Monday, October 31, 2005
Hamish McShanks Secret Diary - Part 64
Hamish McShanks Secret Diary w/e Old Hallows eve
Friday afternoon and I was packing up my jotters at work, we were having a wee payday drink in the pub and I wanted to slope off early and dump my car at home. ‘What time will you be in the Pub?’ I enquired of one of my co-nonworkers ‘the back of five’, ‘right you are I’ll see you about half five then’, ‘half past?’ he exclaimed incredulously ‘aye I’m taking it easy tonight’ I explained whilst trying to jam all my paperwork into the desk drawer ‘Aye ah’m only having four or five pints’ I grunted, closing the drawer with a sharp kick.
There was a slight pause and I glanced up to see Mr Torgersen with a disbelieving look across his face ‘sure Ham whatever you say’ he replied raising his eyebrows ‘what do ye mean?’ I snapped ‘you always say that’, ’what? I always say what?’, ‘oh nothing, nothing, I’m sure you’ll be tucked up in bed by half nine with a cup of coco’ I didn’t like the sarcastic tone of his reply and was going to retort with some rapier sharp wit but settled for ‘see you later my Viking chum……p’ and liberal use of the vees as I walked out.
Just for once I managed to catch the correct bus and actually got to the pub a couple of minutes before half five. The place was pretty busy but I knew one of the more organised girls had booked two large tables beside the bandit so I headed straight for the bar to get a drink. Having purchased one fifth of my evenings anticipated beverage intake I headed to the tables. There was no one there. Two tables with seating for seventeen, large signs saying ‘Reserved from 5pm’ yet completely empty. I threw my jacket over a chair and sat down to read the paper.
After a couple of minutes I became aware of a few pairs of eyes boring into me. It would seem some of the regulars were less than happy having been evicted from ‘their’ seats. They were even less enamoured to see one baldy man occupying a table for seventeen. Whilst I’ll admit I could stand to lose a few pounds it’s fair to say I don’t actually need seventeen chairs to rest my buttocks, two are more than adequate. It would seem the vultures hovering ever closer round me agreed. I tried to act casual as I glanced at my watch, twenty to six and I was still alone. Carefully I extracted my mobile phone and opened it nonchalantly. It was as if I’d just received a text, and certainly not because I was writing my last will and testament.
A couple of the more inebriated locals were now loudly voicing their discontent ‘ooo does he fink he is? Mmm? Twenty chairs to himself’, ‘aaasright you tell him Dave’ mumbled another ‘finks he’s sumfing special wiv his thirty chairs’ I was keying feverishly ‘Yeah s’abloody liberty avin forty chairs to yourself’ I’d already split the main estate and was listing some personal gifts when they stood up. You’d be surprised how noisy knuckles are when they drag along the ground ‘Let’s do the baldy fu-‘, ‘Hello Ham sorry were late the traffic was hell!’ It was Sharon, Vonnie and Lindsay ‘Excuse us boys’ they giggled, pushing their way between the three giants that were about to get into the spirit of the Irish theme pub we were in and do a spot of river dancing on my head.
It’s amazing what three attractive girls can do to defuse a potentially ugly situation. The trio of Neanderthals unaccustomed to being this close to women who weren’t their mum scuttled back to the dark corners of the pub mumbling ‘I’m not asking her you do it’, ‘am not saying nufin they’re girls’, ‘s’not right girls in pubs s’not right’
Saved by the Belles I insisted on getting a round in, everyone was on lager and buoyed by my lack of a kicking and still with a full compliment of teeth I went a bit mad and ordered a pitcher. Always a dangerous precedent on a night out. By the time I got back to the tables another seven or eight people had arrived so naturally we got another couple of pitchers …..
Three hours and an unknown number of pitchers later I was feeling a tad tipsy ‘s’really good buyiiiin pitchers int it’ I slurred at Vonnie ‘mmreallygood’ she giggled dipping her straw into the top of the nearest pitcher ‘s a shame my bladder isn’t pi..iitcher s.ized though’ I mumbled struggling to my feet ‘gorra go n lerrout some rope’ I hiccupped before pointing erratically in the direction of the toilets. Vonnie was too busy wrestling Sharon for the last pitcher of lager to pay any attention to my inane ramblings so I stumbled off in the direction of the cludge. ‘scuse me, sorry sorry, scuse me, thanks’
The toilets were yer standard pub set-up, a sit doon cludge for vomiting over (and in theory for defecation) A large stainless steel urinal (trough variety) for pissing in, or at least relatively close to. And a couple of sinks for washing your hands or more likely emergency urinal use later in the evening. I’d just managed to untangle the old fella and was enjoying the underrated pleasures of emptying an overfull bladder when it suddenly got much darker.
