Hamish McShanks

Hamish McShanks Secret Diary w/e 18^th December 2005

‘So here it iiiiis merry Chriiiistmas everybody’s having fuuuuuuuuuun .. la la la laaaa’ I hummed away happily as I got ready for the ‘works Christmas dinner’. Always an entertaining affair it has to be said and I wanted to look my best. My fresh dry cleaned kilt was looking immaculate and with two more turns I’d finished adjusting the leather cord on my new Jacobean shirt. Whilst I have to admit ye can look a little light on the loafers wearing a Jacobean shirt, I felt I’d chosen wisely going for black rather than white material. ‘Big’ shoulders were also off the menu ‘plain shoulders’ I’d insisted as the sales assistant had minced around me holding up a purple creation that looked like a puffer fish had been stitched on each shoulder.

The bonnie Prince Charlie outfit is very smart but I can’t stand wearing a bow tie, I find them very restrictive. The downside of the ‘shortbread tin’ Jacobite shirt is you need to be a boy scout or a mariner to be able to tie the correct fecking knot round the neck. However at least when you do you aren’t being garrotted the entire evening (unless of course you have tied a particularly bad knot)

I surveyed myself in the mirror. Everything seemed to be in roughly the correct place, matching socks, no toothpaste on face or kilt, shirt not inside out, shoes on correct feet ‘Right Ham let’s do a quick check’ I opened the top of my wee badgers handbag and delved inside ‘Money’, ‘Camera’, ‘Keys’, ‘Phone’, ‘aaaaand the most important item of all bawbalm’. For those of you unfamiliar with the wearing of the kilt, it is done ‘commando’ style i.e. nae underwear. However you only need to wear the kilt once to realise that al fresco spuds lead to severe chaffing. The simple solution is a small tube of lipbalm in your sporran. At convenient intervals during the evening (in the privacy of a toilet cubicle) simply apply a thin film of ‘bawbalm’ to your nether regions and Robert is your mothers bother.

The doorbell rang just as I closed up my sporran. I grabbed my jacket and headed out the door. Dinner was seven for seven thirty with a champagne reception prior to the meal. It was now six pm and prior to the champagne reception we were having a beer reception at the Gilroy residence. To top off the service Mr & Mrs G had even provided a courtesy car to pick up Mrs Shanks and myself. After all what’s the point in having children if ye cant get them to chauffeur you and your friends around when yer oot on the lash …… what’s that? …. best thing ever ….. Joys you cant comprehend? .. naaaah it’s the chauffeuring!

We pulled into the driveway of the Gilroy residence and I levered myself out of the car. Our hostess was there to greet us at the door with a selection of canapés ‘Evening Mrs G’ I palmed a shilling into the drivers hand as we left the car, he didn’t look impressed ‘call that a tip!’, ‘oh you want a tip’ I scratched my beard for a second ‘dinnay catch yer baws on a barbed wire fence son’ he looked even less impressed with my sage advice.

The beer reception went very well and after an hour or so of pleasant conversation (and half a dozen bottles of Miller) we boarded the Gilroy express and departed for our final destination, the rugby club. The driver didn’t seem to appreciate my back seat driving as we travelled through the town ‘wooh wooh wooh tiger, easy on the gas son’. In fact fifteen minutes later he was looking positively vexed as we pulled into the car park and didn’t seem interested as I tried to palm him another tip ‘Thanks driver here’s a wooaaah’ the car sped off in a plume of blue smoke. I picked up the tenner that had fallen from my hand ‘strange lad’ and headed inside with the others.

Our table was located at the far end of the hall, it was tastefully decorated with festive goodies, sparkly tinsel, golden stars, silver ribbons and multi-coloured baubles. Each place setting had an exquisite arrangement of posh sweeties and clearly a lot of thought had gone into the whole thing. The entire room was looking fantastic and there was even an enormous chocolate fountain in one corner of the hall. All tell tale signs that it had been all been organised by girls. Lets face it if the blokes had been in charge the centrepiece would have been an extra large pork pie and the table would have been ‘decorated’ by a selection of beers. The only concession to the Christmas season would have been a few cranberries on top of the pie and perhaps a bottle of advocat for punishment drinks.

We sat down and cracked open the house wine. Now table or ‘house’ wine can be very hit or miss. And I don’t want to seem ungrateful, after all the rest of the organisation was perfect. But I like to call a spade a spade and the wine tasted like horse piss. Not, I hasten to add, that I go around tasting horse piss but if I did I’d probably have kept a glass of it to wash out my mouth after drinking the house wine. Of course everybody else was far too polite to slander it and restricted their comments to ‘oh it’s quite sharp and fruity isn’t it’ and ‘yes a definite hint of tartness’ as their eyes watered and their mouths pursed as if licking vinegar off a nettle.

The evening wore on, the craic was excellent and the meal superb. I was being enveloped in a lovely alcoholic haze when the band started up ‘Wahaay it’s dancing time’. This should have been a good indicator that I had exceeded my weekly quota of units. I’m a man, therefore I hate dancing. Not tonight though, tonight I was a disco diva. I was strutting my funky stuff ‘oh yeah baby’ I crooned as my elbows flailed about like an out of control threshing machine. The dance floor opened up around me, Bruce Lee couldn’t have taken out as many people as I spun and turned, shaking my booty for all I was worth.

Of course the exertion of shaking my money maker just helped the alcohol course through my veins, I was Patrick Swayze, Michael Flatley and John Travolta all rolled into one. A big climax was called for, a long slide and finish on my knees seemed appropriate. I pirouetted two or three times riverdancing my way across the wooden floor. I must have been going at quite a lick as I started my slide ‘Looking good Ham’ I thought as I flew gracefully towards the bar. Then I dropped to my knees (in my kilt) Skin, unfortunately, sticks to wood ‘Da daaaarrgghhooomppff’. My envisaged big show finale of wide-open arms and rapturous applause was replaced with a long agonised scream and rather clumsy nosedive into the centre of the chocolate fountain. My limp kilt forlornly settling around my ears to reveal parking for one bike.

The last sounds I remember before my ears filled with chocolate were cries of ‘dear god not the chocolate fountain noooooooo’

Merry Christmas one and all

Doei