Great bakery customer mistakes of our times

Posted on August 2, 2007
Filed Under Football, Life |

On a daily basis, I buy scones for the team at a bakery in Leith before I start the arduous cycle up Leith Walk, the killer hill into the city centre. Now, every morning I wear a cycling top to work and then change into more suitable attire once I reach the office. However, this morning I found myself scrabbling around in the dark looking for a cycling shirt only to find out they were all in the wash.

Enter one Heart of Midlothian replica shirt. “That’ll do”, I thought.

Now, I’m never comfortable wearing a Hearts shirt in Leith. Leith is after all the home of Hearts city rivals Hibernian. Figuring that it was early and all the workshy and the jakeys would still be in bed, I pulled on the famous maroon jersey, heart shaped crest next to my own heart. If anything I thought, I’m on a bike. The bastards will have to be fast to catch me. Weighed down with buckfast bottles and small change (begged from passers by the day before), I figured they wouldn’t be able to keep up.

I casually stroll into the bakers. Now each morning, the wee wifie behind the counter greets me with a “Morning Son” and I reply in kind. All I got this morning was an icy stare and a look of mock disgust.

Enter the (bloody enormous) baker.

Again, on a daily basis, the baker usually has a bit chat to me of a morning. Not today. I was greeted with the ominous “Aw naw. Yer now wan o them ur ye?”. I could see my chances of a free chocolate doughnut disappearing faster than Hearts in the Champions League.

“Wait a minute” protests I. “I’m not a rapist, just a Jambo”. “Same thing” comes the humourous, but menace tinged reply. I am in no doubt that he’ll chat away with me now and shoot the breeze but come matchday, him and his mates will be gobbing at me across the great city divide at Tynecastle or Easter Road, calling me a “Yam bastard” or some other delightful name.

By this point, the baker is rolling up his sleeve to reveal an enormous bicep, complete with a frisbee sized tattoo of the Hibs badge. I’m feeling like a White House intern who has just admitted having an Osama Bin Laden poster on his bedroom wall. I collect my scones and scarper after some more good humoured banter.

“Hope your wheels fall off” he says as a parting shot.

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