Hamish McShanks

Hamish McShanks Secret Dairy – w/e/ 12th September 2004

Two pints of lager and a packet of crisps, hmmmm, try four pints of Indian Pale Ale, three pints of Guinness and two packets of plain crisps. Crisps regrettably, don’t soak up much alcohol. With the benefit of hindsight a proper meal would have been a far better idea. Of course at the time I was ‘fine’ absolutely ‘fine’, top banana in fact. That’s assuming top banana refers to dancing on tables and baring your @rse in front of several sets of grand parents. The only positive point was they weren’t my grand parents, a silver lining that escaped the bride and groom.

So yet another wedding for Hamish, ever the bridesmaid never the bride it would seem. Just the reception this time though, so we had ample opportunity to get half cut before arriving. Exactly what you need when you only know a handful of people at the event. I’m thinking of writing a book on social etiquette it’s called ‘Faux Pas for Dummies’ I’m on volume seven already …..

It had been a quiet week up until Saturday; I should have known I couldn’t go a whole week without offending someone. Surprisingly my physiotherapy went very well, no soiled underwear, no drama, no unwanted localised high blood pressure as my groin strain received a thorough massage from a very attractive young physiotherapist.

Ok so I was nearly blubbing cos it was so sore and I was a tad uncomfortable as I forgot a pair of shorts and was forced to wear a ‘borrowed’ pair from the practice (a fetching silk lilac number as a matter of fact). I did raise an eyebrow when she pulled this particular pair out of the holdall. ‘Eeer are you sure that’s all you’ve got?’, ‘Only pair left’ she said whilst kicking the overflowing holdall under the desk. ‘Aren’t these …. Eeeem ladies?’, ‘No no noooooooo these are boxing shorts’……….

Admittedly they were fairly long and I suppose they could have been for a boxer, if you were a boxer called Susan. She’d left to let me change in peace and my mind started to wander as I slipped them over my legs. The muffled giggling from next door faded as I pictured myself in the ring. I’m in the centre, on my toes, bobbing and weaving, ducking and diving, a right cross wham, a left uppercut wallop, a quick shuffle of the feet and bang bang bang …………….. and I’m picking up my teeth! Staggering back towards my corner, tears in my eyes screaming ‘I could have been a contender’, ‘I could have been a legend ahuuuhh huuhhh huhhh sniff sniff’ Possibly a legend but only as ‘Stonecold Susan’, ‘Minces like a butterfly and cries like a baby..’

A knock at the door brought me back to the present, the physio peered round the corner of the door ‘Are you changed?’, ‘Yeah’, ‘So how are the shorts’, ‘Oh aye fine, fine, a bit tight round the hips’ she entered the room ‘Yes they really bbbb..ring out the cc.c.colour in your eyes…ahooo hooo’ she ran off covering her mouth and making strange choking sounds, I waited patiently until she came back. ‘Ok?’ I enquired when she eventually returned ‘Yes sorry about that, I just had a frog in my thro….a….gmmmff hoo hoo hoooo’ She was off again.

I don’t know what was wrong with the poor lassy but it must have been infectious, the rest of the staff seemed similarly distressed when they came in to help ………

My injury has meant I’ve had a bit more time on my hands, what with not doing sport twice a day every day! As a result I thought I’d try and set up some alternative method of distributing this drivel you are currently sending to your recycle bin. That way only the people that actually ‘want’ to read it will get it, rather than the reader digest distribution list I have now.

A friend had suggested I set up a ‘blog’ my blank expression probably told her that I didn’t have a smegging clue what a blog was. I’d heard of the ‘Baghdad blogger’ and was getting slightly concerned that it involved entering a war zone. Not something I’m particularly keen on, I don’t really want to be caught and tortured. Whilst a popular pastime amongst Tory MP’s having nipples attached to electrodes does not appeal. Lesley allayed my fears with several slaps round the face and a stirring ‘Get a grip of yersel ye fud’ speech.

Turns out anyone can start a blog and there is even a website that does all the hard work for ye (result). I bumbled through the login and set-up ‘wizard’ producing my first ‘blog’ in the space of 30 minutes. Some local market research suggested my first effort was ‘fucking depressing’ as a result I elected to change the funereal black background for a more formal blue, then a lively green and finally settled on a retinal damaging orange.

I have to admit I was feeling pretty pleased with myself, look at me and my mastery of technology I thought. My good humour evaporated when I tried to access the blog I had just created and it was blocked by the e-mail Gestapo. A very large automated red warning message flashed up on my screen informing me that I shouldn’t waste ‘work time and resources’ accessing these sites and my staff number had been noted. ‘Ooooooh I’m in the book’, ‘Oh I’m on a yellow card am I?’, ‘Whassa fecking point of letting me create the fecking blog and then stopping me looking at it?’, ‘Eeeeeh eeeeh eeeeh’ my monitor refused to be drawn into a discussion on the matter.

I didn’t let the small point of a one sided conversation stop me (or the fact I was trying to converse with an inanimate object) oh no, not me. ‘And anyway it’s my lunch hour ya baaaaaastard!’, ‘Oh oh oh nothing to say for yourself now have ye!’, ‘HAVE YE!!!’ I grabbed either side of the monitor and started shaking it ‘Don’t you ignore me’, ‘Oooo do you fink yoo are’, ‘Yoo ffnsnooty piece of junk’ Ferociously jabbing the equipment only succeeded in fuelling my rage as glass screens are quite hard and impervious to prodding whereas fingers are quite soft and very susceptible to staving.

‘I’m going to sue for assault’ I screamed as two members of my team dragged me away while I clutched my staved fingers. I did get a number of odd looks for the rest of the afternoon, one of the down sides of working in an open plan office I suppose…

Anyway if anyone wants to access my blog (out with work obviously) then this literary excrement can be located at .....well here!

Hamish McShanks will accept no responsibility for any staved fingers!

Doei