhows, he starts scuttlin’ through his briefcase like a demented hen scratchin fer corn and eventually pulls oot two phials ay browny liquid.

And a big fuck-off syringe.

Yer no intent oan jabbin that inta Mrs FaeLeith's arse are ye?

Whit the fuck is this?!

“What’s that?” ah asked, only tae be met wi’ a mixture ay medical science and Spanish, neither of which are ma strongest subjects. Afore ah know it, he’s pokin the needle in Mrs F’s exposed buns.

The look ay pleasure he seemed tae derive fae the act only served tae strengthen ma Shipman suspicions.

AH NEED TAE GET A SERIOUS GRIP HERE.

Right, think rational, Rab, ah tell maself. He’s done the business, maist likely gied her some saline and some antibiotics or somesuch and noo he’ll fuck off away.

So, ah pays the good doctor his 50 Euros and thank him fer aw his help and fer charging such a bloody fortune fer a 10 second prick up the arse he should be a Bangkok rent boy, when he says, “I’ll just wait now”.

Eh? Wait fer whit?!!!!

Wait fer the intravenous morphine overdose tae kick in of course. Fuckin obvious.

That wis whit Shipman did. He got his cookies fae watchin them slip away.

Aw fuck. Is it too late tae sook the injection ootay her arse cheek? Of course it is. Ah huv nae choice but tae watch ma wife’s life drain away in the company ay her murderer, the Majorcan Harold Shipman.

It wis all ah could do tae offer him a beer while we waited.

“Er….how long dae ye think afore it…er…works?” ah ask.

30 to 45 minutes.

There’s nae chance he’s getting another beer, ah’ll tell ye that much.

So, fer the next 30 odd minutes ah’m tryin tae huv a conversation with Signor Harold and watchin fer Mrs F. tae slip intae a fatal coma at the same time. Ma mind wis pure aw ower the place and ah wisnae even pished yet.

WHY DOES HE KEEP LOOKIN OWER AT HER?

That wis whit Shipman liked. He hud tae keep looking. Tae make sure he caught that last breath. Och shite. Whit will ah tell her parents? A man killed her. And AH PEYED FER IT!!

AH NEED TAE GET A SERIOUS GRIP HERE.

Anyhow, needless tae say (or should that be “needles”, haw, haw!), Mrs F. made a full recovery and aw ma mass murderin majorcan monster fears proved groundless.

The one and only Kevin Ayers

Indeed, and here’s the real point ay the story, far fae bein a monster, it turns oot in the course ay oor 40 minute blether waitin fer Mrs F. tae expire that the very good doctor of Deya used tae be something ay a hippy in the 60’s and 70’s when the village wis a Bohemian enclave, and became a good pal of Kevin Ayers, who still visits him to this day.

Kevin fuckin Ayers ferfuckssake!! (If ye ken, ye ken, if ye dinnae, ye dinnae.)

Top fuckin man.

And that makes him better than alright in ma book.

It’ll be a long time until ah touch anchovies again, mind.