‘allo chair boy’ I gulped and looked left into a grinning toothless face ‘where’s yer chair? Chairboy’ the vision to my right was no more reassuring. ‘Evening gents’ I squeaked ‘not brung you’re chair wiv you?’ the first one enquired laughing heartily. The banter was first class you’ll agree. My mouth was dry which was more than you could say for my trousers as the two continued their repartee whilst turning slightly inwards to face each other.
After they’d left I surveyed the damage ‘right Ham your trousers are soaked in piss and you’ve shat yourself, what would Ray Mears do in this situation?’ A quick scan of the toilets did not reveal any handy trees that would provide foliage to construct tough new trousers nor were there any soft mosses that I could mould into clean underwear. There was however a vending machine dispensing ‘latex preventatives’, inflatable sheep and edible underwear. Unimpressed that none of the famous fatties survival programs had dealt with ‘urban’ survival I flushed my underwear down the cludge and purchased some survival kit from the vending machine.
You would be amazed how difficult it is to get served at the bar wearing an edible thong and see through latex plus fours. Their laughter is still ringing in my ears, but at least my trendy troosers kept the rain oot as I trudged home (it’s also astonishingly hard to get a taxi home when you’re dressed like a gimp)
p.s. the underwear was indeed edible, well my arse seemed to have eaten it by the time I got home!
p.p.s. I kept the sheep …… well I am a teuchter …..
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Hamish McShanks Secret Diary - Part 63
Hamish McShanks Secret Diary w/e 23rd Oct 05
‘An Usher?’, ‘yes’, ‘You want me to be an Usher?’, ‘yes’, ‘at your wedding?’, ‘yes’, ‘Well I’m honoured, I don’t know what to say’, ‘try yes’, ‘yes yes of course, I’d love to be an Usher, I’ve always dreamed of being an Usher, ever since I was a little boy all I’ve ever wanted to do is uum Ush…..’, ‘You don’t know what an Usher is do you?’, ‘No, no I don’t’
After a brief explanation of my duties I was even happier to accept. Ushing is a dawdle all ye have to do is greet the guests as they arrive at the Kirk, divvy out the order of service and if required point folk in the general direction of the cludge. That’s a lot easier than working a club door. No underagers to chuck out, no purple spew to clean up after someone’s had a few too many aftershocks, no drink fuelled domestics or cries of ‘leave it Britney she’s not worth it’. And I cannay see too many crumblies trying to rearrange yer features with a broken Becks bottle when yer working a church door. I therefore readily accepted.
The day of the wedding started with the usual rushing about. No matter how long you give yourself to get ready you will still be wrestling with a ‘button hole’ ten minutes after ye should have left. If you start earlier it just means you spend longer fumbling and stabbing yourself repeatedly with a bent pin while your blood pressure reaches dangerously high levels. And while we are on the subject I don’t possess a single garment that actually has a fecking hole to insert any form of foliage. Even my kilt jacket is devoid of flower apertures. The florist shouldn’t give you a pin with yer button hole they should give ye some fecking sellotape!
The rain was spitting down as we parked up at the church ‘I hope the weather brightens up a bit’ voiced Mrs Shanks as we crunched up the gravel path to the front door ‘Aye the big mans not playing the game is he’ I whispered in return ‘Why are you whispering?’, ‘no reason no reason’ I whispered in reply. She gave me a questioning look whilst rubbing her hands together against the cold ‘Right dear I’m going to leave you to be weird while I sit inside this nice warm church, enjoy your Ushing’ and with a peck on the cheek she disappeared inside.
The reason I was feeling a bit ‘weird’ was because I’m not that comfortable in or around churches. Being firmly of the godless persuasion I always feel like an interloper anywhere near a place of worship. Unless of course we are worshipping the blending of grain yeast and hops by master craftsmen into delicious ‘amber holy water’. Further imbibing at place of worship within convenient walking distance of all amenities i.e. a taxi rank and a kebab shop. That’s my idea of a marriage made in heaven. However on the off chance that all this religious stuff is true I’m planning on repenting on my deathbed just to cover all the bases.
