Hamish McShanks

Hamish McShanks Secret Diary w/e 13^th 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.

Doei