Hamish McShanks

Hamish McShanks Secret Diary – w/e 26^th June 05

Ding Ding Ding, Ding Ding Ding ‘About fecking time’ I mumbled before laying down my paint pot and stretching my aching back. Eight hours of non-stop decorating had taken its toll and I hobbled through to the kitchen. I nodded to my twin brother as we picked up our mess tins; he was so tired he barely raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement.

We shuffled along to the servery where the guard dished out our daily rations. Our plates loaded with the ‘DPish of the day’ we headed out to our usual seat in the exercise yard. I struggled to get comfortable on the sharp gravel, the corrugated iron sheet barely shading us from the heat of the day. I half-heartedly pushed the meagre offerings around the plate before taking a bite. ‘Whatchyoogot’ I mumbled through a mouthful of brilliant white gloss, ‘Mmm..looks like woodchip wallpaper with a warm terracotta vinyl silk sauce’ he replied ‘lucky bastard’ I grumbled whilst scraping a particularly stubborn fragment of paint from my front teeth.

I decided to leave the rest of my meal; there is just no appetising way to look at wallpaper paste. ‘I don’t know how much more of this I can take’ I murmured as the camp commandant strolled into the yard ‘Be strong Ham’ my brother replied, ‘he’ll get his’ he whispered nodding at our captor ‘what go’s around comes around-‘ He finished abruptly as ‘Otto’ strolled up to us, his German Shepherd at his heel ‘Ah Gentlemen I trust dinner was to your satisfaction?’ He turned on his heels laughing loudly. We glanced at each other briefly before giving him the synchronised finger.

The mess bell rang again indicating our three minute lunch break was over and it was time to get back to the decorating ‘This is the last time I offer to help’ I grumbled heaving myself to my feet ‘Aye yer no wrong bruv’ mumbled my twin as we watched Ottos highly trained guard dog run into a stout fence whilst chasing it’s own tail.

The next job on the list was to paint the ornate coving in the front room. The house we were decorating is over a hundred years old. As was the style of the day it has very high ceilings with intricate cornicing. Which, while delightful to the eye, are a complete bugger to paint. We’d been discussing how best to paint these when we had a stroke of genius. I say ‘we’ when of course I mean our older brother (a.k.a. ‘Otto’) had a stroke of genius, which was a shame because me and my twin bruv were just hoping for the stroke.

When I heard his suggestion I though he had indeed had a stroke and was busy checking the range of movement in his arms and for signs of dribbling or slurred speech. ‘Spray Paint’ I repeated incredulously ‘Aye’, ‘but spray paint will go everywhere’ I protested ‘Not if we do it at low enough pressure’. I remained sceptical but decided to button my lip as rations were grim enough already.

We assembled the equipment and Otto scaled the scaffolding whilst I fed the air hose behind him. Fraz fired up the compressor and we watched events unfold. Tssstt tsssst tss tss tssssssst tsssst ‘can ye turn up the pressure a wee bit’ he shouted down over the din of the compressor, ‘aye nae bother’ shouted Fraz as he flashed an evil grin in my direction and gave the valve a sharp twist. Tssst tss tsss TSSSSSSSSST ‘Fuuuuckinheeeeell! Turn it off turnitoff TURNITOFF!’

Fraz obliged and the compressor rattled to a stop as we heard Otto clambering down the scaffolding. His face would have probably been scarlet with rage if it hadn’t been brilliant white along with the rest of him ‘Bit much was it Otto?’ enquired my brother innocently. I was less diplomatic which is why I think I incurred his wrath ‘Oh look it’s Frosty the snowmanooomppfff’. I missed the rest of the lecture on safe compressor operations on account of being unconscious.

When I came round Otto was once again atop the scaffolding and by the sounds of the cursing the spray gun option was not working as well as envisaged. ‘Right I need the flexible nozzle’, I looked blankly at him ‘it’s in the box’, ‘uuuh’, ‘the red box with the picture of a spray gun on it you fecking simpleton’, ‘alright alright no need to be tetchy just cos ye look like wacko jacko’ I rummaged around the room until I found the box. ‘Which one is it?’, ‘The flexible one’. The nozzle I held in my hand didn’t look very flexible ‘are ye sure it’s flexible’, ‘YES!’ he bellowed ‘now gimmie the fecking thing’

I handed the nozzle to Fraz as I read the instructions on the side of the box ‘whadya think bruv is this flexible’ He took the nozzle and started gently manipulating it ‘Well it’s-‘ I didn’t catch the meat of his reply as I was struggling with some of the larger words on the side of the box. Anything longer than four letters and my brow tends to furrow up and my brain hurts. I gave up just as Fraz was finishing ‘-flexible’

‘Have you got that damm nozzle?’, ‘Aye’, ‘good I need to direct the paint upwards’ This seemed like a good opportunity to regain some brownie points after my frosty the snowman faux pas. I started to put a bend in the nozzle, surmising that a forty-five degree angle would be sufficient for his purposes. It was quite stiff, which with hindsight should have given me a fair indication of its malleability. ‘Where the hell is that nozzle’

‘It’s just com-‘ SNAP! My heart sank and with growing numbness I looked down at the object in my hands, or should I say objects on account of there being more than one piece now. ‘Oh fu-‘ Fraz looked at me like I was a turd in a toast rack ‘What have you done?’, ‘you said it was flexible, you said it was flexible’ I whined. ‘I said it wasn’t flexible ye fecking retard’, ‘you said it-‘, ‘is there a problem?’, ‘Aye the boy blunder here has broken yer nozzle!’, ‘WHA-‘ I gave him a vicious glare ‘Yoooo ffnn baaaastard you said it wid bend’, ‘Ah didnay, I said it wudnay bend it’s nae my fault that yev mair toes that brain cellsoommmpfff’

I’d decided that a blow to the throat would carry the argument ‘get some change oot of that ye bawbaaaarrghhhh’ unfortunately I hadn’t foreseen my victim keeling forwards and head butting me in the groin. Or in fact my subsequent tumble into the scaffolding.

In the end I do feel vindicated, I did say the spray gun wouldn’t work. Ok I didn’t say it wouldn’t work because I’m a clumsy oaf and I’d break the nozzle, knock my brother off the scaffolding on to the compressor and into A&E. But hey, did it work?

Doei