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Four penalties in seven minutes in a six-goal, minute thriller is value for money in anyone's book. Credit then to Erith Town of the Southern Counties East Premier Division and Isthmian League South side Whyteleafe for turning in an absolute FA Cup classic. BBC Sport takes you through the FA Cup preliminary round replay with the help of social media. It all started so well for the home team. Erith's Dan Palfrey had already despatched a free-kick when Ryan Golding made it from the spot on 38 minutes, and started a flurry of spot-kicks. However, Sam Clayton drew Whyteleafe level with two penalties of his own, making no mistake on either occasion. Erith regained the lead with the fourth spot-kick of the game, again netted by Golding, to make it on the stroke of half-time.

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In the know quiz. Breaking News Pacific Asia North America US Politics South America Africa Middle East Europe UK Politics Coronavirus Australia Global Economy Health Closures.

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Even Fat Sow tries tae force a smile. As if tae confirm this, he follays us oot ay the flat.

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sorry aboot aw the shite ah wis hittin ye wi back thair. That cunt Donnelly. he makes us dead jumpy. A fuckin heidbanger ay the first order. Ah'll tell ye the fill story later. Naehard feelins though, eh Mark? Part ay me doesnaewant tae burn the fucker doon though. It's a sobering thought, but ah might need him again.

But that's no the way tae think. If ah keep thinkin like that, the whole fuckin exercise is pointless. By the time ah hit the bottom ay the stair ah've forgotten aw aboot ma sickness, well almost. Ah can feel it, the ache through ma body, it's just that it doesnaereally bother us any mair.

Ah know it's ridiculous tae con masel that the gear is making an impact already, but there's definitely some placebo effect taking place. One thing that ah'm aware ay is a great fluidity in ma guts. It feels like ah'm melting inside. Ah huvnaeshat for about five or six days; now it seems tae be coming. Ah fart, and instantly follow through, feeling the wet sludge in ma pants with a quickening of ma pulse. Ah slam oan the brakes; tightening ma sphincter muscles as much as ah can.

The damage has been done, however, and it's gaunnaegit much worse if ah dinnae take immediate action. Ah consider going back tae Forrester's, but ah want nothing mair tae dae wi that twat for the time being. Ah remember that the bookies in the shopping centre has a toilet at the back. Ah enter the smoke-filled shop and head straight tae the bog. What a fuckin scene; two guys stand in the doorway ay the toilet, just pishing intae the place, which has a good inch ay stagnant, spunky urine covering the flair.

It's oddly reminiscent ay the foot pool at the swimming baths ah used tae go tae. The two punters shake oot their cocks in the passage and stuff them intae their flies wi as much care as ye'd take putting a dirty hanky intae yir poakit.

One ay them looks at us suspiciously and bars ma path tae the toilet. Ye'll no be able tae shite in that. He gestures tae the seatless bowl fill ay broon water, toilet paper and lumps ay floating shite. Ah look sternly at him. just what ah fuckin needed. Muirhoose's Charles Bronson.

Only this cunt makes Charles Bronson look like Michael J. He actually looks a bit like Elvis, like Elvis does now; a chunky, decomposing ex-Ted. Away tae fuck. Ma indignation must have been convincing, because this radge actually apologises.

Jist some ay they young cunts in the scheme huv been trying tae make this thir fucking shootin gallery. We're no intae that. Ah'm gaun fuckin radge wi the runs here. Ah need tae shite.

It looks fuckin awfay in thair, but it's either that or ma fuckin keks. Ah've nae shit oan us. Ah'm fuckin bad enough wi the bevvy, nivir mind anything else. The cunt gies us an empathetic nod and unblocks ma way. Ah feel the pish soak intae ma trainers as ah step ower the door ridge. Ah reflect oan the ridiculousness ay saying that ah hud naeshit oan ays when ma keks are fill ay it. One piece ay good luck though, is that the lock oan the door is intact.

Fuckin astounding, considering the atrocious state ay the bogs. Ah whip oaf ma keks and sit oan the cold wet porcelain shunky.

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Ah empty ma guts, feeling as if everything; bowel, stomach, intestines, spleen, liver, kidneys, heart, lungs and fucking brains are aw falling through ma arsehole intae the bowl. As ah shit, flies batter oaf ma face, sending shivers through ma body.

