Hamish McShanks

Dearest Readers

Last weeks diary seems to have hit a nerve with certain readers, it also elicited a number of 'replies to all' which contained a series of 'untruths'

So I would like to set the record straight on three things

1) My elder brother is a dirty filthy liar
2) The van was Blue not white
3) The chickens were all consenting

I trust that clears that up. I hope you enjoy this weeks effort

Kindest Regards

Ham

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 2^nd December 07 – The Case for the Prosecution

Those of you on the e-mail distribution of this weekly(ish) rambling may have been unfortunate enough to receive a rebuttal from my elder brother regarding last weeks diary. It began ‘Dear fellow readers of lies’ and then just descended into a sad and bitter verbal tirade. To summarize his response for those of you following via the blog or the other distribution list; my brother was most insistent that I had in some way misrepresented the situation with regard to the shoddy condition of his long list of previous motor vehicles? He seemed intent on discrediting my claims that a unicycle without a seat would provide more reliable and comfortable vehicular transport.

One can only imagine this denial was part of his plan to plead temporary insanity at later court proceedings. After all if you were an insect and you were covered in yellow and black stripes, had a stinger attached to your rear end and lived in a paper house there would be little point in protesting that you’re not a wasp unless you were mad ‘what me?’, ‘noooo I’m a butterfly mate’, ‘this?’, ‘eeer that’s a love wand’ …….

Having now been publicly challenged as to the factual content of my diary I am forced to substantiate my original assertions in order to clear my good name. Because if anybody is going to sully Ham Shanks name it’s bloody well going to be me!

Cue wibbly wobbly special effect and follow me as we head back in time ….

It’s the late nineteen eighties; Ham has hair; think Dolf Lundgren from Rocky IV then subtract about five inches in height and lose the rippling muscles. So basically the same haircut (bleached flat top) and a similarly poor grasp of English. It was the one and only hairstyle of my life; I was young and foolish. Probably explains why I took my elder brother at his word when he ‘introduced’ me to the latest driving experience he had to offer me - A fiat 126.

Being young and naïve I had yet to learn to ask what was wrong with the vehicle prior to embarking on any journey. However Mr Daley was also in his youth and clearly still had a smidgeon of conscience left because he felt compelled to warn me about the brakes before I set off in the yellow death trap ‘Oh aye the brakes arnay too hot by the way, ye need to give them three or four pumps to get the best out of them’, ‘alright bruv cheers for that’ I was so young and trusting I even thanked him.

Now the problem with having brakes that require to be ‘primed’ before use is that you don’t always know when you might need them. Emergency stops spring instantly to mind? You tend not to get much warning with those; otherwise it’s not really an emergency stop is it? It’s just a stop. What he also failed to mention was the direct correlation between increasing speed and decreasing brake function i.e. when you needed the brakes most you didn’t fecking have any.

It was fine approaching junctions in town, three or four quick stabs at the brake pedal and hey presto you had a better than 50:50 chance of stopping. However on the open road to get anything out of the brakes would have required divine intervention. Given my well documented belief that all deities are fictional characters I was on my own (as we all are anyway, but hey lets not get into that old chestnut again)

As we lived on the outskirts of a village I’d managed to negotiate my way out on to the open road with minimal braking requirements. Bolstered by the fact that the radio and the windows seemed to work I was singing along to Bonnie Tyler who was holding out for a hero. Thirty seconds later I could have done with a lycra clad superhero of my very own.

Crossroads ahead, not the televisual variety with woollen hatted village idiot, no this was the road version with looming give way sign. I applied the brakes; nothing happened. Remembering my instructions I quickly pumped the brake pedal a few times and reapplied; again nothing happened. Actually that’s not 100% true, I did start to weep. The junction was approaching as speed, I wasn’t quite sure how I’d managed to coax 45mph out of my rusting Italian steed but this lowly pace seemed that it might be a terminal velocity in every sense of the word.

Reasoning that perhaps I hadn’t ‘primed’ my brakes enough I started stabbing feverishly at the brake pedal. Woodpeckers couldn’t have knocked out as many beats per minute, but still there was an absence of deceleration, if anything I seemed to be gaining speed. This was when I clocked the slight gradient I was heading down, not an encouraging development I think you would agree. Having totally fatigued my right leg I started jabbing with my left, again to no avail. Time to switch the waterworks to DEFCON 1 and prepare the cockpit for an emergency crash landing.

In theory you should be as ‘relaxed’ as possible at the point of impact, helps reduce severity of any potential injuries. So given the fact that both my legs were ramrod straight and jammed on the footbrake and my teeth were shattering as I gritted them tightly together I think it’s safe to assume I was going to be badly injured, if I survived at all. Ten metres to go and at least my sphincter relaxed, so there was the silver lining; it wasn’t going to be injured. Not that it had anything left to hold in by that point anyway, it was out of a job regardless.

I sailed across the junction narrowly missing an old biddy in a Morris Minor who seemed oblivious to the whole event. The world blissfully grey through her thick cataracts and milk bottle glasses. To say I was envious of her outlook would be an understatement. Several hundred yards down the road I was fortunate enough to coast to a stop in a handy hedge. Stumbling out of the vehicle, my bleached flat top now limp and unkempt, I took the opportunity to loose my lunch.

When I eventually returned home, a long journey when you don’t get out of first gear it has to be said, Mr Daley was less than sympathetic ‘what the f*ck have ye done to ma car’ he screamed as he examined the deep scars left on the paintwork from my altercation with the hedge. Ignoring his whining I tottered off inside, anxious for a restorative cuppa and a shower. I could hear him opening the front door ‘Aaw for fuuuuucksakes man it’s full of shi-‘

‘Dear fellow readers of lies’ HAH! This is just ONE of many true stories I could recount, but I’m saving the rest for the court case. I’m taking him to the cleaners, mental anguish and dry cleaning bills, I am going to be f*cking minted!

Ps feel free to come back to the ‘00’s now. Oh and many apologies for planting a Bonnie Tyler song in your heads ….. ‘He’s gotta be stong and he’s ‘ .. ‘la la la laaaa’