Pints, dominoes and dogs

26th of January 2025

The Unicorn pub sits proudly at the heart of the scheme in Penicuik, on the east coast of Scotland, run by Raymond and Murial MacDougal. The pub is a neighbourhood spot with the spirit of a tight-knit community in the 1980s. After spending more than a year down south, I knew it was only right to return and reconnect with the familiar faces of the pub locals, curious to see how life had shifted in my absence. As I make my way up the five weathered steps leading to the heavy wooden door, I could hear the warm hum of conversation and cackled laughter mingling with the rhythmic clatter of dominoes played on the tables inside. As I step through the door, I feel a sense of nostalgia and anticipation for the stories and the latest banter that awaited me within those time-worn walls. This was a familiar reminder of the essence of the small towns of Caledonia, where the working class embodied resilience and strength, showing no signs of vulnerability. The first thing I observe is the row of men playing dominoes while an assortment of loyal dogs lie comfortably at their feet, their eyes half-closed in contentment. The room is enveloped with that blue haze of smoke, which is more pronounced as sunlight streams through the windows. I suppose I wasn’t truly ready to embrace any changes. I always feel a kind of warmth when things have stood the test of time. The bar is filled with genuinely warm and friendly men who create an inviting atmosphere. However, amid the laughter and camaraderie, there are also some idiotic and ecccentric characters.

The Laughing Cavalier is an interesting character; there he is, standing at the bar giving his exaggerated tales, then bursting into laughter that mimics a machine gun. His stories often lose clarity, but you await his laughter, and he appears to enjoy his funny stories more than anyone else. However, his laughter is undeniably contagious, making it impossible for me not to join in, even if it’s at his expense; it’s a twisted joy that comes from laughing at him rather than with him. I would always encourage him to start a story so he could get to the sound of “KA KA KA KA KA KA KA KA!!” others in the bar would just stare at him with lashings of disdain in the hope of discouraging him. Raymond is serving behind the bar with a smile as he looks around, making it appear to be a fun place to be while he collects coins for the Pale Ale and Bells Whisky. The Cavalier, in his vibrant, flamboyant attire, is giving out teasing jokes to the regulars about their appearance. His gaze has fallen upon James Boland, a man in his thirties with a receding hairline: “Oi James,” the Cavalier began, tilting his head as he gestured with mock innocence, “I see yer hair’s getting a bit wavey at the back?” all eyes on James as he processed the playful jibe. He replied with an intrigued yet wry scowl that suggested a blend of amusement and mild exasperation. The Cavalier springs into action, shouting, “Waving goodbye!! KA KA KA KA KA KA KA!” As predicted, a group of us gathered at the bar is bursting into fits of infectious laughter, which only encourages the Cavaliar to continue his rapid-fire bullet hilarity.

At the other side of the bar, sitting at his usual table, is Auld Dougie, who is a true pub legend, a familiar figure who bounced in each Saturday, his trusty transistor radio clamped to his ear like a lifeline to the football world. With an enthusiastic shout, he unleashed the latest scores and sensational game updates, turning the pub into a hub of electric energy. While the TV bar flashed the scores behind him, Dougie thrived on the spotlight, relishing the thrill of sharing juicy snippets of information. In those moments, he felt every bit as vital as the air traffic controller guiding planes to safety, commanding the attention of everyone around him. He always bore a striking resemblance to a character from Harry Enfield’s show—an insufferably self-righteous old chap whose catchphrases “only me!” and “you didn’t wanna do that” echoed in my mind. Clad in a tartan flat cap that sat jauntily atop his head and light, casual golfing attire, he was a familiar sight. Dougie took immense pride in declaring himself a “right Scottish fitba man,” relishing the chance to catch a good game, regardless of which teams were competing. He professed to have no particular allegiance; his only loyalty lay with the love of fitba itself, a true neutral who embraced the sport in all its glory. As time passed, we began to pick up on Dougie’s expressions, the subtle changes in his mood as he clutched the radio to his ear, eagerly anticipating updates. The bar’s regulars often called out to him, eager to know the latest scores from each match.