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Ah grab at one, and tae ma surprise and elation, feel it buzzing in ma hand. Ah squeeze tightly enough tae immobilise it. Ah open ma mitt tae see a huge, filthy bluebottle, a big, furry currant ay a bastard.

Ah smear it against the wall opposite; tracing out an 'H' then an '1' then a 'B' wi ma index finger, using its guts, tissue and blood as ink. Ah start oan the 'S' but ma supply grows thin. Ah borrow fae the 'H', which has a thick surplus, and complete the 'S'. Ah sit as far back as ah can, withoot sliding intae the shit-pit below ays, and admire ma handiwork.

The vile bluebottle, which caused me a great deal of distress, has been transformed intae a work of art which gives me much pleasure tae look at. Ah sit frozen for a moment. But only a moment. Ah fall off the pan, ma knees splashing oantae the pishy flair. My jeans crumple tae the deck and greedily absorb the urine, but ah hardly notice. Ah roll up ma shirt sleeve and hesitate only briefly, glancing at ma scabby and occasionally weeping track marks, before plunging ma hands and forearms intae the brown water.

Ah rummage fastidiously and get one ay ma bombs back straight away. Ah rub off some shite that's attached tae it. A wee bit melted, but still largely intact. Ah stick it oan toap ay the cistern. Locating the other takes several long dredges through the mess and the panhandling of the shite ay many good Muirhoose and Pilton punters.

Ah gag once, but get ma white nugget ay gold, surprisingly even better preserved than the first. The feel ay water disgusts us even mair than the shite. Ma brown-stained airm reminds us ay the classic t-shirt tan. The line goes right up past ma elbow as ah hud tae go right aroond the bend.

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Despite ma discomfort at the feel ay water oan ma skin, it seems appropriate tae run ma airm under the cauld tap at the sink. It's hardly the maist extensive or thorough wash ah've had, but it's aw ah can stand. Ah then wipe ma arse wi the clean part ay ma pants and chuck the shite- saturated keks intae the bowl beside the rest ay the waste.

Ah hear a knocking at the door as ah pull oan ma soaking Levis. It's the sense ay wetness oan ma legs, again, rather than the stench, which makes us feel a bit giddy. The knocking becomes a loud bang. C'moan ya cunt, wir fuckin burstin oot here! Haud yir fuckin hoarses. Ah wis tempted tae swallay the suppositories, but ah rejected this notion almost as soon as it crossed ma mind. They were designed for anal intake, and there wis still enough ay that waxy stuff oan them tae suggest that ah'd no doubt huv a hard time keeping them doon.

As ah'd shot everything oot ay ma bowels, ma boys were probably safer back thair. Home they went. Ah goat some funny looks as ah left the bookies, no sae much fae the pish-queue gang whae piled past us wi a few derisory 'aboot-fuckin-time-n-aws' but fae one or two punters whae clocked ma wasted appearance.

One radge even made some vaguely threatening remarks, but maist were too engrossed in the form cairds, or the racing oan the screen. At the bus stop, ah realised what a sweltering hot day it had become. Ah remembered somebody sais that it wis the first day ay the Festival.

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Well, they certainly got the weather fir it. Ah sat oan the wall by the bus stop, letting the sun soak intae rna wet jeans. Ah saw a 32 coming, but didnae move, through apathy. The next one that came, ah got it thegither tae board the fucker and headed back tae Sunny Leith. It really is time tae clean up, ah thought, as ah mounted the stairs ay ma new flat. IN OVERDRIVE I do wish that ma semen-rectumed chum, the Rent Boy, would stop slavering in ma fucking car.

There's a set of VPLs visible panty lines on the chicky in front ay us, and all my concentration is required to ensure a thorough examination can be undertaken. That will do me fine! I am in overdrive, over-fuckin-drive. It's one ay these days when ma hormones are shooting aroond ma body like a steelie in a pinball machine, and all these mental lights and sounds are flashing in ma heid.

And what is Rents proposing, on this beautiful afternoon of vintage cruisin weather? The cunt has the fuckin audacity tae suggest that we go back to his gaff, which reeks of alcohol, stale spunk and garbage which should have been pit oot weeks ago, tae watch videos. Draw the curtains, block out the sunlight, block out your own fucking brainwaves, and deck him sniggering like a moron wi a joint in his hand at everything that comes on the pox-box. Well, non, non, non, Monsieur Renton, Simone is not cut out to sit in darkened rooms with Leith plebs and junkies rabbiting shite aw affie.

