Monday, February 21, 2005


Hamish McShanks Secret Diary - Part 32

Hamish McShanks Secret Diary w/e 20th Feb 2005

‘Ha ha’ I surveyed my work with a feeling of smug self satisfaction. I’d packed all the books, CD’s and DVD’s. The stereo was boxed up, the TV was disconnected and all the cables taped on. In short I was in pretty good shape for moving…… until I remembered the cupboard behind the telly. ‘Ach how much can be in that one wee cupboard.

I pulled on the door handle and nothing happened ‘Cmon ye fecker’ I yanked harder but still it didn’t budge ‘Right sunshine ye want it the hard way’ I squared up to the door and gave it a hard stare ……… still nothing. ‘Ok ok so ye want tae play hardball do ye?’ not a peep from my wooden friend ‘Oh oh oh it’s the silent treatment is it? Well ye wur warned’ I took a deep breath and spat on my hands ‘Uuuuurgggh that’s bloody minging’ the revulsion at the feeling of warm saliva on my palms was overwhelming ‘Jeeeeesus that’s bogging’ I ran to the bathroom to wash my hands, I’m sure I could hear the door sniggering.

I’m not one to be beaten, well ok clearly I am, but just for a change I was going to persevere and win! After a quick manicure and relaxing herbal tea I was back and ready to rumble. ‘Right pal, last chance, are ye gonna open?’ still no response ‘ok have it your way’ I planted my right foot firmly on the floor and grabbed the handle with both hands. I took several deep breaths and started to pull ‘gnnnnnfffffff’ I heaved with all my might, veins were popping out in my neck and I was turning a disturbing rouge ‘gnnnfaaaaa’ I lifted my left leg and pushed with that ‘Aaaaaaaggh’ but to no avail.

Just then my twin brother came into the room ‘What are ye doing ye idiot?’, ‘Aa.a.m t.t.ttrrying .. ttttoo .. open the feeecking door’ I gasped as my eyes popped out of my head and my shoulders started to dislocate. He walked up to the door and turned the key. It was like a coiled spring exploding I shot backwards at a fearsome rate and smacked into the television ‘Fuuoooaaaaooompf’ Thankfully it’s a rather large wide screen television and took the impact well. So well in fact I ricocheted back towards the now open cupboard and was engulfed in its emptying contents. Books, folders, shoes, boots and camping equipment clattered down and I was swept away in an avalanche of forgotten tat ‘Aaaooognnnfffppp’ the noise of the landslide gradually subsided and all that could be heard were my muffled groans. ‘Right you seem to have this in hand I’m off to the pub

I could just hear the front door slamming as I started to dig my way out. It was a good half hours graft but I finally emerged puffing and panting from a cornice of old hill-walking magazines. I pulled the issue that was stuck to the side of my sweaty face and glanced at the front cover. Apparently some girl called Hillary has conquered Everest! Go Girl!

This forgotten cupboard of goodies meant I was far from finished. I was looking at another few hours sorting the wheat from the chaff. I sat down disconsolately and started to play with a long discarded rubics cube. After twenty minutes had elapsed I resorted to my tried and tested method of peeling the stickers off and reapplying in the correct order! (Show me where it says you cant? Hmmm? Right Smeg off then!)

I was nearly finished deluding myself that I was actually intelligent when I noticed a strange light at the back of the empty cupboard. ‘What the hell is that…’ there was an effervescent green glow emanating from the middle shelf. I leaned forward for a closer look. As I bent forward I was grabbed by an incredibly strong invisible force ‘Wooaaaaagghh’ The back of the cupboard was approaching at great speed, I closed my eyes and braced for impact…….

My face was still scrunched up and I was noisly grinding my teeth when I heard the sounds of birds singing in the trees ‘Uuuuh?’ I opened my eyes to find myself in a large woodland clearing. The grass was soft and lush underfoot and squirrels were scampering up a large sycamore tree in front of me ‘Christ this is a big cupboard’.