‘Mmmm beer’ The skirl of the pipes roused me from my daydream. Quite a few cars were pulling into the car park so I decided I better find out exactly where I was supposed to be standing. I gingerly stepped over the thresh hold and inside the Kirk. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I hadn’t burst into flames. Buoyed by the lack of any godly wrath I pressed on. I found the boxes containing the order of service and went to stand at the front door.
It all went fairly smoothly. I had to turf out a couple of people who didn’t have their invites ‘sorry pal nae ticket, nae seat’ they were a bit stroppy but it was nothing that a threatening glare and a punch in the kidneys couldn’t sort. There was one joker who tried to gatecrash saying he was from the government. He was very determined and in the end I had to stick the heid on him. Even then he kept screaming ‘I’m the minister I’m the minister’ as he stumbled off clutching his broken nose ‘Ah couldnae care if ye wur the President ye’ve no got a ticket so yer no getting in’ I shouted after him.
It was approaching two and I headed to my seat ‘having fun dear’ enquired my girlfriend ‘och just the usual wideboys’ I glanced around the church ‘bit quiet isn’t it?’, ‘yes strange that I’d have thought they would have used a smaller church’. Just then I caught sight of the bloke in the black suit waving people in the back door. These were all the people without tickets! I was about to get up and have a quiet word when I saw him pull a rather crumpled white collar from his trouser pocket ‘Oh fu-‘, ‘something wrong dear?’, ‘No nothing at all’, I’ve just noticed my shoelace is undone’
I could hear the seats filling up as I pretended to fumble with my laces ‘would you like some help’, ‘no .. no I’m fine’, ‘are you sure? it’s been five minutes’ I heard the organist filling up the bellows and waited for the first few mangled notes before slowly lifting my head above the parapet ‘that’s me done’ I mumbled scanning the front of the church. The Reverend was standing in front of the alter dabbing his flame red nose with a handful of tissues. He looked across and our eyes met, I have to confess he wasn’t looking very charitable. I tried an apologetic smile but quickly withered under his ferocious glare.
‘Dearly beloved we are gathered here in the presence of GOD!’ the last word was spat out and his bloodshot eyes fixed me in a steely gaze ‘oh he’s a bit of a fiery preacher isn’t he’, ‘mmm’ I mumbled whilst attempting to hide behind my order of service. He lightened up considerably as the service progressed. Thankfully there was a whole lot of love in the room which was beautiful for Fraser & Vonnie and more importantly probably saved me from a modern day inquisition.
The wedding party departed via the main entrance and we were instructed to leave via a side door. This suited me fine as I was keen to avoid the Reverend at all costs. The party were posing for photos as It started raining again ‘Och look at that I’ll just get your brolly dear’ I volunteered before scuttling round the back of the church. I was planning on hiding under the brolley till the coast was clear.
Unfortunately I wasn’t paying attention as I legged it round the gravel path clipped a small gravestone and falling onto my face ‘oomppfforchrist-‘ , ‘Now your not going to blaspheme are you son? That would make me very very angry’ I looked up into the grinning bruised face of the Reverend ‘Forgive me Father for what he is about to receive’ I gave him a quizzical look ‘but that doesn’t make senooomppfffff’
He’ll probably claim it was an act of god. I’m fairly sure God doesn’t wear size eleven hobnailed but I could be wrong!
Monday, October 17, 2005
Hamish McShanks Secret Diary - Part 62
Hamish McShanks Secret Diary w/e 16th Oct 2005
‘Like a bat out of hell I’ll be gone when the morning something something’, ‘when the day is la la aaa DADAADDAAA DAA DAAA’, ‘bottom of a pit in the glazing sun doo dee doo’ It’s bad enough singing along tunelessly to the radio when your driving but when you don’t actually have a radio in your car it’s desperately grim. There’s no hiding the fact you can’t hold a note for toffee. There’s no masking of the irksome drone by simply turning up the volume, oh no, singing ‘sans radio’ is indeed an eye opener (and ear closer).
