Monday, September 20, 2004
Hamish McShanks Secret Diary - Part 10
Hamish McShanks Secret Dairy w/e 19th September 2004
‘No thanks, no more for me, I’ve got to drive tomorrow’, ‘A quick one?’, ‘No no no ah’ve got to be sensible’, ‘Sure?’ …… ‘Aye absolutely’, ‘Not even a wee one?’, ‘Ok a half then’, ‘A HALF! I’m not getting a half’, ‘Ok make it a pint’ ……. So much for will power
The best laid plans of mice and men, five pints (max) and home by 10pm. It was now half past ten as I slurped at my sixth pint. The world was looking a lot nicer through the bottom of a beer glass though. I sat back and enjoyed the comforting amber hue ‘s’really good thish beer’, ‘your slurring your words’, ‘No no no’, ’yes ye are ye bleezer’, ‘no ah’m not no ah’m not … s’your earsh that’s shluu… shluuu… shlu….uuuucked’, ‘Away man yer steamin!’, ‘thatsh a scandeloush shluur’, ‘Yer doing it again!’ I leant over and beckoned my friend closer ‘ah’l let you into a shecret Steven hic ………..… I’m really Dutch’ ‘Oh aye sure ye are…jeeeeeeesuuus’ the silent beery fart that had slipped out as I leant over seemed to carry the argument.
I sensed the opportunity for a comfort break and headed for the toilets. This particular pub had elected to decorate the walls of the urinals with old maps and charts, which I must admit, provided a welcome distraction whilst recycling ones beer. Each urinal had a different country to study, in my case a splendid coloured map of the British Isles stretched up the wall and across the ceiling.
Things were going quite well as I headed up the M6, the torrential downpour eased briefly in the lake district but it was definitely a day of heavy showers as I continued through Kielder forest and into the borders. Despite the change to A-roads there was no let up in pace, my body seemed to have converted six pints into 400 litres and I was becoming rather concerned as I continued northwards into the Highlands…….
I was beginning to weep as I approached Thurso but I needn’t have worried as this was where the wall met the ceiling. Simple geometry meant I was now leaning back at a precarious angle and I toppled slowly backwards like a felled tree. The back of my head met the side of the porcelain sink ‘hello sink’, ‘goodnight head’ and the conversation was over. I’m not sure how long I was out for but I know exactly how long it took them to throw me out. You try explaining to a doorman that you were involved in a road traffic accident in the toilets ……..
One positive of being covered in dried blood and urine is you tend to get the first spot in the taxi queue. The drive home was also surprisingly quiet, it’s impossible to speak without breathing ‘in’ and as a result the normally chatty driver got no further than ‘Where to mate .. fuuuuukin’ell’ before thrusting his head out the window. He paid scant attention to speed limits, traffic lights or pedestrians as he sped along sucking in lungfuls of fresh air. ‘Cheers mate…oooaammmpff’ I didn’t realise Peugeot 405’s had ejector seats.
I woke the next morning with a healthy appetite. I do tend to have a large appetite at the best of times but when I’m hung over I am an eating machine. Generally speaking it’s not lettuce and tomatoes I crave, unless they are on top of a burger or a piece of fried chicken (cos you can throw them out) Driven by the desire for lard I jumped in the car and headed off to my nearest drive through (KFC)
I pulled up to the microphone and shouted my order ‘Five strips please’ a crackly reedy voice replied ‘A five strip meal, certainly sir’, ‘No, I don’t want fries or a drink I just want the chicken’, ‘What drink would you like?, ‘I don’t want a drink you simpleton..’, ’Coke, Pepsi, 7-up, Diet co....’, ‘No drink you Muppet’, ‘…ke, orange tango, apple tango..’, ‘Ok I’ll have horse piss please’, ‘Normal or supersize?’, ‘Hello? Anybody there?’, ‘And what dips would you like for your fries?’, ‘I didn’t order fries ye fud’, ‘BBQ, sour cream, spi….’, ‘no fecking dip!!’, ‘…cy, salsa or vegetable?’, ‘Does your cerebrum have a secret spicy coating cos your not getting this are you son?', ‘Four pounds eighty nine pick your order up at window number two’ …………
Chicken Rage noun [uncountable]
Anger or violence between fast food customer and cerebrally challenged staff, often caused by staff having more spots than brain cells.
‘No thanks, no more for me, I’ve got to drive tomorrow’, ‘A quick one?’, ‘No no no ah’ve got to be sensible’, ‘Sure?’ …… ‘Aye absolutely’, ‘Not even a wee one?’, ‘Ok a half then’, ‘A HALF! I’m not getting a half’, ‘Ok make it a pint’ ……. So much for will power
The best laid plans of mice and men, five pints (max) and home by 10pm. It was now half past ten as I slurped at my sixth pint. The world was looking a lot nicer through the bottom of a beer glass though. I sat back and enjoyed the comforting amber hue ‘s’really good thish beer’, ‘your slurring your words’, ‘No no no’, ’yes ye are ye bleezer’, ‘no ah’m not no ah’m not … s’your earsh that’s shluu… shluuu… shlu….uuuucked’, ‘Away man yer steamin!’, ‘thatsh a scandeloush shluur’, ‘Yer doing it again!’ I leant over and beckoned my friend closer ‘ah’l let you into a shecret Steven hic ………..… I’m really Dutch’ ‘Oh aye sure ye are…jeeeeeeesuuus’ the silent beery fart that had slipped out as I leant over seemed to carry the argument.
