Hamish McShanks

Hamish McShanks Secret Diary w/e 3^rd July 2005

A light dew clings to each blade of grass as the sun climbs over the horizon shedding golden rays of light on pristine white lines, the air is thick with the scent of freshly mown grass and a light summer breeze tickles my face. It’s a special feeling; it’s a perfect moment and a time for some inspiring words for the ‘troops’.

I have one final shake, zip up then turn on my heels, rugby ball tucked under my arm. ‘Right sorry about that folks, prostate playing up again’ a few shaking heads and rolling of eyes suggest that was rather more information than was required but I pushed on regardless. ‘Right ladies and gentleman’ I pause and scan my audience ‘this is your moment, this is what all the training has been for, this (dramatic pause) is your field of dreams, this is your Trafalgar, this is your-‘ The waving hand at the back stopped me in midflow

‘Yes?’, ‘I don’t want to be picky but surely Trafalgar was a Sea battle’ I rolled my eyes in despair ‘look that’s not-‘, ‘I mean I cant swim, will that be a problem?’, ‘Your missing the poi-‘, ‘Oh I cant swim either, nobody mentioned swimming’, ‘I thought we were playing touch’ I was struggling to get a word in edgeways ‘Were swimming? I didn’t pack my cosie’. Chattering swept through the team as players rummaged in their kitbags for swimwear and I have to admit I lost the rag ….

‘We are not FUUUUUUUCKKINGSWIMMING!!!!’ I bellowed. I’m not sure if it was the volume of my response, the dangerously crimson colour my baldy heid turned or the size of the vein pulsing on my temple but I seemed to regain their attention. In fact you could have heard a pin drop. The sudden unexpected silence caught me slightly off guard ‘Right eeer just … uuum enjoy yourselves’ I trailed off as they stared at me open mouthed. The angry red colour of my napper now due to the fearsome blush that had swept up from my boots.

Not one of my more stirring speeches you’ll agree. It certainly wasn’t up with the Gettysburg Address or the likes of Churchill, well unless were talking about the nodding dog from the TV adverts. Maybe if I’d finished with ‘Oooooh yes’ that would have put the tin hat on an otherwise forgetful oration.

Having failed to motivate with rhetoric I decided that I would have to lead by example (yes things were that desperate). Our first match was against the Fire Brigade. They had fielded a pretty strong team last year but I think this year they were pursuing a youth policy as two of their players were under 12 years (and 5 feet). However you can only play who’s put in front on you. And in the spirit of ‘Sir Clive’ I have no regrets about the tactics I chose.

Ok so the handoff in the face was probably uncalled for and most likely on the edge of legality. But sledging is all part of the game so the sooner they get used to it the better. I like to think I was doing the wee lad a favour as I trampled over him for my fifth try ‘Dry yer eyes ye wee lassy, ye want yer mammy tae wipe yer Aaaarse!’ is all character building stuff.

Strangely enough trampling small children underfoot did little to inspire my squad..

Our second match was against somewhat sterner opposition. This team included a former rugby international in one David John McIvor 6 times capped flanker for Scotland and a man who never took a backward step on the rugby park.

We lined up ready for the off. He still had his trademark white hair, which was more than I could boast with my chrome dome. We stood a few feet apart, eyeballing each other. I cracked my knuckles, time for the sledging. I fixed him with my fiercest glare (or constipated look depending on your point of view) and uttered ‘Pussy’. He didn’t bat an eyelid.

Of course when I say ‘uttered’ I naturally mean ‘whispered’. Although if we are being brutally honest whispered would be a generous description for silently mouthing the word pussy. Ok ok ok so we all know that I only thought about calling him a pussy … ok ok ok so I didn’t even think it. I was too busy concentrating on not bubbling and keeping my underwear stain free.

I don’t believe in fate or Karma. However I think that some form of retribution was being dished out for my earlier performance against the fire brigade. This was brought sharply into focus as I lay on the ground desperately fumbling for my recently departed teeth. A silver topped streak shooting past for the umpteenth time yelling ‘Dry yer eyes ye wee lassy, ye want yer maaaaaaammy tae wipe yer Aaaaaaarse!’

What goes around comes around as they say ….

After being stretchered off by my team-mates there was a bloodless coup and I was ousted as captain. ‘Yoooo baaaastards’ I screamed ‘you’ll never replace me, I’m indispensable! INDESPENSIBLE DO YOU HEAR!!!’ I bellowed. Unabashed the traitors huddled together in a circle and after a brief debate a suitable replacement was elected. You can imagine my chagrin as they emptied out a nearby rubbish bin and it was anointed as my successor. ‘The King is dead long live the bin’ they screamed as they ran on to the pitch for the final game patting it on the side and wishing it luck.

‘B*stards’ I mumbled through my broken teeth ‘ye never wished me luck ye feckers’.

It’s bad enough being ejected in favour of a waste receptacle but when the fecking thing plays a blinder and gets man of the match that just sticks in yer craw. I was particularly sullen as they shouldered the bin off chanting ‘Go Bin Go Bin Go Bin’ showering it with champagne and beer. Some of the girls were giving it particularly close attention stroking its lid and whispering sweet nothings into the liner ‘Oh for pities sake’ I grumbled

It was even worse when we retired to the bar; the fecking thing was surrounded by admirers and had a dolly bird on each side. A few of the younger players were even asking it for autographs. I drained my half of top deck shandy and staggered towards the door.

I think I’ll take up netball

Doei