Cause ah was made for lovin you bay-bee, you wir made for lovin me. a fat hound has waddled out in front ay the lemon wi the VPLS, blocking my view of that subliminal rear with her obese arse. She has the fuckin cheek tae wear tight leggings - totally and completely oblivious to the delicate nature of Simone's stomach!! ah sarcastically observe. Fuck off ya sexist cunt, the Rent Boy sais. Ah'm tempted tae ignore the bastard.

Mates are a waste of fucking time. They are always ready to drag you down tae their level of social, sexual and intellectual mediocrity. I'd better dismiss the radge though, in case he thinks he's got one up on us. The fact that you use the term 'cunt' in the same breath as ,sexist', shows that ye display the same muddled, fucked-up thinking oan this issue as you do oan everything else.

That scoobies the cunt. Eh sais something biscuit-ersed in reply, in a pathetic attempt tae salvage the situation. Rent Boy 0, Simone 1. We both know it. Renton, Renton, what's the score. The Bridges is hotchin wi minge. Ooh, ooh la la, let's go dancin, ooh, ooh la la, Simon dancin. There is fanny of every race, colour, creed and nationality present.

See the # GNU General Public License for more details. # # You should have received a copy of the GNU General Public License along # with this program; if not, write to the Free Software Foundation, Inc., # 51 Franklin Street, Fifth Floor, Boston, MA USA. ## Vocab generated by v2 of the CMU-Cambridge Statistcal ## Language Modeling

Oh ya cunt, ye! It's time tae move. Two oriental types consulting a map. Simone express, that'll do nicely. Fuck Rents, he's a doss bastard, totally US. Where are you headed? ah ask. Good oldfashioned Scoattish hoshpitality, aye, ye cannae beat it, shays the young Sean Connery, the new Bond, cause girls, this is the new bondage. What a fucking wee pump-up-the-knickers n aw.

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Simple Simon sais, put your hands on your feet. Of course, the Rent Boy is looking like a flaccid prick in a barrel-load ay fannies.

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Sometimes ah really think the gadge still believes that an erection is for pishing over high walls. Follow us. Are you going to a show? One of the china dolls hands us a piece ay paper wi Brecht: The Caucasian Chalk Circle by Nottingham University Theatre Group on it.

Doubtless a collection of zit-encrusted, squeakyvoiced wankers playing oot a miserable pretension tae the arts before graduating to work in the power stations which give the local children leukemia or investment consultancies which shut doon factories, throwing people into poverty and despair.

Still, let's git the board-treading ootay the system first. Fucking toss bags, don't you agree, Scan, ma auld fellow former milkdelivering mucker? Yesh Shimon, I shink you may have a shtrong point thair. Auld Sean and I have so many parallels. Both Edina lads, both ex-co-op milk boys. Ah only did the Leith run, whereas sean, if ye listen tae any auld fucker, delivered milk tae every household in the city.

Child labour laws were more lax then, I suppose. One area in which wi differ is looks. Sean is completely out-Sean in that department by Simone. Now Rents is gibbering oan aboot Calileo and Mother Courage and Baal and aw that shite. The bitches seem quite impressed n aw. Why fuck me insensible! This doss cunt actually does have his uses. It's an amazing world. Yesh Shimon, the more I shee, the less I beheve.

You an me boash, Sean. The oriental mantos depart tae the show, but they've agreed tae meet us for a drink in Deacons afterwards. Rents cannae make it. Ah'll cry masel tae sleep. He's meeting Ms Mogadon, the lovely Hazel. ah'll just have to amuse both chickies if ah decide to show up. Ah'm a busy man.

One musht put duty fursht, eh Sean? Preshishly Shimon. Ah shake off Rents, he can go and kill himself with drugs. Some fucking friends I have. Spud, Second Prize, Begbie, Matty, Tommy: these punters spell L-i-M-i-T-E-D. An extremely limited company. Well, ah'm fed up to ma back teeth wi losers, no-hopers, draftpaks, schemies, junkies and the likes. I am a dynamic young man, upwardly mobile and thrusting, thrusting, thrusting the socialists go on about your comrades, your class, your union, and society.

Fuck all that shite. The Tories go on about your employer, your country, your family. Fuck that even mair. It's me, me, fucking ME, Simon David Williamson, NUMERO FUCKING UNO, versus the world, and it's a one-sided swedge. It's really so fucking easy. Fuck them all. I admire your rampant individualishm, Shimon. I shee parallelsh wish myshelf ash a young man.

