Hamish arrives in Glasgow after a long journey from Orkney. He's desperate for a drink so rushes into the first pub he sees. While ordering his drink he spots a rare bottle of 1968 Balvenie locked up behind the bar.
'And how much for a nip of that?' asks Hamish.
'Och that's no' fur sale,' replies the barman, 'but you can win it if you're really brave.'
'Oh aye - and whit dae I have tae do,' asks Hamish.
'First you need tae gie Big Malkie a doin',' says the barman pointing at the six-foot, tattooed hardman propping up the other end of the bar.
'Oh aye,' says Hamish non-committaly, downing his whisky.
'If you survive that,' says the barman, 'ye have tae pull out a rotting tooth frae ma pet dug.' He opens the back door and there is the biggest, most savage, pit-bull that has ever graced the dog-fighting arenas of Glasgow.
'Oh aye,' says Hamish non-committaly, downing another whisky.
'And then comes the worst part,' says the barman, 'ye need tae shag the arse aff ma mither-in-law.'
'Whit's sae bad about that?' asks Hamish.
'Christ, she's got an uglier mug than Medusa,' says the barman. 'Wan look at her an' ye turn tae pure shite.'
'Oh aye,' says Hamish non-committaly, downing another whisky.
'So ur ye man enough for the task?' asks the barman.
'Aye nae bother,' says Hamish, 'But you'll have tae remind me of the tasks, ma memories pure crap when Ah've hud a few.'
The barman explains the tasks again and Hamish heads across to Big Malkie. He yanks up his kilt to reveal the biggest tadger in the whole of Scotland.
'What dae ye think of that then wee man,' says Hamish.
While Big Malkie stares in stunned amazement, Hamish whacks him over the head with his outsized tool. As the ambulance winds its way towards the wee pub, Hamish heads out to confront the dog. Everyone in the pub listens expectantly to the growls, groans, moans and snarling coming from the other side of the little door. After twenty minutes the door burst open again and Hamish staggers in, blood dripping from his arms and legs.
'Job done,' he says, 'Now gies a pair of pliers.'
'Whit?' exclaims the barman.
'Ah'll need some pliers fur the next task,' says Hamish.
'Whit fur,' says the barman.
'Tae fix thon bad tooth o' yer mither-in-laws,' says Hamish.
From - Why Did the Haggis Cross the Road? By Stuart McLean
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