«One dave she woll go too farther, and I woll leaf her» he said to his fave rave horse. Of course the horse didn't answer, because as you know they cannot speak, least of all to a garlic eating, stinking, little yellow greasy fascist bastard catholic Spaniard. They soon made it up howevans and Jesus and wee Spastic were once morphia unitely in a love that knew no suzie. The only thing that puzzled Jesus was why his sugarboot got so annoyed when he called her his little Spastic in public. Little wonder howeapon, with her real name being Patrick, you see?
«Ye musna» call me Spastic whilst ma friends are here Jesus ma bonnie wee dwarf' she said irragated.
«But I cannot not say Patrick me little tartan bag» he replied all herb and angie inside. She looked down at him through a mass of naturally curly warts.
«But Spastic means a kind of cripple in English ma sweet wee Jesus, and ai'm no cripple as you well known!»
«That's true enough» said he «but I didn't not realize being a foreigner and that, and also not knowing your countries culture and so force, and anywait I can spot a cripple anywhere.»
He rambled on as Patrick knelt down lovingly with tears in her eye and slowly bit a piece of his bum. Then lifting her face upwarts, she said with a voice full of emulsion «Can ye heffer forgive me Jesus, can ye?» she slobbed. He looked at her strangely as if she were a strangely, then taking her slowly right foot he cried; «Parreesy el pino a strevaro qui bueno el franco senatro!» which rugby transplanted means — «Only if you've got green braces» — and fortunately she had.
They were married in the fallout, with the Lairds blessing of course, he also gave them a «wee gifty» as he put it, which was a useful addition to their bottom lawyer. It was a special jar of secret ointment made by generators of his forefingers to help get rid of Patricks crabs which she had unluckily caught from the Laird of McAnus himself at his late wifes (Lady McAnus') wake. They were overjoyced, and grapenut abun and beyond the call of duty.
«The only little crawlie things we want are babies,» quipped Jesus who was a sport. «That's right sweety» answered Patrick reaching for him with a knowsley hall.
«Guid luck to you and yours» shouted the Laird from the old wing.
«God bless you sir» said Jesus quickly harnessing his wife with a dexterity that only practice can perfect. «Come on me beauty» he whispered as he rode his wife at a steady trot towards the East Gate. «We mustn't miss the first race my dear.»