A slack jawed three sixty degree turn taking in the beautiful vista of evergreen and deciduous trees, a shimmering blue lake and a snow capped mountain range in the distance led me to conclude that I may no longer be in my cupboard. There was nothing to suggest anyone else was around either. I couldn’t hear any traffic noise, voices, radios, music, nothing ‘Ok clearly those mushrooms you had for breakfast were on the turn Hamish, don’t panic’. I spied a small but well-worn path winding it’s way down the hill and this seemed as good an option as any.

I had been skipping gaily for a few minutes when I realised I was skipping … gaily ‘hmm ok so your skipping like a girl Hamish, no reason to become alarmed’. It wasn’t long before I had a good reason though. Skipping is actually quite a skill, you may laugh but it’s all about rhythm and timing and pace and precision (Christ I sound like Alan Hansen) But a lack of skipping practice can lead to accidents. Specifically stubbing your toe on a feck off giant tree root then tumbling airse over tit down a bramble strewn steep hillside finally coming to rest with your nose buried in the backside of a four hundred pound brown bear ‘Oooompppffff

They say that a mother bear defending its cubs is the most dangerous kind of bear but I would disagree. A bear that’s just been nasally probed in its nether regions while minding it’s own business foraging for nuts and berries tends to become a bit tetchy. A trouser browning roar echoed around the forest and the beast rounded on me intent on evisceration. I quickly sized up the situation and deciding It was going to take more than a jar of honey to placate this fella, I legged it

I was motoring down the hillside remembering that wildlife on one program where they said bears couldn’t run downhill. A quick glance over my shoulder suggested that this particular bear didn’t possess a television ‘Oh shiii-‘ somehow I managed to find an extra turn of pace. Probably associated by the rapid loss of ‘ballast’ when I saw ‘Poo’ bear chasing me, if he wasn’t brown before he was now. He was still gaining and as I looked round for an escape route. All too late I saw the Scots pine in my path ‘Oh fuooommppppfff’ I slid down the trunk, grateful at least that I would be unconscious when it finished me off…..

I awoke to the sound of the front door. I was slumped in the cupboard, a large bruise on my forehead ‘Not got that done yet ye lazy git?’ I was about to retort when he farted noisily and slurred ‘pack that, ah’m off tae bed’ ……. class


Tuesday, February 15, 2005


Hamish McShanks Secret Diary - Part 31

Hamish McShanks Secret Diary w/e 13th Feb 2005

yes … yes ….. yes yes yes y..y.yYEEEESSS!!!!! OOOOOOOOOOH YESSSSSSS!!!’ What you may ask is the source of this ecstasy? A female orgasm perhaps? No don’t be silly; it’s a myth that they have them at all, cosmo is full of lies! It’s written by a bunch of lefty, dungaree wearing, man haters who print scurrelious untruths and fill young female minds with hope and expectation that the G spot actually exists! (as if) The very fact that they cant agree on where it is tells you everything you need to know. Lifes complicated enough trying to find the clitathingamyjig at least that’s ootside! Small diagram, headtorch and a little patience are all that’s required.

Sorry, I’m digressing, back to the noise. Clearly it wasn’t a bloke ‘getting there’ either. That would have simply been ‘oooh yeee ee ee ee ee ee ee ee eeees uhuhuh (micropause) zzzzzzzz’ and possibly a modicum of flatulence. N.b. elapsed time to read that last sentence equates to actual time spent in coitus (assuming it wasn’t the first date in which case divide by two) No the cause of this ecstatic and noisy outburst was something much much rarer than the G-spot, Lord Lucan or rocking horse droppings. This was because Scotland scored a try. Okay so it was only the one but ‘multiples’ are the stuff of myths (in either category, another lie girls)

It was unbelievable a Scottish player had out sprinted an able bodied concious opponent! The whole of Murrayfield errupted as Southwell crossed the line and touched down in the corner. The mighty Irish were being put to the sword by Scotlands finest. Last weeks cruel defeat to France hadn’t been a flash in the pan at all, these boys were the real deal. This was happening in front of my very eyes! Scottish rugby was dragging itself out of a bleak series of woeful results. Despair was being replaced with hope, anguish with joy and suffering with….. well slightly less suffering. We had been on a grim losing streak and I was going to be there to witness their glorious resurrection halleluja!

