"Well, well!" exclaimed Prism "Just look what's crawled in from the sewers! Get him, Sisters!"
Before he could say 'tam-o-shanter', Gordon was surrounded by women snarling at him and crouching menacingly. "Would you like to know what a Scotsman wears under his kilt?" he asked.
"Well, stick around - you're about to find out!"
Whirling the rope above his head, he flung it upwards and caught its hook on a chandelier. He then used the rope to swing, higher and higher and faster and faster, until he was whizzing round the walls at twice the speed of sound. “Yippee! It’s the Flying Scotsman!”
The nunjas tried in vain to keep track of him, swivelling their heads until they turned cross-eyed, while Gordon, by now hugely enjoying himself, had built up such a spin he almost hummed.
"Have you seen enough yet?" Gordon laughed before swirling down upon Prism and her sisters where they stood in a huddle, dizzy and confused. Whether from Gordon's gravity defying aerobics or the fluorescent-orange cycling shorts he sported beneath his homemade kilt, they certainly felt queasy. "Och, I always have this effect on people" he cried "trouble is, I'm just no good in polite company. I'm always putting my foot in it!" And, as if to prove the point, he swung, feet first into the huddle and knocked all the Nunjas over like tenpins. "Strike!" crowed Gordon.