The Lochside Inn

It’s not every day one of your regulars turns out to be Vlad the fucking Impaler.

Us Brits love a drink. But the Scotch take it to the next level. Any expendable income they’ve got is lost to the pub. Or offal. Or heroin. Or just not spent at all because they’re so miserly. That’s a joke. I love Scotland. Just I’m English so they automatically hate me, so fuck it. I may as well have a laugh. That’s a myth, by the way. If I were in the England (men’s) football team, fair enough. But thankfully I’m not.

Anyway, we’re in Scotland and in a pub. A run down shell of a pub, at that. The reason for which is the black stain that serial murderer Iain Adair left on Loch Henry. Which is actually a bit of a surprise when you think about it. You know what people are like. They had to bin off half of Cromwell Street in Gloucester because of folk turning up to gawp. ‘Dark tourists‘, they call them (a Daily Mail link seems fitting).

I won’t go on about the plot too much as it is incredibly bleak and the twist is worth seeing for yourself rather than finding it out via some ham-fisted oaf’s t shirt write up. All I will say is that there’s a little bit of Bergerac and a more than passable impression of Leatherface from Texas Chainsaw Massacre from Monica Dolan (who has coincidentally portrayed Rosemary West before). Also John Hannah drinking himself into oblivion. I’ve sat through Sliding Doors, so know how he feels.

I don’t say the word ‘Scotch’ either, don’t worry. Certainly not to Scottish people. I’m quite fond of my own teeth, cheers.