Hamish McShanks

Hamish McShanks Secret Diary – w/e 1^st October 2006

Thud thud thud … ‘oohyafecker’ thud thud cachuuung! ‘feck’ thud thud thud cach- ‘Uungggff c’mon ya baaas’, ‘gnnnffmmm -uuung!’, ‘aaaaah’ struggling to my feet I rounded on the tree root ‘oh oh oh! So that’s how ye want to play it!’ I roared whilst sliding sideways in the wet mud ‘Ye want tae be difficult do ye? Well that’s fiiiiiine’, ‘just fine’ the tree root remained firmly impassive as I theatrically rolled up the sleeves of my boiler suit and picked up the spade .......

All I’d wanted to do was tidy up the front garden. It had always been a bit of an eyesore. Nothing more than a patch of moss ridden grass surrounded by wild herbaceous borders. The only things that seemed to grow properly were the crisp packets. It was a real eye opener to find out that crisp packets actually ‘breed’. Here was me foolishly thinking they were made in plastics factories when all along they are actually a self replicating species. Certainly it didn’t matter how many I harvested from the garden there were always a dozen more the next day.

Fed up with tending my field of snack wrappers I’d decided to concrete over the lot. Decorative concrete mind you, not your boring old grey stuff. This was going to be coloured and patterned! (ooooh faaancy I hear you cry) After preliminary discussions with my concreting ‘professional’ I was dismayed to find that he couldn’t just pour three tons of quick drying concrete on top of my garden. There was going to have to be some ‘preparatory work’ done. However if I wanted to save a lot of money I could take this work on myself. Ever the tight Jock I plumped for this option. I was not best pleased when I found out I had to dig up the whole fecking garden.

I was even less amused when I started digging and found that there was a network of tree roots just under the surface of the grass. I don’t even have a tree in my front garden! The nearest one is about 10 metres away. Clearly it had been sneakily spreading itself underground in the kind of underhand invidious way I’d expect from a deciduous hardwood – bastards! The entire garden was riddled with tendrils of tree roots. All of them within the top five inches of soil (which I was now required to remove) The prospect left me with a face like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle.

As it happened the smaller roots weren’t actually too difficult to eradicate. A firm chopping action with a good spade was sufficient to despatch them to the big compost heap in the sky. I was getting into a rhythm and things were looking up. A few hours and the job would be complete. Unfortunately I was being lulled into a false sense of security. The roots were getting progressively thicker all the time and the ‘big boys’ proved a tad more troublesome.

Imagine armour plated hosepipes and you’re getting there. Totally resistant to my best slashing efforts with the spade. Frenzied chopping simply resulted in erratic rubbery ‘rebounds’. A sharp spade flying dangerously about your head does tend to focus your attention and after two or three dives to the muddy ground in order to avoid self decapitation my patience was wearing thin. Time for plan B …..

A quick rummage in the shed failed to uncover a box of dynamite. Disappointed at the lack of powerful explosives I plumped for the large pick axe which was propped against the back wall. A brute of a tool it must have weighed ten kilos. Now I know what the nutters in the NRA must feel like when they pick up an armalite rifle. This goliath of an axe had a reassuring feel of weight and power about it. This wasn’t for girls, this was for men! (yes it is sad isn’t it)

Whistling cheerfully I marched round to the front garden and set the beast down next to a particularly thick and troublesome root ‘getting worried are ye?’ I smirked at the trembling object ‘aye ye’ll no be absorbing any more free nutrients oot of my garden ye thieving bastard’ if it was possible to cower this root was cowering ‘aye say goodbye tae yer pals laddy, you’re about to become firewood’ with an evil grin I spat on my hands ….

‘Uuurggghhh’, ‘why do they do that in films’ I whined, quickly wiping my hands on my boiler suit ‘uuuh hu huhuuu it was warm and everything’ I wailed in disgust. Despite the calm conditions the leaves on the tree seemed to be shaking, as if it were sniggering. Angry and indignant I grabbed at the pickaxe ‘let’s see if yer so jolly in a minute pal’ with great effort I heaved the mighty brute above my head. Resisting the urge to shout ‘by the power of greyskull’ I swung it down hard and fast…. Cruuuunch!

It didn’t so much ‘cut’ as shatter the root ‘ha ha haaaa’ I screamed as shards of wood flew all around ‘get some change oot of that ya baaas’ I yelled heaving the axe upwards in preparation for a second blow …. It never came …. What did come was a sickening sound …… the sound of breaking glass.

Everything seemed to be in slow motion after that. My arms dropped gradually in front of my face. I remember staring in jaw dropping horror as the each portion of the long handle came slowly into view. It didn’t matter how much I wished; I had three feet of solid hickory topped with absolutely fuck all.

At this point the denuded pickaxe handle was still clutched tightly in my saliva coated hands. If we were searching for a silver lining we could say that spitting on your hands does give you a firm grip – shame I didn’t gob on the top of the axe too. But it was too soon for retrospection. The useless handle fell from my now limp fingers and with tears building I turned slowly round …….’Mmmmwwffffgnn’

Before the growing state of dreadfulness shut my senses down altogether, I noted with interest that the two small windows had escaped unscathed (hurray) Shame about the enormous picture window which was now lying in a million and one pieces. The 24 inch widescreen television hadn’t fared too well either. A 20 pound lump of metal embedded in the centre of your flat screen tends to put a crimp on televisual enjoyment!

Still I saved a hundred quid on the concreting …….

Doei