Hamish McShanks

Hamish McShanks Secret Diary w/e/ 16^th July 2006

‘Gnffmmpff’, ‘everything alright?’, ‘aye fine’ I replied. Sweat was pouring off my brow and I strained every muscle in my body in an effort to force the last bag in the boot of the car ‘are you sure?’ asked Mrs Shanks rather uncertainly ‘aye nae bother gnfmmppffaaaah’ with a disturbing tinkling noise the bag finally crumpled into the boot. It wasn’t an encouraging sound and more importantly it wasn’t my bag. My heart sank to my boots as I watched the luggage gradually collapse. Swiftly I shut the door and strode round to the front of the car ‘everything ok?’, ‘aye grand’, ‘it’s just you look a little flushed’, ‘just the excitement of going on holiday my sweet, shall we go?’, ‘drive on McDuff’, ‘were not going to MacDuff are we?’ she shook her head wearily ‘just drive’

We were off to Prestwick Airport to catch a flight to the Emerald Isle and I was really looking forward to it. My last two trips had been short lived and alcohol fuelled. At the end of the day the inside of most pubs are the same wherever you are and chundering into a foreign cludge is no more enjoyable than driving the hometown porcelain bus. This time we were heading to the sticks and I was looking forward to a relaxing holiday.

Things were ok for the first twenty minutes or so. It was a baking hot day and I was regretting not purchasing a car with air conditioning. Mind you for £450 ye cannay expect a/c and a leather interior. As long as the documents aren’t photocopies and your ‘key’ isn’t a screwdriver hammered into the steering column you’re quite happy. At the end of the day ye get what ye pay for. I’d paid for a cheap town runabout, not a motorway cruiser. My little 106 was struggling with the load and feeling the heat.

‘What’s wrong?’, ‘oh nothing ….. I think’, ‘why am I not convinced’, ‘uuuum the uuum temperature uuum warning uuuumm light is kind of flickering’, ‘kind of flickering?’, ‘aye uuum kind of’ I trailed off ‘what does that mean?’, ‘oh nothing to worry about, I’ll just stop and check the water’. I pulled off into the next lay-by and popped open the bonnet. There was no steam emanating for the radiator and a quick inspection underneath did not reveal a puddle of water. Worst case scenario avoided, the radiator appeared intact. I couldn’t check the water level as the engine was still hot and I had no desire for a third degree burn attempting to open the top of the radiator. It was all academic really as I didn’t have any water to top it up with anyway. Time to put on my brave face and reassure the passenger.

‘Is it ok?’ enquired Mrs S anxiously. Time for some ‘economy’ with the facts ‘aye it looks fine, it was probably just the …. f.f.fflange gasket uuum overdrive … handle eeer dropping down’, ‘is that serious?’, ‘nooooooo’ I replied in a nervous whinny ‘nooo nooo nooo happens all the time, that’s what it’s designed to do’, ‘it’ll be fine’ I continued whilst trying to start the car with crossed fingers ‘thank goodness for that’, ‘yes thank goodness’ I mumbled through dry lips.

Our wee pit stop seemed to have done the trick but as an extra precaution I took my foot of the gas slightly to try and give my wee car a bit less of a caning. The problem seemed to be cured until we hit the other side of Glasgow. Its thirty five miles to Prestwick airport from Glasgow. What I didn’t realise is it’s mostly uphill. Not a steep hill but steep enough to be a challenge for a heavily laden twelve year old car with 90,000 on the clock.

Five miles to go and I knew things were going to go pear shaped when I had to drop yet another gear. I’d tried to avoid it but we were nearly juddering to a stall and snails were overtaking us on the hard shoulder. Mrs S was giving me quizzical looks so I dropped it into second and hit the gas. Within a minute the warning light was on again, this time it stayed on. I had no choice but to pull over ‘what’s happening?’, ‘the warning light is on again’, ‘I thought you said the gasket handle thingy had dropped?’, ’oh aye it has but sometimes the secondary … eeer fidget uuum percussion hoop needs to be adjusted’. Diving onto the hard shoulder I cut the engine and coasted to a halt. I jumped out and popped open the bonnet before there were anymore questions.

Hiding behind the bonnet of the car my mind raced. What was I going to do? What was I going to say? Why hadn’t I checked the water before we left? Why hadn’t I joined the AA or RAC? Why hadn’t I stored water in the car? All academic questions, what was I going to do here and now! Angrily I shook my fist at the engine. This had little effect. Sobbing was similarly fruitless; I needed to add fluid to the car. Fleeting thoughts of urinating in the radiator were quickly dashed as a poached todger was not going to help matters any. And lets be honest it was never going to be long enough to reach anyway.

Five minutes had passed and Mrs S was getting understandably concerned ‘have you adjusted the percussion hoop?’, ‘uuum yes I’m just fine-tuning the eeer return kipper’, ‘the what’, ‘the return …. kipper’ I finished lamely. The sound of the passenger door opening was swiftly followed by a number of brisk footsteps. A shadow stretched over the engine of the car ‘adjusting it with your bare hands are you?’, ‘I can explai-‘, ‘there’s no such thing as a flange gasket overdrive handle, a percussion hoop or a return kipper is there?’, ‘no’ I mumbled ‘you’re talking out of you’re arse aren’t you’, ‘yes’ I whispered nervously ….

‘C’mon Ham only another couple of hundred yards to go’ breathing heavily I dropped my shoulder and shoved. At least the last two miles had been flat; a few minutes later I collapsed in the car park of ‘long term 3’. I was drenched with sweat my hands were blistered and my face and shirt were black with grime. Wearily I opened the boot of the car and retrieved our luggage, just in time for another hoof in the happy sack ‘Och look at that will you there are no trolleys, looks like we will have to carry our bags’

Funnily enough arriving at customs looking decidedly dishevelled, sweating profusely, covered in dirt and resembling an escaped convict tends to arouse the suspicions of her majesty’s custom and excise officers. In their defence I will admit that I didn’t really resemble my passport photograph. How I regretted pulling a face all those years ago. My efforts to mimic the stupid grin in the photograph didn’t help my cause either. Just when ye think yer day can’t get any worse you hear the smack of a rubber glove being pulled on. You think they would give you a stick to bite on ……

Doei