Hamish McShanks

Hamish McShanks Secret Diary w/e 12^th December 04

The last spoonful of apple pie was about to be shovelled into my mouth when a tap tap tap on the microphone stopped me in mid guzzle. I looked up to see a middle aged man in a black shirt clutching a microphone. His hair was slicked back in an style not dissimilar to a ducks derriere ‘Oneahh … oneaahh … oneaaah twoaaahh … threeaaaah Ok folks welcome to the Albert Halls in Stirling were Silver Sixpence and we are your house band’ his over the top enthusiasm went largely unheeded.

Undeterred he soldiered on. Leaning theatrically towards the drummer he continued ‘Weeeee’ve got Wully on Drums’ a quick ratatatat from Wully helped any musically illiterate people understand the concept of drums and proved the compere wasn’t in fact a liar. Spinning quickly on his heels he thrust out his other hand, pointed at the accordion player and yelled ‘And on my left we’ve got Faaaaaat Bob on accordion’ ‘Bob’ who was so thin he was in danger of slipping between the floorboards shook his head gave him a withering glare and carried on rolling his cigarette. ‘Lastly there’s me! Jolly Jack on the guitar!!’ he started to knock out ‘Midnight Cowboy’ on his tartan stratocaster as I stared mouth wide open.

The Hank Marvin rendition fell somewhat flat, as did he, when he slightly mistimed the famous Marvin leg crosses, stumbled backwards, and keeled over behind a rubber plant. It took him a few seconds to scramble back on stage ‘jeeesus fuu..’ He staggered back to the microphone whilst smoothing back his ruffled hair ‘Ha ha ha ooohh ya bas ok were here to entertain you so without further ado here’s everyone’s favourite dance the dashing white sergeant!!!!!’ I groaned inwardly.

Memories of last years marathon Boston nine step came flooding back. The Silver Sixpence have no concept of elapsed time and dances can last anything from two and a half seconds to two or three days. If that weren’t enough of a deterrent rigorous exercise is not what’s required after a three course crimbo dinner.

Not that I actually finished my dinner the last mouthful going astray as I was literally dragged onto the dance floor. I did try and thrust my tongue out as far as possible as I was yanked out of my seat but to no avail. My spoon briefly defying gravity before clattering to the floor and pebble dashing the back of my kilt jacket which I’d put safely over the back of my seat ‘Oh marvellous, bloody marvellous’

The accordionist bashed out a few notes as we got organised and then we were off! Round for eight back for eight, set to your partner, twirl around, yah de yah yah. Mercifully we only went round sixteen times and the fluid loss was restricted to sweat this year. As soon as the song finished I headed for the bar to replenish lost fluids.

An attractive blonde wearing a slinky black dress with a side split up to her armpit was standing at the bar. Hmmm she’s a bit foxy I thought. I was about to put the old Shanks moves on her when Lady luck finally took pity on me and stopped me making a huge mistake (married woman). She turned to face me and I realised who it was ‘Alright Ginge how’s it goingooommppff’ I’ve got to remember and stop calling her that ‘Eeer do ye fancy a drink?’ I enquired whilst massaging some life back into my jaw ‘Aye a Tia Maria and pineapple and don’t even think about commenting on the dress or I’ll skelp ye’, ‘Right right, whatever ye say luvooommppfff’

I got the drinks and chatted for a bit trying to mend some broken bridges. Unfortunately I was still rather hot from my dancing exploits and was sweating like the proverbial. A kilt is also a damm sight hotter than you might think and retains a lot of heat. Heat as we all know rises.

Now the thing is that eventually the moisture has to condense somewhere. It could be absorbed into say cotton underwear (were you to be wearing any) but in the absence of underwear it will condense on any non absorbent surface (like skin for example) then it will cool down……

I could feel the sweat running down the inside of my legs but I was relying on the absorptive powers of my thick kilt socks to save the day. They might indeed have saved the day had I brought a spare pair to cover my wedding tackle (yeah like I’d need a ‘pair’ for that – I can dream). Regrettably I didn’t bring any spares and it was only when Brian came to get a drink from the bar that I realised there were ‘spattering’ issues. ‘Alright Ham do you fancy aawwoooaahhhh’ I made a dash for the toilets to do some ‘blotting’ as the bar staff helped Brian off the floor ‘Look at that! some idiots spilt a drink’ was the last thing I heard as I headed out the door.

Naturally there were no paper towels or even toilet roll left in the gents ‘Oh fantastic!’ the hot air hand driers were only going to exacerbate the situation. Drastic action was required. I had to time it perfectly but after a furtive trip to a vending machine in the ladies I returned dry and confident and ready to take anything in my stride. It was at this point I concluded that dancing all night was probably the safest option, or at least the best way to avoid puddles….

The Ceilidh band gave way to a DJ at 11pm. I don’t want to seem harsh or unkind but he was a dickhead, a deaf dickhead as it turned out. The volume increased steadily as the evening progressed. You thought he might have guessed when all the dancers were compressed into the last quarter of the hall as far away from the speakers as possible. St Andrews ambulance crews had to treat several perforated eardrums and one person had to be rushed to hospital when the sound waves damaged his pacemaker.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. When I say he was deaf I mean tone deaf as well as stone deaf. The last song of the evening was the Runrig version of Loch Lomond, you tak the high road and ah’ll tak the low road and ah’ll kill the DJ afore yeeeeeeeeee! Oh my god! Where’s Simon Cowell when you need him? Awful awful awful AND he warbled. An absolute cast iron giveaway that ye cannay sing for toffee.

Ye see the thing about this song is that everybody knows the words so the punters can sing along. Normal DJ’s, if that isn’t an oxymoron, turn the sound down at the chorus so the dancers can provide the line and the atmosphere. But not our lad, oh no, this was his opportunity to shine. Oh and he shone …………… like a matt black turd.

Ach well next year I’ll remember my huggee pull-ups if nothing else

Doei