Thankfully I was on my own in the car and therefore not inflicting my x-factor on any innocents. Now just as an aside, I know some people will do anything to get on telly, but dear god how bad were some of those people? And they had the temerity to get upset when informed that they were in fact talent less and didn’t even have a face for radio. The weeping and wailing was particularly tiresome ‘I..i.i.ve bb.e.een waiting m..mmy whole life for this’ usually stuttered through floods of tears. Really? Well perhaps while you were waiting you should have taken the time to learn a musical instrument, gone to stage school, taken dance lessons. Or more importantly taken a cotton bud cleaned out your ears and realised you cant fuuuuucking sing!
I’m sorry but that needed to be said.
I remember being told once that I could sing. I protested vigorously, assuring the gentleman in question that I could not hold a note. He was quite adamant about the strength of my singing voice, suggesting I should even think about doing it for money (I can only hope he was still talking about my vocal talents). Anyway at this point I felt compelled to point out that ‘knowing the lyrics’ is not in fact the same as ‘being able to sing’. ‘Naaaw naaw man yooor a fffckingreat..siinger …’ he had slurred whilst slipping under the table.
The memories of my drunken revelling were more than enough to curtail the singing. Besides it was time to concentrate as I was approaching the outskirts of Airdrie. My destination was a sports centre on the other side of town but I wasn’t quite sure of the way. The last time I’d been in Airdrie was when I was about 9 years old and to be fair I hadn’t really being paying attention to the road. As I recall my focus had been on relieving my twin brother of his ‘Texan’ bar. At no point did I take note of any distinguishing landmarks or the general layout of the town as I grappled for confectionary. A fact I was now regretting.
‘After 100 yards you have reached your destination’ I mumbled whilst scanning the rows and rows of industrial units ‘wish I’d bought that fecking GPS now’. The AA route map was propped against the dashboard unfortunately none of the roads I passed were mentioned on the piece of paper ‘Marvellous, just bloody marvellous’. Things went from bad to worse when I got snarled up in a one-way system. I ended up going through the McDonalds Drive-In four times! Ok so that was merely due to my gluttony and not in any way because I was lost but it’s easier to think on a
full distended bloated stomach as they say.
I was regretting the fourth Big Mac as I finally waddled into the sports centre half an hour late. ‘Alright Ham how’s it going’, ‘Aye not bad boys, not bad, what’s the script today then?’ We were playing in a cup match and I’d been asked to come along as ‘cover’ in case there were any injuries. You can’t play volleyball with less than six players; you have to forfeit the game. I hadn’t played volleyball since May and was now heavily laden with a couple of pounds of fatty processed food. I was hoping my contribution would be a mostly vocal one from the bench.
‘Aye wur doon to six including yoursel Ham so yer getting a whole match’ The colour drained from my face ‘Oh great’, ‘c’mon ye better get changed the warm up starts in five minutes’. Groaning I trudged through to the dressing rooms. Thankfully my shorts have an elasticated waist and were just able to accommodate my supersize me. I was in serious trouble and some considerable discomfort when I tried to bend and tie my shoelaces. A swift rethink led to me tying each trainer loosely then placing them on the ground where I was able to force my feet inside.
Once in the hall I dumped my bag amongst the plethora on the sidelines. At least there was only one the same colour so it would be easy enough to locate later on. ‘C’mon Ham gerra shift on’, ‘Aye coming’ I grumbled trundling across the hall and joining the warm up. Now you may think that volleyball isn’t that energetic, but there are a lot of fast movements and repeated jumping. Some of the footballers out there may say ‘it’s a girls game’. To them I would simply say ‘aye but nobody wears hairnets ye big primadona puffs’.
After about five minutes of standing jumps my Big Macs were getting restless. Five more minutes of spiking and they were positively champing to be free. There were another 10 minutes before the game was due to start. I decided a ‘tactical chunder’ was probably a good idea. I went to search for some water in my bag, ye need a wee sup water after a good heave. Unfortunately the ‘head between the legs’ position I had adopted as I rummaged in the pile was encouraging a fast food escape. I realised with mounting horror that there was going to be nothing ‘tactical’ about this. It was coming ready or not.
With seconds to spare I spotted my holdall, ripping open the zip I grabbed the plastic bag I kept my trainers in ‘Ooooaarrghhh uuuuh uuuh oaarggghhh auurg’, ‘Oh sweet mother spttt ptttff’ Thankfully there was extrreamly loud thrash metal music blaring out from a boombox in the corner of the hall and my anguished retching was drowned out. I quickly tied up the bag and zipped up my holdall. I couldn’t believe it, I’d managed to catch the lot and nobody had even noticed. Better still I was feeling great.