Glad you shed that Sean. Others have made shimilar comments. a spotty fucker in a Hearts scarf. yes, the cunts are at home today. Look at him; the ultimate anti-style statement. ay oop, another strapping lass ahead backpacker, good tan suck, fuck, suck, fuck we all fall down.

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The Chinky chickies, Marianne, Andrea, Ali which lucky ride will ah stick it intae the night? Who's the best fuck? Why me, of course. I might even find something at the club. The dynamics are magic.

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Three groups; women, straight guys and gay guys. The gay guys are cruising the straight guys who are club bouncer types with huge biceps and beer guts. The straight guys are cruising the women, who are into the lithe, fit buftie boys. No bashturd actually getsh what they want. Exshept ush, eh Sean? I hope ah don't see the buftie that cruised us the last time ah wis in.

He told me in the cafeteria that he had HIV, but things were cool, it was no death sentence, he'd never felt better. What kind of a cunt tells a stranger that? It's probably bullshit. Sleazy fuckin queen. that reminds us, ah must buy some flunkies. but there's no way you can get HIV in Edinburgh through shagging a lassie. If ye dinnae get it through shootin up wi the likes ay Renton, Spud, Swanney n Seeker, it's obviously no got your name on it.

why tempt fate. but why not. at least ah know that ah'm still here, still alive, because as long as there's an opportunity tae get off wi a woman and her purse, and that's it, that is it, ah've found fuck all else, ZERO, tae fill this big, BLACK HOLE like a clenched fist in the centre ay my fucking chest.

GROWING UP IN PUBLIC Despite the unmistakable resentment she could feel from her mother, Nina could not fathom what she had done wrong. The signals were confusing. First it was: Keep out of the way; then: Don't just stand there.

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A group of relatives had formed a human wall around her Auntie Alice. Nina could not actually see Alice from where she was sitting, but the fussing coos coming from across the room told her that her aunt was in there somewhere.

Her mother caught her eye. She was staring over at Nina, looking like one of the heads on a hydra. Over the there-there's and the he-was-a-good-man's Nina saw her mother mouth the word: Tea. She tried to ignore the signal, but her mother hissed insistently, aiming her words across the room at Nina, like a fine jet: - Make more tea.

Nina threw her copy of the NME onto the floor. She hauled herself out of the armchair and moved over to a large dining table, picking up a tray, on which sat a teapot and an almost empty jug of milk.

Through in the kitchen, she studied her face in the mirror, focusing on a spot above her top lip. Her black hair, cut in a sloping wedge, looked greasy, although she had just washed it the night before. She rubbed her stomach, feeling bloated with fluid retention. Her period was due. It was a hummer. Nina could not be a part of this strange festival of grief. The whole thing seemed uncool. The act of casual indifference she displayed at her Uncle Andy's death was only partly reigned.

He had been her favourite relative when she was a wee lassie, and he had made her laugh, or so they all told her. And, in a sense, she could remember it. These events had happened: the joking, the ticklinthe playing, the indulgent supply of ice-creams and sweeties. She could find no emotional connection though, between the her of now and the her of then, and therefore no emotional connection to Andy.

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To hear her relatives recount these days of infancy and childhood made her squirm with embarrassment. it seemed an essential denial of herself as she was now. Worse, it was uncool. At least she was dressed for grief, as she was constantly reminded by everyone. She thought that her relatives were so boring. They held onto the mundane for grim life; it was a glum adhesive binding them together.

That lassie never wears anything but black. In ma day, lassies wore nice bright colours, instead ay tryin tae look like vampires. Uncle Boab, fat, stupid Uncle Boab, had said that. The relatives had laughed. Every one of them. Stupid, petty, laughter. Nina consciously realised for the first time that laughter was about more than humour. This was about reducing tension, solidarity in face of the grim reaper. Andy's death had put that topic further up the list of items on the personal agenda of every one of them.

The kettle clicked off. Nina made another pot of tea and took it through. Nivir mind, Alice. Nivir mind, hen. Here's Nina wi the tea, her Auntie Avril said.

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Nina thought that perhaps unrealistic expectations were being invested in the PG Tips. Could they be expected to compensate for the loss of a twenty-four-year relationship? Better than the big C, rottin away in agony.

Oor father went wi the ticker n aw.

