Hamish McShanks

Hello folks

Here's the latest installment of the diary. Yes I know, I know, it's a tad on the late side, but hey we could spend all day arguing over 'who' didnt get his diary out on time and 'who' always makes lame excuses.

The main thing to focus on the fact that there IS a diary today. We dont need to dwell on the poor standard of service or the promises that have been broken, nor do we need to highlight the lies, deceit and sleaze (I should be so lucky) that has plagued the Shanks administration. We need to focus on what the future holds and what we at Shanks Diaries can do to improve our service for you. Yes YOU! Because Hamish loves you all, each and every one of you, he loves you like you were his own family ...... possibly like a ginger stepchild, but family all the same.

Finally let me assure you that Hamish fully intends to serve an entire third term.......

Kind Regards

Hamish

Hamish McShanks Secret Diary – w/e 14^th May 2006

Imagine it’s 8 am on the first day of your week’s holiday and you have just heaved yourself, bleary eyed, from your comfortable bed. You don’t want to get up early; you’re on holiday after all. Unfortunately the extremely loud clattering, banging and smashing noises that roused you from your slumber suggest that some inconsiderate b*stard is digging up the road outside. Surely not? This is your holiday, doesn’t everyone know that? Yawning and scratching an extremity of your choosing you now head angrily towards the bedroom window. You are preparing a tirade of abuse for the individual who has disturbed your beauty sleep, god knows you need it.

Flinging open the window you take a deep breath ‘For FU-‘ you stop abruptly in mid-sentence as you realise it’s a beautifully sunny day outside. There’s nary a cloud in the sky and it’s warm. That’s right, warm, and at 8 in the morning! Something happens that you’re not used to, the edges of your mouth, normally fixed in an angry grimace move upwards? You feel cheerful, upbeat and benevolent. You no longer wish to wreak havoc with a length of two by four. That angry pulsating vein on your forehead ceases to protrude so prominently and you feel, well …… happy?

I ran down the stairs and hurriedly consulted teletext, the forecast for the whole week appeared to be more of the same ‘Ha ha ya beauty!’ For once the rain gods had decided not to sprinkle me with golden showers and I had the perfect opportunity to get all the outdoor chores done round the house. I flung open the front door and hailed the workman who had woken me ‘Morning lads! Bloody great day isn’t it! Ha Ha’ the dirty looks I received suggested this was not the case. Presumably when you’re digging a hole in the ground, for minimum wage, on a hot sunny day, the last thing you need is some cheerful wanker shouting at you. Undeterred by their abusive gestures I returned inside to sit down with a cuppa and make a plan for the week.

Becoming a homeowner does give you a different perspective on property. As a tenant you can quite happily ignore cracked and decaying brickwork, loose or missing slates on the roof. Basically as long as it’s not inconveniencing you, who cares! When you actually own the house you think ‘feck, better get that fixed before it costs me even more money’ I had a number of small tasks requiring my attention, the most pressing of these being repairs to my doorstep.

My house has a small step as you enter the front garden and a second larger step at the front door. Both of these had, at some time in the past, been covered with lovely ‘jobby’ coloured ceramic tiles. Not only were they a hideous colour but several were cracked and dangerously loose. It was only a matter of time before someone slipped and hurt themselves, and let’s be honest; it was going to be me. Even when securely fixed, ceramic tiles are treacherous when wet. Loose and wet is just asking for trouble, in fact it’s not just asking for trouble it’s like poking trouble in the eye, knocking his pint over and calling his girlfriend a fat slapper! They had to go.

Clutching a large chisel and a lump hammer I approached my doorstep ‘Ok Ham, lets get the rest of these tiles off then’ There were about thirty tiles in total, six of which had already fallen off. You would imagine therefore, that the rest would detach themselves fairly easily……. You would of course be wrong

Sweat poured off my brow as I drove the edge of the chisel under yet another tile. Thump Thump THUMP! ‘Who on earth gnnfmmp thought this was a good feckin gnnfmmaah ideaaarrghhh!’ Yelping I jumped to my feet, the hammer and chisel clattering noisily on the bare concrete as I sucked my swollen thumb for the fourth or fifth time ‘Aw look lads the wee boy is sucking his thumb, he must want his mammy!’ I stomped inside the house with the sound of the workmen’s laughter ringing in my ears.

‘Fecking tossers’ I grumbled as I ran my damaged digit under the cold tap. Glancing in the mirror I couldn’t help but notice my baldy heid and face had already caught the sun ‘oh great I’m getting sunstroke as well’. Having patched up my mangled thumb I started raking for some sun cream. Half an hour later I located a bottle of factor 25 Nivea sun cream, it must have been quite old as it was priced at 49p. Squinting to read the label I managed to make out ‘best before Aug 1988’ barely visible under the grime ‘Ach it’ll be fine’ and I slapped some on my face.

You know how sun cream is supposed to be invisible when applied. A sort of hidden barrier keeping out the suns dangerous ultraviolet radiation? Well clearly age affects these properties. After half an hour of waiting for the cream to soak ‘invisibly’ into my skin, my face was still china white. I looked like a mime artist ‘Oh marvellous, bloody marvellous’ Attempts to wash off the cream were fruitless; it now appeared to be bonded securely to my skin. ‘Right fine, who cares at least it’ll keep the sun off’ I tossed the bottle into the waste bin and trudged downstairs.

To add insult to injury I couldn’t find my usual baseball cap, I had to settle for an old wide brimmed cricket hat. Not an ideal choice for a sunhat as there was a strong breeze outside, which while mercifully cool, would almost certainly blow the hat off. My earlier good humour had now all but dissipated. I stomped irately round the house in search of something better, but to no avail. Exasperated and getting angrier by the second I grabbed a pillowcase and wrapped it over the top of the hat. I knotted the material under my chin, grabbed my sunglasses, and stormed out the door.

Yes with the benefit of hindsight I should have realised my getup was likely to invite comment. Red pillowcase over white hat, dark sunglasses and porcelain face ‘Alright Barbara how’s the writing going? We thought you were deid! Ha ha’, ‘where’s yer poodle luv? Had it stuffed? Ha ha ha’, ‘No chiffon today Miss Cartland?’

What is the collective term for a group of Daily Record reading, work shy, big-mouthed, fat arsed council workmen? Is it a ‘bawbag’ of workmen perhaps?

Doei