Monday, August 30, 2004
Hamish McShanks Secret Diary - Part 7
Hamish McShanks Secret Diary w/e 29th August 2004
Caaaathunk! ….. ‘Ok’ ……. Cacccaathunk …. ‘Right’ …. Trrrrrk.k.kk.k..thuunk … ‘Hmmm’….. ‘lets try one more time’…… trrrrrratatatat.t.t…tt....caaaaaaaaathunk! ‘Oh for fu.... who thought this up eeeh? Eeehhh?’, ‘what fecking Muppet designed this hmmmm?’ Funnily enough I didn’t receive an answer, not a surprise really as it was just myself and the ironing board battling it out. I shook my head and mumbled ‘Only the bloody cheesemunchers could’ve designed this’ The board collapsed for the umpteenth time and I started to count to ten ……………
I paced round the room glaring at this glorified plank ‘You want to buck up your ideas laddy!’, ‘Hmmmm’, ‘You want get yourself a work ethic’ my stride gathered apace and I started smacking my fist into the palm of my hand ‘You want to fecking well stand on your own four feet sunshine!’ I stopped suddenly, leant over the prone board and stabbed it with my finger ‘don’t you dare look at me like that Oooodoyoufink yoooare eeeh eeeeh?’ I’ve seen stiffer lettuce than you!’ My nose was now touching the cotton cover and my cheeks had turned a deep crimson colour. A light covering of spittle gave the surface a mottled look ‘WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELL?’. The ironing board remained stony faced throughout the tirade.
In the absence of a magic levitation spell I elected to kick the ironing board into submission. This was 100% successful in all but two aspects. Firstly I wasn’t wearing any shoes so succeeded in breaking three toes and two fingers. I broke the fingers when I punched the wall for being so stupid as to kick something metal with bare feet (whereas punching a solid wall with my bare hand was clearly a work of genius)
I did eventually brutalise this household item into an upright position and managed to iron my shirt. It was at this point I encountered the second flaw in my otherwise fine plan. How do I get the fecker down again? My psychotic attack had left the metal pretty mangled and the previously brilliant white enamel was looking slightly worse for wear. The ingenious Dutch mechanism that had originally refused to stay in place was now wedged solidly.
As I pondered my next move there was a knock on the door ‘Room Service Mr Shanks!’, ‘Oh shi…… yes what is it?’, ‘Have you finished with the ironing board? Another resident wants it’, ‘buggery buggery bollocks eh not quite, can you give me another ten minutes?’, ‘Very well sir but you have had it for three hours already……..’
Some quick thinking was required ……. hmmm ….. the minutes raced past as I feverishly tried to think of a plausible excuse. Nobody was going to believe it had been stolen and woefully poor as that excuse was, it was my best I could come up with. Time was nearly up, I could hear footsteps approaching ‘Oh bugger!’ A light breeze wafted in the open window making the net curtain rustle, I had a flash of inspiration……………
Knock knock ‘Mr Shanks it’s room service …...’, ‘Mr Shanks?’ knock knock ……… As there was no answer she decided to let herself in with her pass key ‘OH MY DEAR GOD!’ My brilliant idea of throwing the ironing board out the window had gone slightly awry. Unfortunately in the process of disposing of the evidence I had tripped over one of the mangled legs and the mutilated equipment had ultimately gained it’s revenge.
Caaaathunk! ….. ‘Ok’ ……. Cacccaathunk …. ‘Right’ …. Trrrrrk.k.kk.k..thuunk … ‘Hmmm’….. ‘lets try one more time’…… trrrrrratatatat.t.t…tt....caaaaaaaaathunk! ‘Oh for fu.... who thought this up eeeh? Eeehhh?’, ‘what fecking Muppet designed this hmmmm?’ Funnily enough I didn’t receive an answer, not a surprise really as it was just myself and the ironing board battling it out. I shook my head and mumbled ‘Only the bloody cheesemunchers could’ve designed this’ The board collapsed for the umpteenth time and I started to count to ten ……………
I paced round the room glaring at this glorified plank ‘You want to buck up your ideas laddy!’, ‘Hmmmm’, ‘You want get yourself a work ethic’ my stride gathered apace and I started smacking my fist into the palm of my hand ‘You want to fecking well stand on your own four feet sunshine!’ I stopped suddenly, leant over the prone board and stabbed it with my finger ‘don’t you dare look at me like that Oooodoyoufink yoooare eeeh eeeeh?’ I’ve seen stiffer lettuce than you!’ My nose was now touching the cotton cover and my cheeks had turned a deep crimson colour. A light covering of spittle gave the surface a mottled look ‘WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELL?’. The ironing board remained stony faced throughout the tirade.