We lost the game 3:1 with some fairly controversial hometown refereeing decisions. We were all pretty despondent as we returned to the dressing rooms. I waited till the boys were all showering before attempting to dispose of the evidence. I opened my holdall and pulled out the plastic bag. It was empty. ‘What the fu-‘ I feverishly raked around my holdall searching for what must be a second bag or a holdall full of vomit. Just then I heard an anguished scream from the adjoining ‘home’ changing room. ‘Aaaw for fuuucksake which one of you skanky bastarts spewed in ma sandwiches!’
Every cloud ……
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Hamish McShanks Secret Diary - Part 61
Hamish McShanks Secret Diary w/e 9th October 2005
‘What can I get you love?’, ‘Two fish suppers please’, ‘Salt and vinegar’, ‘aye’, ‘anything else’, ‘a bottle of sprite and a can of diet coke please’ She raised her eyebrows ‘diet?’, ‘yes’ I replied stiffly. She looked me up and down before turning to the chiller cabinet and retrieving the drinks, all the while sniggering under her breath. I wasn’t too pleased at this lack of customer focus but in the interests of keeping the peace I decided to let it go.
I have to say it would have been easier to take if she hadn’t been quite so vast herself. The rest of the staff were orbiting around her as she dominated the servery, her podgy fingers swiftly sorting a variety of deep fried products into different categories; Fish, Meat, fishy meat, meaty fish and ‘pig derivatives’. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of a mock chop? I’m sure I’ve ranted on about these before. Lets just say that when the abattoir has used every identifiable and indeed unidentifiable cut of whole and mechanically recovered meat there are still some bits left over. These are 100% pork in the same sense that a pair of leather shoes is 100% beef.
Anyway she finished wrapping our dinner and before I could stop her she’d popped it all in a stripy polythene bag. You know the kind, the ones you get in every chip shop. The unfeasibly flimsy yet 100% unbreathable ‘anti-gortex’ ones. Personally I think they actively suck moisture from the environment concentrating the dampness on anything remotely crispy contained within. Rest assured that if your chips have been stored in one of these bags for even a second you’re in for a disappointment.
By the time you’ve returned to your car and started to unwrap your dinner it’s too late. There you are salivating at the thought of biting into that beautiful crisp bread crumbed fish and those wonderfully crunchy chips you saw wrapped up not thirty seconds before. Tentatively you open the paper to find half the batter now affixed to yesterdays copy of The Daily Star. The page three ‘stunna’ is now primly clad in a ruskoline twin set and pearls as you stare disconsolately at the congealed glutinous mass that is your dinner. Next time you’re stuck in the desert dying of thirst pray you have a red and white stripy polythene bag in your pocket.
‘Right love that’ll be sixteen pounds fifty’, ‘Come again?’, ‘Sixteen fifty’, ‘No there must be some mistake I ordered the fish and chips not the caviar and quails eggs’, ‘Fish isnay cheap you know’ I stared at her ruddy jowelled face ‘Yes it’s terrible isn’t it what with us living on an island surrounded by a both a vast ocean and a large sea’ I muttered rummaging in my wallet and pulling out a twenty’, ‘there’s no nee-‘, ‘no no no you’re absolutely right I should have ordered something common and indigenous like a wilder beast fritter or perhaps a dodo supper’, ‘I-‘, ‘and those potatoes don’t just grow in the ground either do they eeh?’ She handed me my change and gave me a particularly savage stare ‘I’m sure you can find the way out’, ‘what you mean I don’t get carried out to my car for that price? I don’t get a red carpet rolled ouoooomppffff’. She had amazingly quick hands for a big woman.
After consuming our soggy tea we checked into a rather nice hotel in the middle of town. A Victorian lodge with big bay windows and high corniced ceilings. Our room was ‘en-suite’ but this luxury was clearly a later addition. It’s difficult to describe but imagine looking down into a large cardboard box. Now picture yourself reaching in and placing a shoebox in one corner. Now simply cover the shoebox with floral wallpaper, install a squeaky sliding door, finish off with a pine dado rail and yer there.
