Hamish McShanks

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 9^th March 2008

One thing I forgot to mention last week when I was rambling on about March was the Scottish Motorcycle show. This annual gathering of the motorcycle ‘Clans’ takes place at The Royal Highland centre on the outskirts of Edinburgh. It’s the big manufacturers opportunity to showcase all their new bikes for 2008 and for hundreds of dodgy dealers to flog all their end of range 2007 leathers, helmets etc It’s a veritable gold mine of motorcycling paraphernalia and definitely not to be missed.

My elder brother was also keen to attend the show and as he was driving down from the frozen tundra of Aberdeenshire he said he’d swing in by Stirling to pick me up on his way to Edinburgh. What a generous soul I thought ….

Six am on Saturday morning and I was woken by a dreadful racket outside, it sounded like huge metal fingers were being slowly drawn down an enormous blackboard, with the occasional noisy explosion thrown in for good measure ‘Mssfggn What the fu..’ struggling out of my bed I peered blearily out the bedroom window ‘Aaaaw no no no NO!’ My brother was pulling up outside in the ‘crippleomatic’

I thought I’d seen the last of that piece of keech. The most uncomfortable driving position of any car I’ve ever owned. No matter how flexible and fit you are; after ten minutes sitting in this instrument of torture you come out looking like a misshapen medieval bell ringer. Your spine permanently deformed and your chin tucked into your chest ‘We’ve got lumpsh of it out de back! He he he’ dribble

‘Fecking marvellous’ stumbling down the stairs I let the beaming idiot into the house ‘What time do you call this?’, ‘aye sorry am so late’, ‘late, LATE! The fecking skylarks are still in bed’, ‘what? This is the middle of the day man’, ‘maybe in Peking or Timbuck fecking two, but I’m on Greenwich meantime ye fud!’ pointing him in the direction of the kettle and the toaster I went upstairs for a shower ‘six a-fecking-m, Jeeesus’ In his defence I had suggested we get there ‘early’ and I did forget that he gets up at quarter to fecking five every day to go to work. No he’s not a milkman or a baker, but perhaps he should be. I shall pick my words more carefully in future.

It’s also tradition to have bad weather for the bike show and this year was no exception. We headed out to the crippleomatic and I glanced upwards at the heavy rain laden black storm clouds. The wind was definitely picking up. A couple of pensioners blew down the road, their wooden sticks rattling out a xylophone S.O.S on the metal fence railings as they birrled past in a blur of Harris tweed ‘Jings it’s breezy kind’ I remarked ‘aye it’s definitely getting blowy’ replied my bruv as we walked past a pair of curly toed shoes protruding from under a wooden shed.

We were scarcely a mile out of Stirling when the heavens opened. The rain was drumming down so hard on the roof of the car we could barely hear the agonised screeching of the front wheel bearing. Any chances of conversation were gone ‘Fuuuu cking hell it’s wet’ I roared ‘what?’, ‘I said IT’S REALLY WET!!’, ‘about ten past seven I think’ came the bellowed reply. Shaking my head I inserted my foam earplugs and concentrated on resisting the constant spinal readjustments which were rendering the lower half of my body numb.

It took less than half an hour to sail through to the outskirts of Edinburgh. The rain had eased to merely torrential as we approached junction 1 on the M9. This is the slip road which takes you towards the showground. It was a slip road in more than one sense. ‘Schui’ approached the exit at his normal speed i.e. the cars terminal velocity.

Brake pedals on any vehicle my brother drives are normally pristine due to lack of use. He is however a capable driver and I wasn’t unduly concerned as we started to slide. Anxiety levels increased as the rear end of the car started to slither round to meet the front ‘eh shouldn’t that bit be behind us?’ I muttered as the back seat hoved into view ‘dinna fash ye big lassy’ A quick shimmy of the steering wheel and we were back on the straight and narrow. Albeit with a quick requirement to lower the front window and vent the stench of my very recent fear.

It wasn’t long before we were at the venue and parked up. I looked at my watch, half past seven, and the doors didn’t open till nine; marvellous. The rain was still thundering down as the car gradually steamed up ‘Murray mint?’ enquired my brother ‘I’ll gie ye fecking Murray mints’ I muttered angrily ‘I’ve already got some thanks’ If looks could kill he would have been vaporised there and then. The steady hammering of rain was beginning to get on my nerves.

I couldn’t help but notice he also appeared to be sitting quite comfortably while the muscles in my lower back had long since given up spasming in protest at the crippling posture. They were now lumps of granite. ‘Have you changed your seat?’, ‘oh aye the last one was murder’ I looked at him in disbelief ‘and you didn’t change mine!’, ‘yours not comfy then?’ I would have exploded in rage had the latest spinal seizure not rendered me literally speechless at that very moment. All sensation down the left side of my body was suddenly gone and I was dribbling like a stroke victim.

My brother sucked nosily on his Murray mint whilst tapping idly on the steering wheel ‘what about some music?’, ‘Think I’ve got a Leo Sayer album somewhere’, unable to talk I tried to blink a Morse code message along the lines of ‘get tae fuuuuck’ but he was already rummaging in the side pocket of the drivers door.

Nearly choking on my own drool I managed, with extreme effort, to get my right hand onto the door handle and pop the release. Falling gratefully out into a large puddle I sighed in relief. Even with the heavy rain drenching me to the bone and a brown torrent of excess rain water rushing up my trouser leg I was smiling broadly, glad to be free of that iron maiden seat and the high pitched warbling of Mr Sayer.

As sensation quickly, but painfully, returned to my upper limbs I appraised the situation ‘Ok Ham let’s see if you can crawl under that van over there’, strains of ‘You make me feel like dancing’ emanating from within the car spurred me on ‘One step at a time Ham’, ‘If Joe Simpson can climb down a fecking mountain with a broken leg, I can do this’ digging my teeth into the tarmac I pulled my limp body slowly towards the van

A voice behind me shouted with glee ‘Oh yes Thunder in my heart is on next!’; time to pick up the pace ….