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)

Doei

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 …..