Hamish McShanks

Hamish McShanks Secret Diary w/e 17th October 2004

Things were starting to get a bit iffy, in fact I was getting extremely hot under the collar, I could feel my pulse racing. My heart was pounding like a hammer and I could hear each beat inside my head. My stomach was churning with dissent, three down one to go. The dealer turned to face Phil and twisted the next card, the three of hearts ‘Lucky bas’ I muttered. Then he slowly turned to face me, grinning evilly he flicked the next card in my direction. It seemed to hang in the air, taking an absolute eternity to land; I didn’t need to look as a roar of laughter engulfed the table. ‘Oh fuuuu..’, ‘Nae luck Shanks, what was it this time? Aftershock and tomato juice wasn’t it? Ha ha haaa’.

The drink promptly arrived and I reluctantly grasped it in my hand ‘In a one’er mind’ he was grinning like a Cheshire cat ‘Ffnbaas’ I slurred and then chugged the vile concoction in one. There was a brief pause to see if the drink was staying down then an appreciative roar from the rest of the team as I smacked the glass back on the table. Rubbered though I was I couldn’t help but notice Kenny’s face was now tripping him. The ‘Cheshire cat’ had been replaced with a face like a bulldog licking pish off a nettle. I sat back and fixed him with what I thought was a smug smile but given my inebriated state it probably looked like I was trying to defecate.

What’s this great game you may ask? Four Jacks it’s called. Very simple really, just shuffle a pack of cards and deal them out around the table. The first person to get a jack chooses a spirit, the second person to get a jack chooses a mixer, the third person to get a jack pays for the drink and the last poor bastard who gets a jack has to drink. Normally this would just be a game of chance but I feel Kenny’s membership of the magic circle was tipping the odds, either that or I’m just ‘lucky’. Whatever the reason heaving in a wheelie bin at two on a Saturday morning topped off a great weekend

It had started off with great promise and in a far more civilised manner. What could be nicer than a pleasant meal with some former work colleagues. We met in a ‘restaurant’ on the outskirts of Aberdeen. Despite being a ‘chain pub’ this particular establishment had always served us well. Hearty portions of simple but well cooked food in a convivial atmosphere, all the bash as they say. Unfortunately standards seem to have slipped recently.

I should have recognised the warning signs when the waitress no longer took our order at the table and you had to order at the bar. Fair enough though that’s quite common, I’ll just go to the bar. However alarm bells really started ringing when the lazy young trollop behind said bar couldn’t even be airsed to move the 10 feet to where I stood and instead shouted ‘Yeah?’ across the void.

‘I’d like to order some food please’ ‘What’s yer number’, ‘Sorry?’, ‘Yer table number?’, ‘I don’t know it’s the one in the corner by the window’, ‘I need the number’, ‘what do ye mean were the only people here!’, ‘cannay take yer order without the number’, ‘and you don’t know it?’, ‘Nuh duuuuh’. I was about to erupt when I remembered I was with old friends and instead I took a deep breath stomped back to the table to get the number.

When I returned she was deep in conversation with her equally uninterested co-worker. I looked to either end of the bar, not a soul in sight. I waited a further ten seconds before clearing my throat noisily. The stroppier of the two looked up and screwed her face into an even less attractive pose, which I have to admit I didn’t think was possible given the ‘ground state’ of her ugly mug. After several failed attempts to communicate verbally I pointed at the pictures on the menu and she finally managed to take our order. I returned to our table with little hope of ever getting fed.

The craic was excellent though and time flew by, it was only when my stomach started rumbling I realised we had been waiting thirty minutes. I excused myself and went to check on progress. The two ugly sisters were still gassing at the bar, previous experience had taught me they had no peripheral vision so I walked straight up to the till and stood right in front of them.

The appearance of there one and only paying customer did little to shut their yapping. The stroppy one or ‘bagpuss’ as I prefer to think of her did briefly look down her nose at me before continuing on about the state of Jordans breasts. My patience was not wearing thin it was full blown anorexic.

I rapped on the top of the bar ‘Knock Knock!’ they turned to stare at me, I struck the bar twice more ‘KNOCK KNOCK!’ they looked bewildered ‘ok ladies lets try one more time’ I thumped the bar with my fist ‘KNOCKITYFECKING BASTARRDING BOLLOCKYKNOCK!!’, there was a long pause then the one with two brain cells ventured ‘Who’s there?’. ‘Dawn’, ‘Dawn who?’, ‘Dawn’t ye think it’s time I got my fecking dinner? hmmmmm’ They scuttled off to the kitchen like two frightened mice.

I did feel rather guilty about losing the rag at two girls but this guilt swiftly evaporated and was replaced with fear when the chef came out. By the look of things Robbie Coltrane and Alison Moyet had produced a lovechild. This man mountain had to squeeze sideways through the double Kitchen doors ‘Oh fuuuu’…….

I legged it back to the table ‘Change of plan girls, I’m treating you to a slap up feed somewhere else’, ‘where’, ‘Anywhere just get your fecking coat’, ‘What’s wrong with this place’, ‘nothing nothing nothing just get yer fecking coat!’, ‘ok ok no need to be snippy … now where’s my lipstick …’, ‘cmon cmon’, ‘In a minute I’m finishing my makeup’ ‘You look great now let’s gooooowaaahhhhh’ I was lifted off my feet and spun gently round ………

A large sweaty face hoved into view and an equally unattractive bulbous hairy nose was pressed against mine ‘Hello’ I squeaked. The overpowering aroma of cheap cooking sherry and stale cigarettes pervaded the air ‘Soooo yooooo wantchoordinner do yaaah?’, ‘Well I’m not that hungroooompppfff’, ‘It’s yoor lucky day, chefs special ona Friday…’, ‘Oh greaaaggghhh’ Turns out the chefs special wasn’t chicken in a basket it was ‘beating in the car park’ a snip at £3.99.

I had the last laugh though …. I only gave him a three pound tip ……

Doei