However a small voice at the back of my head was trying to catch my attention ‘hey fat boy we’ve been here before, remember the Autumn tests ….. hello? ……. Hello?’ I studiously ignored this voice and carried on whooping dementedly. Fair play to the little fellow he didn’t give up ‘Mr McShanks this is your memory here, perhaps I can draw your attention to the following definition; False dawn noun [usually singular but don’t count on it] : something which seems to show that a successful period is beginning or that a situation is improving when it is not’. ‘Ring any bells? Any sense of deja vous? Hmmm?’, ‘Weeeeeeell?’

I stuck my fingers in my ears and started humming ‘La la la laa’, ‘I’m inside your head you idiot you cant drown me out’ I raised my voice ‘La LA LA laaooomppff’, ‘What the bloody hell’s wrong with you ye eedjit’ my brother enquired as he massaged some life back into the hand he’d just slapped me with. ‘Nufing’ I mumbled as I rubbed the side of my face ‘I was just trying to keep warm’, ‘By putting your hands in your ears and singing?’, ‘yes’, ‘Weirdo!’, ‘nobcheese’, ‘What did you say!’, ‘I’ve got cold knees, it’s the kilt, it’s a bit draughty’ My brother eyed me suspiciously.

I glanced back at the scoreboard and we were now 20 points down ‘what the fuuu…’, ‘What did I tell you’ said my memory ‘What did I say?’. He was sounding unbearably smug ‘Oh just fuuuooommpppffff’ My brother decided to beat some sense into me.

I noticed through my tear laden eyes that it was nearly half time ‘Do oo want a pie?’ I enquired whilst dabbing my blood stained nose. ‘Aye and a coffee wouldn’t go amiss either ye loony’ I stumbled down the stairs as Ireland ran in another three tries ‘Marvellous, bloody marvellous

There’s quite a choice of catering at Murrayfield. You can be fleeced three quid for a ‘rolling’ hot dog. I don’t quite understand why it turning on a rusty grease covered spit should triple the price, but hey it’s all supply and demand! You supply me with something edible and I wont demand my money back. I moved on. You can also be robbed blind at three fifty for a burger in a bun (origin of meat unknown but I would hazard a guess that it’s never moo’ed in it’s life, ee’aaaw’ed or whinnied maybe) or if you really want to be thoroughly cavity probed you can have a ‘steak’ roll for the princely sum of four quid! I chose the ‘economy’ route ………….

Two pies and two coffees please’, ‘Ye want milk and sugar?’ I gave him an incredulous look ‘With a pie?’ he rolled his eyes and replied ‘With your coffee sir!’, ‘Oh eeh aye please’ he put the pies on a plastic tray and a splash of milk in each coffee ‘That’ll be six eighty please’, ‘Whut!’, ‘Six pounds eighty pence please sir’. ‘Six eighty! Fer two mince pies and twa coffees’, ‘that milks not free ye know’, ‘Aye by the looks of things it’s four hundred quid a pint!’, ‘good quality milk is that, hard to find’ My normal good humoured composure was in danger of cracking. ‘Hard to find? Good quality? It’s milk for goodness sake!’, ‘It’s free range ……’

