Hamish McShanks

Hamish McShanks Secret Diary w/e 21^st 28^th August 4^th September

6 am and morning had broken crisply. I stepped outside the caravan door, a light mist hung in the air and a fine layer of dew covered the grass. The sun, pale and orange was struggling to climb over the horizon as a flight of swifts’ noisly dogfaught over my head. Beautiful sight though this was I hadn’t risen so early to appreciate the vista. Last nights sumptuous repast of fish, chips and peas was looking to settle it’s bill and vacate. In fact it was being most insistent on the matter, to the point of touching cloth.

Sadly my five star luxury caravan did not include double-glazing, running water, electricity or any toilet facilities. My brother had been rather sketchy on the fine details when he’d invited me down to stay for a couple of days. He was on a ‘flying’ holiday, a refresher for his microlight licence. ‘A nice grass strip in the heart of Cumbria’ he’d said ‘beautiful scenery and fresh air’ he’d mentioned ‘Rustic caravan’. Nothing about the amenities, because of course there weren’t any.

To be fair there were toilet facilities if you didn’t mind strolling a mile to a nearby farm where an outside lavatory was at our disposal. I snatched a roll of toilet paper and informed my bruv of my departure ‘mind the dog then’ he mumbled from inside his sleeping bag ‘What dog?’ but loud snoring was already coming from the top of the bag ‘git’ I grumbled before setting off quilted velvet in hand.

It was a painfully slow journey both literally and metaphorically. I really should have got up earlier but as it was so baltically cold in the van I’d hummed and hawed for a couple of hours. Eventually the discomfort in my bowels had triumphed over the fear of brass monkeys, but not before the turtles heid was in danger of poking oot. It took nearly ten minutes to gingerly crab my way round to the farm.

The need for my trip nearly became obsolete when I opened the farm gate and a large long haired German Shepherd lunged at me ‘Oooo sweet jes-‘, ‘Zee toilet is oofaa there mein Herr’ he cackled pointing a gnarled stick at an outhouse in the corner of the yard. Then he leaned closer and whispered with rather garlicy sausage breath ‘don’t vorry ze dog is chained up’ nodding at a small Jack Russell sleeping a few feet away. ‘Uum eeer thanks’ I mumbled as he headed off to tend his flock and I tentatively inched the last few yards to colonic freedom.

It was ‘basic’ facilities but I couldn’t have cared if it was a hole in the ground, when ye have tae go, ye have tae go. I fumbled with my belt, dropped my jeans, sat and expelled in one swift movement ‘Ooooooh yeeees’ I sighed as the agonising pressure was rather noisily released. Normally I would be cursing the lack of any suitable reading material but I was so pleased to have avoided soiling myself I’d just closed my eyes and savoured the relief. …. Until I felt a hot breath on my neck. I opened my eyes and was greeted with the sight of a large pair of equine nostrils.

Turns out the cludge had been installed at the end of a row of stables; clearly no one had felt the need to build up the side of the existing stall. In my rush to open bomb bay doors I hadn’t picked up on this quirky little feature. Shergar seemed unconcerned at my vulnerability and was more interested in ferreting around my person for some munchies ‘feck off ye big lump’ I cried, swatting it away. The beast gave up on my pockets and decided to lick my baldy head instead ‘can ah no have a dump in peace!’.

The abrasive nature of a horses tongue should not be underestimated and I was forced to abandon my position while I still had some skin on my head. However now unburdened of my fish supper I was able to skip gaily back to the caravan.

My bruv was busy making a brew when I arrived ‘milk and two sugars’ I requested breezily. He looked up and sighed ‘find the cludge did ye?’, ‘Aye and ye could have mentioned the resident nutter’ I added reproachfully. He just smirked and added a splash of milk to my tea. He handed me a mug and went to peer out the window. I clutched it gratefully. The windsock was billowing lightly and there was nary a cloud in the sky ‘should be good flying this morning’, ‘Hmmm?’, ‘I said should be good flying today!’, ‘Mmmm?’, ‘Ye deaf Eeedjit’ he sighed before draining his mug and walking out.

I wasn’t listening because I was totally preoccupied with how I was going to carry out my ablutions. We had no running water, no bath, and no sink. We had a bucket and five litres of mineral water; it was going to be a Ray Mears bush craft job. I thought a shower would be the best idea and the easiest to construct. A few strategically placed holes in the bucket, hang it up somehow and bing bang bosh, Robert is yer mothers’ brother!

It was a moments work to turn the bucket into a colander, being a former boy scout I always carry a Swiss army knife. It has that useful thingy for taking stones out of horses hooves (and poking holes in plastic buckets as it happens). Rigging up my new patented ‘Shanks Bucket’ was a slightly trickier proposition. There was nowhere in the caravan that was suitable so it would have to be an alfresco job. There were a few outbuildings, which doubled as hangers, and I managed to find a suitable cul-de-sac between two, which kept me from sight.

A convenient rusty nail protruding from the woodwork provided a perfect hanging point. I only had five litres of water, with the number of holes punched in the bucket I calculated I would have about four minutes to wash. That’s plenty time for a man with no hair but it still needed a bit of organising. I got my shower gel and towel laid out, checked the bucket for fit on the nail and we were ready to rock and roll.

‘Right so it’s, Add water, Hang Bucket, Wash, Rinse, Dry and we are clean and fresh’ I tipped the mineral water into the bucket and quickly hung it on the nail. Water spewed forth, cold water, ‘Brrrrr Jeesus christ’ it was a tad invigorating but seemed to be sprinkling well. I quickly lathered up with shower gel and was covered from head to foot in soapy bubbles when I heard this thunderous roar ‘Holy fu-‘

A yellow microlight crossed overhead, I had foolishly erected my cubicle under the flight path. The associated rush of air unsettled my poorly constructed shower and as a result my planned routine of ‘add water, hang bucket, wash rinse and dry’ turned into ‘hang bucket, lather self in bubbles, get sconed on head by bucket full of water slipping off dodgy rusty nail, fall unconscious into nearby shrubbery and be found in the all together by sniggering Farmers wife’

Oh to slip the surly bonds of embarrassment ……

Doei