Hamish McShanks

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 7^th January 2007

‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot’, ‘la la la la la la-ever brought to mind’, ‘la la la mmmm’ humming quietly I carefully dabbed on the last few streaks of glue. It was Hogmanay and the bells of midnight were fast approaching. I was residing at a good friend’s house in the depths of the Aberdeenshire countryside and was determined to ‘first-foot’ them properly.

For those of you unfamiliar with the custom of First-Footing. It is an ancient Scottish tradition carried out after midnight on the 31^st December. The first person to cross the threshold of your house in the New Year will determine the kind of luck you’re family will have for the rest of that year, or so it is said. The ideal first-footer should be tall, dark haired and handsome. He should also be clutching a lump of coal or a parcel of salt. The coal apparently symbolised warmth for the year ahead and the salt represented flavour.

We will gloss over the fact that most people are on mains gas these days and a lump of coal is nothing but a dirty rock now. And let’s not mention that excessive sodium intake significantly increases your risk of hypertension, because if we are honest, when these customs originated you were at much greater risk of being eviscerated by a brown bear or filleted by the antlers of a red stag. Pegging it from a salt induced high blood pressure was not your main concern.

Anyway, not one to break with tradition, my lump of coal was wrapped up and nestling on the dashboard. I’d snuck out just before midnight and concealed myself in my car to ‘prepare’ my first-foot outfit. As I’m six feet in height I would like to think that qualifies me as ‘tall’. Dark haired and handsome were more problematic but after the liberal application of some theatrical glue to my baldy napper I was ready to don my syrup and tick off ‘Dark Hair. I was hoping that sufficient drink would have been consumed by midnight, and with beer goggles on, I could pass for handsome.

The picture on the outside of the wig packet was of a man with luxuriant thick black hair; excitedly I tore off the wrapping and pulled out my new syrup. I held the object up for closer inspection under the interior light. I stared at it for a few moments before slowly lifting up the picture still clutched in my left hand. Gazing slowly from one to the other I could feel my blood pressure rising ‘what the fu-‘

The picture displayed an immaculately styled 1970’s hairdo with feathered cut and fetching side parting. Unfortunately I appeared to have received an item of road kill! It was indeed black and it looked like it contained feathers, therein the similarities to the proffered image ended. The hopes of increasing my handsomeness by the addition of a new flowing mane had now been cruelly dashed. However midnight was fast approaching and I was bloody well going to be their first-foot. Hastily I donned the mangled rooster, grabbed my lump of coal, and headed for the front door.

I could hear the bells ringing on TV and a few fireworks shot up in air from the surrounding countryside as I pressed the doorbell ‘Oh they will love this’ I chuckled under my breath as the door began to open ‘Happy New YEOOOoooomppf!’

‘Ham?’ Slap! ‘Ham are you alright?’ Slap! Rob continued enthusiastically slapping me round the face ‘I think you’ve killed him’, ‘How was I supposed to know!’ wailed Laura ‘why did he come to the front door dressed as a vagrant anyway?’ the stinging blows eventually roused me from my slumber ’mfggns Happy mmnn New mmYear’ I mumbled as they pulled me to my feet.

Rob headed off outside to check the fireworks as Laura continued my resuscitation with a large dram ‘Sorry I didn’t recognise you with ….’ She glanced at my head ‘…. um hair’ she trailed off lamely ‘No, no, no, my fault entirely’ I replied before draining the whisky and gingerly rubbing my aching jaw ‘The bonfires lit’ she continued, swiftly topping up my empty glass. ‘Great great’ I mumbled before taking another large swig and struggling unsteadily to my feet.

We headed out to the back garden. The bonfire was indeed lit, it was roaring. The force 8 gale which had ruffled my ‘hair’ and raised my kilt in such an alarming manner was now fanning the flames of the fire. You could have forged steel in the embers. Orange and white sparks flew off to be engulfed in the surrounding darkness. The fiery glow periodically lit up the garden and I could make out several of the displays that Rob had carefully set up ‘I take it the chickens are safely tucked up in bed?’ I remarked to Laura ‘Cant imagine they will appreciate the pyrotechnics’, ‘Aye they are shut up in their coop’ she replied, topping up my glass and pointing at what looked like a tin wigwam at the far end of the garden.

I was cocooned in a rosy amber glow by the time the first few fireworks shot into the sky ‘Oooh that’sh a good one’ I slurred as a rocket burst into vibrant red sparks above my head and two roman candles erupted to my right. The display lasted ten minutes and I was very impressed ‘thish ish great Rob, really f’ngreat’ I mumbled cheerily ‘Aye they’re no bad, I’ll just open the second box’, ‘a shecond box!’,‘Bloody great Ha Ha’ I roared, slapping him heartily on the back. Possibly my timing could have been better. I didn’t notice he was holding the second box in his hands at the time.

We both watched in horror as the box tumbled onto the centre of the bonfire. I’d love to say we evacuated the garden in an orderly fashion but I’ve no idea what happened to anyone else I just legged it as fast as I could. With hindsight ‘towards the safety of the house’ would have been a preferable direction. However ‘away from the fire’ was my only concern at the time.

It’s probably poetic justice that I was the only person to suffer any injury, after all it was my fault that we all had to flee for our lives. But you’ll probably be surprised to learn that it wasn’t a burn injury. The chickens already understandably distressed from the numerous loud explosions were less than impressed when I tried to dive in their front door. The narowness of the entrance combined with the broadness of my shoulders prevented anything other than my head admission. One look at my syrup and as far as the chickens were concerned their home had just been ‘invaded’ by a large foreign ‘bird’.

You try explaining it to accident and emergency staff ‘We’ll just put it down as multiple blunt’ish trauma shall we Mr Shanks?’ sniggered the doctor as he examined my skull.

Doei