In the absence of a magic levitation spell I elected to kick the ironing board into submission. This was 100% successful in all but two aspects. Firstly I wasn’t wearing any shoes so succeeded in breaking three toes and two fingers. I broke the fingers when I punched the wall for being so stupid as to kick something metal with bare feet (whereas punching a solid wall with my bare hand was clearly a work of genius)
I did eventually brutalise this household item into an upright position and managed to iron my shirt. It was at this point I encountered the second flaw in my otherwise fine plan. How do I get the fecker down again? My psychotic attack had left the metal pretty mangled and the previously brilliant white enamel was looking slightly worse for wear. The ingenious Dutch mechanism that had originally refused to stay in place was now wedged solidly.
As I pondered my next move there was a knock on the door ‘Room Service Mr Shanks!’, ‘Oh shi…… yes what is it?’, ‘Have you finished with the ironing board? Another resident wants it’, ‘buggery buggery bollocks eh not quite, can you give me another ten minutes?’, ‘Very well sir but you have had it for three hours already……..’
Some quick thinking was required ……. hmmm ….. the minutes raced past as I feverishly tried to think of a plausible excuse. Nobody was going to believe it had been stolen and woefully poor as that excuse was, it was my best I could come up with. Time was nearly up, I could hear footsteps approaching ‘Oh bugger!’ A light breeze wafted in the open window making the net curtain rustle, I had a flash of inspiration……………
Knock knock ‘Mr Shanks it’s room service …...’, ‘Mr Shanks?’ knock knock ……… As there was no answer she decided to let herself in with her pass key ‘OH MY DEAR GOD!’ My brilliant idea of throwing the ironing board out the window had gone slightly awry. Unfortunately in the process of disposing of the evidence I had tripped over one of the mangled legs and the mutilated equipment had ultimately gained it’s revenge.
The sight of an unconscious half dressed man apparently collapsed in the midst of humping a piece of hotel property was too much for her and she fainted. I suppose the crumpled kilt, which was now nestling around my ears was the final straw ……..
The hotel were quite understanding though and they allowed me thirty seconds to clear my room and ‘Get the hell out of zish Hotel you Shcotsh pervert’ Thankfully the youth hostel were not as picky about their clientele.
The wedding was excellent, Allan was a typical, extremely happy but slightly nervous groom. Sanne was looking ravishing in an ivory wedding dress with all those funny veily fiddly bits that girls seem to like. And I looked like a tramp that had slept in a kilt. I think the large purple bruise I was sporting on my left temple finished the look off nicely. I managed to find a space at the back of the room and remained out of sight until the ceremony was over.
Dutch wedding receptions are slightly different from Scots ones in that they usually involve a free bar (a fiscally suicidal idea in Scotland) this is because the cloggies are a civilised people who can have a few ‘social’ beers. They do not feel that the quintessential nature of a sociable drink is captured in the inability to control your legs, bladder and stomach or garnishing the pavement with partly digested fast food.
Allan must have been saving for years to pay the bar bill. In our particular group weddings have always been extremely noisy, alcoholic affairs that went on into the early hours of the morning. There is much singing and dancing to the popular music of the day and enormous hangovers are ‘cured’ by simply starting drinking again the next day. Allan needn’t have worried though ……… Babies! ……. Fousands of em!
Everywhere you looked there were pushchairs, rattles, changing bags, bottles and prams. Normally sensible and coherent adults going ‘cootchee cootchee coo’, ‘Ooowwaaaah wubah wubah oooohaaaahhhh hee hee’, ‘Ooosaahh wee monkey then yeesyoooare yeeeesyooooooareee’ There was more sense coming out of the bairns mouths. I’m afraid I have to admit that despite being a former child myself I’m not very good with kids, I never know what to do. My friend John dumped his bairn Joe on ‘Uncle Hams’ lap and I clutched him like an unexploded bomb.
I thought perhaps I better chat ‘Eeer so Joe are you a friend of the bride or groom?’ L’ill Joe just burbled, grinned and attempted to chew one of my fingers ‘Ooookay’, ‘What line of work are you in?’, ‘Waammmbulaa’, ‘Uhhu that’s nice and what football team do you support?’, ‘Goofuummmb’, I was getting very concerned now ‘JOHN JOHN!!!!’, ‘What’s wrong?’, ‘It’s Joe he cant seem to speak, he’s just mumbling incoherently!’, ‘He’s 5 months old you divvy!’, ‘What and he cant speak?, is he thick or is he just not tryi..ooomppfff’
Apparently parents can be very sensitive when it comes to their kids…..
Doei
n.b. No children were harmed during the writing of this diary, I got a kicking two or three times but the bairns were all perfectly well behaved wee cuties.