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The curse ay the Fitzpatricks. That's your grandfather. Although Malcolm was Kenny's nephew, he was only four years younger than his uncle, and looked older.

Some day, aw this ticker stuff, n cancer n that, will aw be forgotten aboot, Malcolm ventured.

Medical science. How's Your Elsa by the way? Kenny's voice dropped. Fallopian tube job.

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Apparently what they dae is. Nina turned and left the room. All Malcolm seemed to want to talk about were the operations his wife had undergone to enable them to produce a child. The details made the tips of her fingers feel raw. Why did people assume that you wanted to hear that stufp What sort of woman would go through all that just to produce a screaming brat? What sort of man would encourage her to do that? As she went to the hall, the doorbell rang. It was her Auntie Cathy and Uncle Davie.

They had made good time from Leith out to Bonnyrigg. Cathy hugged Nina. Whair is she? Whair's Alice? Nina liked her Auntie Cathy. She was the most outgoing of her aunts, and treated her like a person rather than a child. Cathy went over and hugged Alice, her sister-in-law, then her sister Irene, Nina's mother, and her brothers Kenny and Boab, in that order.

Nina thought that the order was tasteful. Davie nodded sternly at everybody. The by-pass makes a difference.

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Pick it up just ootside Portobellah, git off jist before Bonnyrigg, Davie explained dutifully. The bell went again. This time it was Doctor Sim, the family GP. Sim was alert and businesslike in stance, but sombre in expression.

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In his bearing he attempted to convey a measure of compassion, while still maintaining a pragmatic strength in order to give the family confidence. Sim thought he wasn't doing badly.

Nina also thought so. A horde of breathless aunties fussed over him like groupies around a rock star. After a short time Bob, Kenny, Cathy, Davie and Irene accompanied Dr Sim upstairs. Nina realised, as they began to leave the room, that her period had started. She followed them up the stairs.

Stay oot the wey! Irene, looking back, hissed at her daughter. In the lavatory she took off her clothes, starting with her black, lacy gloves. Examining the extent of the damage, she noted that the discharge had gone through her knickers but had not got into her black leggings.

She tore off a few strips of toilet paper, and held them to her in order to stem the flow. She then checked the bathroom cabinet but could find no tampons or sanitary towels.

Was Alice too old for periods? Soaking some more paper with water, she managed to get most of the stains out of the carpet. Nina stepped tentatively into the shower. After splashing herself, she made another pad from bog-roll, and quickly dressed, leaving off her pants which she washed in the sink, wrung out, and stuffed into her jacket pocket. She squeezed the spot above her top lip, and felt much better.

Nina heard the entourage leaving the room and going downstairs. This place was the fucking dregs, she thought, and she wanted out. All she had been waiting for was an opportune moment to hit her mother for cash.

She was supposed to be going into Edinburgh with Shona and Tracy to see this band at the Calton Studios. Shona knew about laddies. She was a year younger than Nina, but had done it twice, once with Graeme Redpath, and once with a French boy she'd met at Aviemore. Nina had not been with anyone yet, had not done it. Almost everyone she knew said it was crap.

Boys were too stupid, too morose and dull, or too excitable. She enjoyed the effect she had on them, liked seeing the frozen, simpleton expressions on their faces as they watched her. When she did it, she would do it with someone who knew what they were about. Someone older, but not like Uncle Kenny, who looked at her as if he was a dog, his eyes bloody and his tongue darting slyly over his lips.

She had a strange feeling that Uncle Kenny, despite his years, would be a bit like the inept boys that Shona and the rest had been with. Despite her reservations about going to the gig, the alternative was staying in and watching television. Specifically, this meant Bruce Forsyth's Generation Game with her mother and her silly wee fart of a brother, who always got excited when the stuff came down the conveyor belt and recited the items quickly in his squeaky, quirky voice.

Her mum wouldn't even let her smoke in the living- room. She let Dougie, her moronic man-friend smoke in the living-room. That was alright, considered to be the subject-matter of light humour rather than the cause of cancer and heart disease.

Nina however, had to go upstairs for a fag and that was the pits. Her room was cold, and by the time she'd switched on the heating and it warmed up, she could have smoked a packet of twenty Marlborough.

Fuck all that for a laugh. Tonight, she'd take her chances at the gig. Leaving the bathroom, Nina looked in on Uncle Andy. The corpse lay in the bed, the covers still over it.

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