The bathroom was of course bigger than a shoebox but still a tad on the snug side. However it was spotlessly clean and comprised the essentials of toilet, wash hand basin and shower cubicle. Like the rest of the room it was toasty and warm.
My good lady was sorting out her glad rags so I jumped into the shower. The seven point five millilitres of complimentary shower gel went surprisingly far I have to admit and I was drying myself with a fluffy white towel when there was a chap on the door ‘Gerra shift on in there some of us have hair to wash’ I wrapped the towel round my waist and stepped into the bedroom, it was like a sauna. Mrs Shanks dived into the bathroom pecking me quickly on the cheek in transit ‘Thank you, now see if you can sort that radiator out it’s roasting in here hahahaha’ the door slid shut amid more sniggering.
She wasn’t joking. Beads of sweat were forming on my brow as I wrestled with the knob on the radiator. Clearly the previous occupant must have been a visiting alien from the core of the sun. It took a few turns but eventually I managed to turn it down to from white-hot to sizzling. There were some rather disturbing gurgling sounds as the metal started to cool but no discernable reduction in heat output ‘Jesus Christ it’s unbearable, I’ll have to open a window’.
Strains of badly sung ‘McFly’ were coming from the shower as I grappled with the curtains ‘Why in the name of god do ye need curtains this wide?’ There seemed to be enough material to cover all the walls in the room never mind the window. It took several minutes of Morecambe & Wise type fumblings to fight my way through ‘I’ll give ye fecking sunshine in your smile’ I grumbled as my hands took hold of the sash.
Perhaps I was a bit wound up after my curtain wrestling or maybe it was just a well-oiled mechanism, either way the window flew open effortlessly. The cool night air flooded into the room, at least I have to assume it did because it was blowing fiercely up my towel and around my nether regions as I clung on grimly to the window ledge. Some primeval monkey part of my brain must have had the foresight to stick out a hand as I’d tumbled out. I’d swivelled round gracelessly and was now hanging on by my fingernails.
This wasn’t my most pressing concern though, I had a fairly good grip and was confident I could pull myself back in once the old heartbeat settled down. No what was causing me most consternation was the towel slowly unravelling round my waist. It was with a sinking heart I felt the last fluffy fibre slide over my legs and I watched with anguish as it fluttered down to the ground ‘Oh marvellous, bloody marvellous, things just get better and bet-‘ THUMP!
I glanced up at the firmly closed window and then down to the hard ground. Too far to drop. Time for a blub. The final ignominy was hanging just low enough to be exposing my feet, knees, thighs and crown jewels to the occupants of the lounge bar.
Pink Gin anyone?
Monday, October 03, 2005
Hamish McShanks Secret Diary - Part 60
Hamish McShanks Secret Diary w/e 2nd October 2005
Liar: A person who tells lies. Synonyms would include fibber, prevaricator, cheat, charlatan, storyteller, defrauder, equivocator, estate agent and of course ‘second hand car dealer’. Sadly circumstances beyond my control have forced me into close contact with the latter of these hustlers.
Normally I would be quite keen for close contact with a hustler, if we were referring to the large stash of magazines I found poorly hidden in my fathers shed aged thirteen. That was me by the way, I’ve no idea how old the shed was. To be honest it wasn’t upper most in my mind at that moment. I was more interested in how I was going to ‘relocate’ said merchandise from the shed to my bedroom. You’d be amazed how difficult it is to hide a magazine under your jumper. Anyway that’s not important just now because the hustler I was faced with was of the car salesman variety.
It was rather a nasty set of circumstances that had led me to this position. In fact it was my mum that had the real bad luck. She was driving slowly (and very sensibly) down a single-track road. When all of a sudden an extremely foolish young man, filled with drink and devoid of a cerebrum attempted to take a near blind corner at sixty miles an hour. Thankfully the crumple zones crumpled, the airbag deployed and the seatbelt did its job. My mum was able to exit the vehicle shaken and now extremely stirred. So much so she felt compelled to voice the opinion that the young man might be of a somewhat retarded and illegitimate nature.
The police removed the inebriated young man to a place of safety (i.e. out of my mums reach) Unfortunately her car was now a good deal shorter than at the start of her journey. Certainly beyond the help of a wee sup filler and some T-cut. It was a total write off. The only consolation was the wee shite that caused the crash was banned from driving within five days of the accident. My only complaint was that he didn’t get forty lashes and hung by his balls until he was dead. A tad harsh you might think but it would certainly cut down on re-offending. Well it would stop him re-offending that’s for sure.