I sensed the opportunity for a comfort break and headed for the toilets. This particular pub had elected to decorate the walls of the urinals with old maps and charts, which I must admit, provided a welcome distraction whilst recycling ones beer. Each urinal had a different country to study, in my case a splendid coloured map of the British Isles stretched up the wall and across the ceiling.
Things were going quite well as I headed up the M6, the torrential downpour eased briefly in the lake district but it was definitely a day of heavy showers as I continued through Kielder forest and into the borders. Despite the change to A-roads there was no let up in pace, my body seemed to have converted six pints into 400 litres and I was becoming rather concerned as I continued northwards into the Highlands…….
I was beginning to weep as I approached Thurso but I needn’t have worried as this was where the wall met the ceiling. Simple geometry meant I was now leaning back at a precarious angle and I toppled slowly backwards like a felled tree. The back of my head met the side of the porcelain sink ‘hello sink’, ‘goodnight head’ and the conversation was over. I’m not sure how long I was out for but I know exactly how long it took them to throw me out. You try explaining to a doorman that you were involved in a road traffic accident in the toilets ……..
One positive of being covered in dried blood and urine is you tend to get the first spot in the taxi queue. The drive home was also surprisingly quiet, it’s impossible to speak without breathing ‘in’ and as a result the normally chatty driver got no further than ‘Where to mate .. fuuuuukin’ell’ before thrusting his head out the window. He paid scant attention to speed limits, traffic lights or pedestrians as he sped along sucking in lungfuls of fresh air. ‘Cheers mate…oooaammmpff’ I didn’t realise Peugeot 405’s had ejector seats.
I woke the next morning with a healthy appetite. I do tend to have a large appetite at the best of times but when I’m hung over I am an eating machine. Generally speaking it’s not lettuce and tomatoes I crave, unless they are on top of a burger or a piece of fried chicken (cos you can throw them out) Driven by the desire for lard I jumped in the car and headed off to my nearest drive through (KFC)
I pulled up to the microphone and shouted my order ‘Five strips please’ a crackly reedy voice replied ‘A five strip meal, certainly sir’, ‘No, I don’t want fries or a drink I just want the chicken’, ‘What drink would you like?, ‘I don’t want a drink you simpleton..’, ’Coke, Pepsi, 7-up, Diet co....’, ‘No drink you Muppet’, ‘…ke, orange tango, apple tango..’, ‘Ok I’ll have horse piss please’, ‘Normal or supersize?’, ‘Hello? Anybody there?’, ‘And what dips would you like for your fries?’, ‘I didn’t order fries ye fud’, ‘BBQ, sour cream, spi….’, ‘no fecking dip!!’, ‘…cy, salsa or vegetable?’, ‘Does your cerebrum have a secret spicy coating cos your not getting this are you son?', ‘Four pounds eighty nine pick your order up at window number two’ …………
Chicken Rage noun [uncountable]
Anger or violence between fast food customer and cerebrally challenged staff, often caused by staff having more spots than brain cells.
Earlier today a man was arrested for inserting deep fried poultry into a stunned vendor in a chicken rage incident.
It’ll be in the dictionary soon, trust me on this ……………
I was forced to return home empty handed ‘So where’s the food’ enquired my brother ‘I had an ….. incident……’ Fraz just shook his head and went into the kitchen. I could hear him rummaging through the cupboards and fridge ‘So do you want a pasta dish then?’, ‘Aye why not I need to lie low for a few hours anyway’, ‘There’s not much in the fridge, it’ll have to be chicken, bacon and red wine’, ‘Nae chicken fer me, I’ve gone off it’ my brother leant round the corner of the door and gave me a quizzical look ‘fair enough ye weirdo, bacon and mushroom it is’, ‘is this wine in the green bottle ok?’, ‘Aye should be fine’ I replied wondering where he had managed to find a bottle of wine.
I settled down to read the Sunday papers as my bruvva rustled up the tea. I could hear the bacon sizzling away in the pan and I remembered that I hadn’t told Fraz that the cooker was a bit iffy. The rings are rather temperamental, basically they are either on at white-hot pan melting temperature or they are off! Selecting a number on the dial is just a bit of fun. ‘Oh by the way the cookers a bit … WOOOOOSH! ….. unpredictable…’
I only saw the edge of the mushroom cloud as the kitchen door took the full force of the blast, well the force that was left after my ‘human shield’. A rather ashen faced and eyebrowless brother staggered through to the lounge clutching a sooty red wine bottle ‘You …f…f..fff…..’, ‘Aye it’s nae the best that cooker’, ‘ You f.f.f.f.f.f.f..f.f.’, ‘I’m thinking of getting a microwave’, ‘B..b.b.b.aaaaa…ssss…t’ ‘Sounds like chips for tea the night then’ I mumbled as I flicked through the colour supplement. ‘Y..yoour … dd.dd.. dddeid p.p.p…pa….’ I didn’t quite catch the end of the sentence as he folded up on to the hearth rug.
So the moral of the story? Don’t let the label come off your bottle of cheap Greek brandy and never add strong spirits to hot pans if you want to keep your eyebrows. So two morals really, that’s value that is, two for one morals……..
Doei
