It's the evil glint in Mr M's eye that gets me. As soon as I decide that it is definitely evil, his countenance softens and the glint turns to a twinkle.
The dapper octogenarian is regaling ma da with his latest news and views.
"Whit aboot this G51 rubbish again?" he's asking, referring to grun' south of Ibrox Park. "An' shares? Whit dae ye actually think o' that David Murray?"
The other men in the group give forth their opinions.
"Aye," he laughs caustically, "Should pit 'im doon a hole, him an' Whyte tae. Aye, hahah, alang wi' that Jimmy Savile, eh? Whit dae ye make a' him? Aye thought he wis a weirdo."
He's in full flow now, dark suit, a little shiny with age, white pocket handkerchief neatly in place, starched shirt and narrow tie, shined-up shoes and today a little black woolly hat. An autumnal chill makes us shiver, but the hat seems a bit too informal for a gent such as Mr M.
"Och, there's gaunae be a lot o' them quakin' in their boots noo. It's a' gonnae come oot noo. They've even goat him oot a' Hong Kong, whit's his name? Patten. Seen him oan the telly bubblin' oan aboot it a'. hahaha! Oh aye, therr's plen'y mair tae be revealed. I'll tell ye."
His chortle is humourless and he gargles like a choked drain.
"D'ye know Savile's meant tae huv hud a big hoose in Scotland?"
Ma da laughs sardonically, "It's a mansion in the sky noo."
"Skye?" queries Mr M. "Is that where it wis?"
"Naw," ma da says, "in the sky. A mansion." And they both break out into hearty laughter and I snigger quietly, cos I'm just earywigging, just speaking if spoken to, which I'm not.
"Ha ha, good yin," continues Mr M. "Ah can see Jim'll fix it at the pearly gates. Peter'll be like, 'naw, naw, you're doonsterrs. Git goin. Aff wi' ye!'".