Allan Martin
An ordinary evening for Archie McLeath; it gets quieter when you’re old. Two boxes of microchips, a 4-in-1 TexMex dip assortment, a four-pack of Tennents Lager, a bottle of cheap vodka, all from Mr Khan’s shop, and a DVD. The DVD was called Bunga-Bunga. Tommy didn’t know what that meant, but the man at the stall in The Barras market said it was a good one. The fuzzy photocopied cover seemed to show a cluster of naked bodies. The writing on the back was in a foreign language. The man said the dialogue was in Italian, but he shouldn’t worry about that, there was no plot anyway. A bargain at just a pound. And he’d never had cause to complain before about the stallholder’s recommendations.