Anyway being the golden boy and favourite son I nobly agreed to let my mother have my car. It was absolutely nothing to do with the losing of a game of scissors, paper, stone that myself and my two brothers played over a dish full of car keys. Whilst I may have been runner up in this meaningless game I obviously gave up my motor vehicle because I love my mum the most…..
But just on a theoretical point, I would like to suggest that in the game of Scissors, paper, stone claiming a ‘re-toss’ because your paper is laminated and your opponents’ scissors are plastic is not in the spirit of the game. Neither is the claim that your stone is ‘volcanic’ and has set the fire to the paper a valid assertion. Despite an exhaustive Internet search I was not able to procure a set of ‘authenticated’ rules so had to acquiesce to the decision of the conniving back stabbing two-faced Judases that claim to be my brothers. But as the saying goes ‘Don’t get mad, get a big stick’ (no that’s not a typo)
So it was with a heavy heart I stepped on to the forecourt. Very much like my Hoover purchasing escapades the salesman seemed to fall into two distinct categories.
In one camp you have the I’m just going to sit in my office smoking cigarettes and scratching my lazy fat arse whilst completely ignoring all the punters category. No amount of waving twenties will bring these lardbuckets out of their cosy office whilst a page three tit is on offer or a crumb of scotch pie is to be had. For the purpose of brevity we will refer to these individuals as ‘The Fat Boys’.
Camp two is composed of extremely pushy and insistent men (it’s always men) who have crisp white shirts, pristine suits & ties and wear gallons of cheap aftershave. They always strike me as rodent in nature. They will attempt to steer you towards the biggest most expensive pile of rusty shite you’ve ever had the misfortune to clap your eyes on. They will be talking talking talking ALL the time. These are the ‘Weasels’.
I was ambling down the first row of vehicles ‘Renault Clio?’, ‘Nope a bit girly’, ‘Fiat Chinquecento?’, ‘alright if I lived in Lilliput’, ‘Porsche 924?’, ‘A bit-‘ This loud nasal voice suddenly appeared at my ear ‘Oh An excellent choice sir!’, ‘Forfuuuu-‘ I nearly shat my pants. ‘For Christ sake it’s dangerous to creep up on people’ I shouted clutching my tightening chest. The weasel continued on unperturbed at my outburst.
He was running his hand lovingly over the front wing, almost caressing the paintwork. It was rather unsettling ‘A mans car this one sir, for real men’ I raised my eyebrows as I peered back into his beady little eyes ‘What as opposed to fake men?’, ‘An eighteen hundred four cylinder engine sir’, ‘get a lot of impostors in here do you?’ I continued. ‘Purrs like a cat sir, oh very smooth, very very smooth’, ‘unlike your patter it would seem’, ‘Leather upholstery sir, can you smell it? Can you?’, ‘Well I certainly smell a lot of bull’. He was oblivious to my sarcasm and I managed to edge away as he leant his head against the bonnet and kissed the paintwork.
The site portacabin had the obligatory fat boy ensconced inside. A four pack of pies nestled on the edge of his desk with one hand reaching out to wrestle the nearest offering out of the cellophane wrapper. Thankfully the rest of his porcine features were obscured behind a copy of the daily star. The murmurings of ‘phooarr look at the jugs on that’ suggested he was going to be occupied for some time. I felt able to peruse the remainder of the ‘fleet’ in peace. It didn’t take long.
I wonder if they are all numerically dyslexic because you look at the numbers in the window of the car and ye think ‘aye if ye just swap that 1 and that 6 around you’d be nearer the mark. Or ‘och they’ve obviously put that up in the wrong car’ as you stare incredulously at the suggested price for a decaying lump of painted tin.
Or perhaps I’m just a miserable tight baldy teuchter who thinks ye should be able to buy a brand new car, get five years free servicing, two thousand pounds cash back, a holiday to Hawaii and a blow job form a stunning brunette all for thruppance ha’penny! If Carlsberg sold cars that’s all I’m saying …….
Anyway must go I’ve got a stick to sharpen and a few jobbies to poke through relatives letter boxes.