This particular Saturday afternoon, Celtic are playing Aberdeen away up at Pitoddrie. This match seems to interest him the most for shouting out little snippets. “Celteek’s up against it!” he exclaims in his high-pitched, squeaky tone each time Aberdeen presses forward. With a hint of mild excitement in his voice, he announces, “Penalty to Aberdeen!” drawing the attention of some of the delighted locals. He then proceeds, “That’s 1-0 to Aberdeen!” The room responds with a wave of cheers and animated chatter from familiar faces. For the next quarter-hour, a hush fell over the bar as most of the punters returned to their dominoes, pints, and animated chat. As I look at the TV behind the bar I see the update: Aberdeen 1 Celtic 2. However, no updates were heard from Dougie’s table just radio transistor silence. Turning my attention to Dougie, I can’t help but notice the look on his face, which bore a striking resemblance to a trout caught helplessly in a swirling torrent whirlpool of despair. It was clear that Auld Dougie had been caught off guard, this result was nae guid for Scottish fitba!

Auld Yellow Ears saunters into the bar, the fabric of his long, worn jacket trailing slightly behind him while his flat cap sat snugly atop his head. Eddie was his real name but the locals christened him “yellow ears” due to decades of puffing Regal King Size – his ears, teeth, and some of his fingers had literally turned yellow. In fact, he was well on the way to transforming into a cast member from “The Simpsons”. Auld Yellow hailed from Manchester. What made him particularly intriguing was his unusual allegiance to both Manchester United and Manchester City. I always believed this was so he could pander to both sets of fans to see what he could gain. He is always looking to make a quick buck and if he wasn’t in the pub his second place of worship was the bookmakers. It was hard to ignore the signs of a classic gambling addict. When he wasn’t nursing a pint at the bar, he was huddled with the locals, concocting bets over everything from game outcomes to the toss of a coin.

The tune reverberating from the jukebox is “Live is Life” by Opus. An assortment of the pub are rhythmically stamping their feet and joyfully slapping their laps in unison to the chorus of “Live (na-na-na-na-na) … “Live is life (na-na-na-na-na).” It would not be a normal Saturday at the Unicorn without the lighthearted revelry, educated opinions, often fueled by a few too many pints, leading to spirited debates and finally a bit of confrontation. As I look towards the end of the Bar next to the window, Auld Yellow Ears and the Laughing Cavalier seem to be engrossed in a lively and eccentric contest. This strange game involves predicting the colour of the next car that will drive by the pub. The stakes, a mere 50 pence, their faces animated with the thrill of the gamble. I would imagine this is ignited by the clever mischief of Yellow Ears. As they savour the taste of beer and rum, the atmosphere grows more animated. It quickly becomes apparent that the Cavalier is on a winning streak, raking in 50 pence for each accurate guess about the shade of the passing vehicles meanwhile, Auld Yellow, on the other hand, seems to be trapped in a whirlpool of misfortune. At that moment, the Cavalier catches sight of Yellow Ears fizzing with rage, which prompts a fit of uncontrollable laughter from the Cavalier. His laughter bursts forth in a series of rapid-fire cackles, “KA KA KA KA KA KA KA KA! “Are ye trying a rip me off, ye bastit?” Yellow snarled, as he grabs his throat. With a powerful shove, they both crash against the table, sending pints glasses clattering to the ground as they tumbled onto the floor in a tangle of limbs. Murial, from behind the Bar with her eyes flashing with exasperation, seized the ice cube bucket and hurled it over them, a cascade of cold cubes spilling out like confetti as she scolded, “Ya pair of fackin arseholes!” Her voice rang out, a mix of frustration and disbelief, as she asserted her authority amidst the chaos.