Hamish McShanks

Hamish McShanks Secret Diary – w/e 22^nd January 2006

‘Stoooooop!’ my legs were pumping as I tore across the bridge, I could see the train, the guards whistle was nearly in his mouth ‘Nooooooooo’ I screamed as I careered down the stairs and on to the platform. His hand was reaching for the master key as his lips pursed and formed an ‘O’ round the whistle. Twenty yards to go, one big effort was all that was required. Time for a traditional Scottish battle cry ‘Aaaw C’mon yoooo baaaastaaaard’ I screamed in anguish. The guard glanced up and we made eye contact, my lungs were trying to jump out of my chest as I gulped down great lungfuls of dirty station air, he smiled at me, then blew his whistle.

‘You fu-‘ anger helped me find another spurt of acceleration. The doors were closing. Glancing up I saw my salvation a few feet ahead. With the last throw of the dice my right hand snatched at the passing pillar and faster than you can say ‘excremental overpriced public transport’ I was swung through ninety degrees and slung shot at the side of the train ‘HaHaHaoommpfff’ ……. I threw snake eyes.

If only there had been a door where I actually hit the train I feel confident I could have made it. With hindsight it was the weight of my rucksack that threw out my calculations. The extra mass increased the centrifugal force and I over rotated, a schoolboy error. These thoughts all came to me lamentably late as the train pulled sluggishly away from the platform and I slithered down the side of the carriage leaving faint scratch marks on the glassy surface. My last observation a lingering image of a sniggering Scotrail employee, whistle in his hand, waving at me as I slid gently onto cold wet concrete and face first into a puddle.

There’s something about a urine filled puddle that revives you quicker than you’d imagine. Fairly cleans out the sinuses too. I decided to use the twenty-minute wait for the next train to ‘clean’ myself up. I use the word clean in the loosest sense as I’m afraid to say the wash hand basin in the toilets was only marginally cleaner than the puddle, I probably had more germs on me afterwards. Mind you the wash hand basin was spotlessly clean compared to the toilet itself. One look explained why the puddle had seemed a better option to a previous patron.

Safely ensconced on the next train my thoughts wandered to tonight’s entertainment. I was off to see a band that was playing at the ‘Celtic Connection’ music festival in Glasgow. I was getting quite excited, there’s nothing like live music to fire the soul. Being musically illiterate I have the utmost admiration for anyone who can play any musical instrument, with the possible exception of the spoons. Spoons are for eating with, they are not, repeat not a musical instrument. ….. No they aren’t a percussion instrument either. They are utensils for aiding the consumption of soups and desserts, nothing more.

Having put the boot into spoons I would now like to sing the praises of fiddles, or more correctly fiddlers. That's the musical variety not the fraudster type. The amazing speed and co-ordination of finger movement and the way the bow flashes across the strings does my head in. I just know I’d cut my fingers off and saw through the neck of the instrument if I was allowed anywhere near the thing. I think it’s this added knowledge that even with a hundred years tuition and the finest Stradivarius violin I’d really only have a very expensive cheese grater.

The train trundled nosily over the points as we entered Buchanan street station. I heaved my rucksack off the parcel shelf and stood at the door as the train gently rocked to a standstill. I was clutching my ticket firmly in my hand having been caught out the last time I’d travelled to Glasgow. To combat fare dodgers you have to insert your ticket into an automated barrier to exit the station. Being a simple teuchter lad from the sticks I was unaware of this requirement and I’d tossed my ticket into a bin on the train as I left.

This led to a frank and forthright discussion at the exit. A very bored, rather sweaty and rotund jobs worth guard was in no mood to be sympathetic. I probably would have been allowed through after ten minutes of arguing and waving my switch receipt. But I’m afraid I snapped. I sarcastically enquired how long I should retain my ticket. Till my 60^th Birthday? Till my death? Till I was standing in front of the pearly fuuuuucking gates? Whilst this hardly helped my case I think the more likely reason for my having to pay twice was when I suggested that he was so lardy there wasn’t a big enough gap for him to squeeze his ample backside through to the platform side. But should he ever fancy a holiday to see the choo choo trains I would be more than happy to assist his transit with the toe of my boot.

Having learnt my lesson I didn’t throw my ticket in the bin, I simply raised the collar of my shirt, pulled my bobble hat down over my ears, put on my dark glasses and sidled quietly through the exit. Relieved that the ‘sarky bastard lets give him a doing’ alarm hadn’t been raised I accelerated towards the station bar where I was meeting Mrs Shanks and the other revellers.

‘Alright folks’ Mrs S was there with her two sisters and their husbands. Everyone was looking very smartly dressed and giving me rather strange looks as I ordered a drink from the bar ‘anyone else for a pint’ I enquired. There were polite refusals and a small amount of sniggering. Mrs Shanks grasped me by the elbow and steered me into a quiet corner of the bar ‘Any particular reason why your dressed like a hippy and wearing a rucksack dear?’ I gave her a rather quizzical look ‘were going to a concert aren’t we?’, ‘yes that’s right’, ‘well I’ve just got a few essentials, food, drink, tent, sleeping ba-‘, ‘it’s in the Royal Concert Hall’, ‘- the where?’, ‘the Royal concert hall’, ‘come again?’, ‘indoors’ she replied shaking her head ‘aaaah so it’s not an outdoor festival then’, ‘no’, ‘not really the kind of place where people have dreads in their beards then’ I enquired whilst holding a hand over my face ‘correct’, ‘aaaah’ …….

The band was great. Two fiddle players giving it laldy on the cheese graters and a lad on the accordion with more fingers than I’ve got brain cells (nine) . Top quality craic and foot tapping entertainment. Only slightly spoiled by some idiot leaving a rucksack on the stairs that tripped up a gentleman coming back with a tray of pints. He was ok but the drink was launched across four rows of revellers who didn’t take kindly to their impromptu beer shampoo. The resulting rammy held up proceedings for half an hour while the police ejected the combatants.

Live boxing to Irish folk music, it’ll catch on ye know!

Doei