My ranting vein was now pulsating violently ‘Free range Free range? As opposed to milk from battery cows I presume’, ‘there’s no nee-‘, ‘it is cows milk is it? Hmmm? I mean it’s not something exotic like Ant’s milk! Hmmm? Had to fight your way to the centre of the colony and milk them yourself did you? Eeeeeh?’, ‘really sir the-‘ I was most definetly off on one now ‘Or perhaps it’s magic milk fromthe pixies?’ My entire head was turning crimson a full blown eruption was imminent, when I felt a tap on my shoulder ‘Sure are yez havin a pie or not ye fecking gobshite’

The blue touch paper had now been well and truly lit. I turned around slowly ‘Oh ah’m a gobshi-‘ I started to giggle ‘oh look it’s a pixie’ There was an extremely short Irish fan wearing a leprechaun outfit and carrying an tricolour. I leant down and tickled him under the chin ‘What’s that then wee man ye want a-‘ A second much firmer tap on my shoulder made me stop in mid sentence. I looked up and behind the flag was another leprachaun. A six and a half foot leprechaun with a barrel for a chest and biceps like melons ‘Oh fu-‘ His stubbly chin jutted out from under a ripped green felt hat and when he spoke I was enveloped in an alcoholic haze ‘He sez are yez havin a fecking pie or not yez eejit’

I always like to think of the Scots as hospitable and for that reason I relinquished my pies, and my coffees, and my wallet……. I’m afraid I don’t know what the final score was ye can’t see the big screen form inside a wheelie bin.


Monday, February 07, 2005


Hamish McShanks Secret Diary - Part 30

Hamish McShanks Secret Diary – w/e 6th Feb 2004

‘Alle Ecosse! Alle Ecosse!’, ‘bon dieu it was a try ya cheatin French baaas!’ The front of the television was drenched in spittle as I roared in anger. The replay didn’t help. ‘For fuuuucksakesmaaan!’, ‘He didnay touch it! He was no where near the fecking line!’ If only my heart rate was going as slowly as the replay…..

Amazing the difference sixty minutes can make. An hour before I had been slipping on my black armband and warming up for a lament on the pipes. ‘What do ye think bruv, Flowers of the Forest or The Dark Isle?’, ‘Whatever ye like fat boy, there both going to sound keech’, ‘What do you mean?’, ‘Well ignoring the fact your tone deaf and possess all the musical talent of Westlife, lets have a look at your instrument’, ‘What about it?’, ‘Bagpipes, real bagpipes, arnt made out of an empty coke bottle and three tubes of smarties’,

‘They’re not tubes, they’re Drones actually!’, ’Really? Only Drones have the answer do they? And what is that masquerading as a chanter?’, ‘s a curly wurly’ I mumbled ‘A what, sorry I didn’t quite hear you?’, ‘It’s a curlybaaaastardingwurly’ I bellowed ‘Oh aye you’ll be breezing the grace notes on that wont ye!’, ‘s’got holes in it’ I retorted ‘So’s your heid ye numpty!’ I gave him a dirty look and put down my pipes.

Make yersel useful and get then beers in!’, ‘Awright awright what did yer last slave die of?’, ‘thirst if he was waiting on you, gerra shift on’. I went through to the kitchen slamming the door behind me ‘Mind the peanuts anaw’ he shouted through the door. I took a deep breath, paused briefly to give him the v’s from behind the door and went about preparing his beer. ‘Slag off ma pipes would ye, ah’ll get ye a beer sonny……’

I’ve always enjoyed cooking and I whistled happily as I decanted the Tabasco into his pint glass ‘Wee sup of cayenne pepper and just a hint of West Indian hot pepper sauce’, ‘tum te tum, la la laa’. The great thing is a strong beer like eighty shilling masks the taste of most things, well long enough for him to drink it anyway. ‘Where’s my beer ye slacker’ he shouted ‘Dry yer eyes min it’s on it’s way’, ‘and don’t forget the nuts!’, ‘Oh I haven’t forgotten….’

