The pub was called The Forth Bridge, so it was only fitting that framed photographs of the old bridge at various stages of her construction should adorn its walls. On one quiet Sunday evening, the pub was invaded by a horde of smiling, spectacle-wearing, camera-clicking Japanese tourists. They didn’t go near the bar, but instead trooped from one photograph to the next, like Catholics doing the Stations of the Cross. The barman watched this performance with mounting anger. Finally, he could hold back no longer. “Aye, you cunts’ll ken aw aboot buildin’ bridges, eh,” he shouted at the visitors. “It’s no’ the fuckin’ Bridge ower the River Kwai, you ken.” One by one, having finished their tour of the photographs, the visitors came up to the bar, smiled inscrutably at the barman, bowed and left the pub.
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