I kicked open the lounge door and tottered in juggling his pint, a can of lager and a bowl of peanuts ‘There we are sir, one pint of eighty bob and some dry roasted peanuts’, ‘Dry roasted? I though we only had salted?’, ‘Aye ah found them at the back of the cupboard’, ‘What’s the score’ I enquired, hastily changing the subject as he threw a handful of peanuts in his mouth. ‘Nil nil they’ve just kicked ofoooaargghhjeesus’, ‘something wrong with the peanuts?’, ‘They’re covered in feckin coffee grinds!’ he wheezed, ‘are they …. Oh dear’ I could barely suppress my smirk as he guzzled down his beer in an attempt to wash away the taste.

Inside my head I was counting down, one elephant, two elephant, his cheeks were going a nice rosy red, three elephant, steam was coming out his ears and his eyes were starting to water, four elep- ‘Hooooly fuuuu-‘, ‘Beer alright is it?’ strangely enough he didn’t reply. I’ve never seen him move so fast, almost gazelle like the way he sprinted to the cludge! ‘Ah peace at last’ I settled down in the armchair cracked open my tinny and pushed the door shut to drown out the sound of his retching ‘Alle Ecosse Alle alle alle alle Ecosse Ecosse!’ …..

As it turned out the game was a thriller. For a change Scotland decided to actually play as if they liked each other. We were tackling like demons, we were getting right in there faces, we weren’t dropping the ball they were, we weren’t knocking on, they were! We were kicking Gallic backside! ……….. then……. we were mugged!

This guy wearing a black mask carrying a swag bag over his shoulder just ran on and stole the ball! I kid you not, legged it out of the stadium with the ball in his bag and the game had to be abandoned. Ok ok ok so that’s not exactly how it happened, but there was a ‘bawbag’ involved….

What ‘actually’ happened was a huge big Golden eagle swooped from out of the sun. A beautiful majestic sight it lazily circled the pitch before viciously attacking the touch judge and pecking out his eyeballs! Which was quite an achievement in itself considering the thick milk bottle ‘safety’ glasses he was wearing at the time. Then this aristocrat of the skies snatched the poor mans whimpering guide dog in it’s razor like talons, before settling on top of the West stand and eviscerating the poor animal. Traumatised at the loss of his canine friend our man of the moment, stricken with grief, tripped over his white stick, stumbled and dramatically raised his right hand to steady himself. Unfortunately he was clutching a flag in his hand thereby ensuring he will never be welcome in Bonnie Scotland.

Not only did this myopic buffoon deny Scotland a stonewall fecking try that would have wrapped up the game and resulted in our first win at The Parc de whassit since nineteen oatcake. But he also prevented a 100 pound payout to yours truly from messers William and Hill. Twenty to one! Twenty to fecking one! …… git!

Understandably enraged at this cruel injustice and beside myself at the associated loss of revenue I hadn’t noticed my brother crawl back into the room. Neither did I notice him pouring half his eighty shilling into my can. ‘That’s a bloody disgrace, where do they find these people?’ I screamed at the telly ‘Yoooou sponsored by specsavers yoooo baaaaastaaaard!’ My ‘ranting vein’ was pulsating nicely and my throat was now bone dry with cursing. I reached down for my tinny and gulped down a few mouthfuls before continuing my tirade ‘Where did you get your refs certificate? oot of a cornflakes packet?’

I do vaguely remember hearing ‘One elephant, two elephant’ as I yelled at the television ‘Mon fecking dieu, has blind Pugh got a new job!’, ‘Three elephant’, ‘I’m writing to points of fecking vieoooaaarrrggghhhh’, ‘Four elephant’ snigger snigger ……

Hot? Ye don’t know the meaning of the word………

Ach well at least Scottish rugby regained some pride, if not any points, and we can look forward to snatching defeat from the jaws of victory on four more occasions! ‘Always look on the bright side of life, de do, de do de do de do’ ….. c’mon sing along ye must know the words by now ….. la la laaa ……


This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?