Hamish McShanks

Hams Back (once more)

2009-02-02T10:43:00.000Z

Hey Hey Hey!

Hams not deid

Aye ok so I have reached new levels of poor service. I can make no apologies but in my defence I was sucked into a rent in space and time which took me to a foreign part of the galaxy and I had to construct a space vessel to take me home using only the contents of my pockets. I was hampered by lack of a viable form of interstellar propulsion and any discernible talent or ability.

On the plus side this was all a rather vivid dream and in fact I’ve just been a complete slack b@stard for the last four months (well when it comes to these scribblings) elsewhere I have been rather busy

Sorry

Hopefully the next one will be around before Halleys comet returns

Kind regards

Ham

The Certainty Principle

It’s the end of January and payday has finally arrived. The longest month of the year is nearly at an end and Ham is going out to celebrate. Christmas, Hogmanay and the credit crunch have left Hammy a wee bit on the short side and made this January as much fun as a baw kicking party; so he’s going to celebrate the first flush of pay and get well rubbered tonight. The weather has also taken a turn for the worse so our baldy hero is forgoing his normal healthy walk and is getting a bus into town ……

Peering out the window I see the rain is coming down in sheets; I check my watch. 15 minutes to get to the bus stop; it’s going to be a sprint in this weather. Several deep breaths to charge the lungs ‘Ok Ham, no probs, plenty of time’ one more quick gulp and I jump out the front door into a wall of water ‘bloodyhell’ I fumble to lock the door ‘for fuuucksakes’ I wail as the errant key tries to wriggle out of my already soaking hand ‘lock ya baaaastard lock’ with a dull thud I finally hear the chamber fall into place; and I’m off like a whippet (albeit quite a chunky slow whippet)

Long galloping strides carry me quickly through the many deep puddles and I make it to the bus stop in world record time, I curse my luck that Norris McWhirter isn’t here to validate my record; then remember he pegged it 5 years ago ‘Damm you Norris’ I mumble whilst surveying my sodden jeans and leaky shoes. I take solace it the fact I am now under cover.

However it didn’t take me long to twig that despite the cover the precipitation did not appear to have stopped? If anything it was even wetter inside. Call me picky but the words ‘Bus shelter’ surely imply some protection from the elements? I don’t think that’s an unreasonable expectation from something that boasts the word ‘shelter’ in its title. Unfortunately this particular refuge appeared to be a ‘rain collector’ the prevailing weather conditions rendering it an impromptu ‘whirlwind spa’

The bus company had also helpfully put the timetable outside the ‘shelter’ so I popped back out into the teeth of the hurricane to check when the next bus was actually due. Stirling doesn’t have any of these fancy electronic signs which tell you when the next bus is coming. Its old school paper timetables for us. Hanging onto the lamppost as my feet were blown horizontal I scanned the rain soaked sign ‘Oookay there’s one in 8 minutes’ I mumbled glancing at my watch ‘and another half an hour after that’ another 8 minutes of dampness was bearable; after all it would take four times longer to walk into town. I let go and was blown back into my icy spa.

Huddling in the corner of the leaky bivouac I noticed the sepia orange street lights starting to flicker ‘what the?‘ suddenly I was bathed in very strong bright lights. They cycled from yellow to red to white and then to green. I had to shield my eyes from their fierce glare. My first instinct of extra terrestrial invasion was ruled out by the absence of any little green aliens wanting to take me to their spaceship for rectal probing. This suggested there may be a more mundane and earthy explanation for these powerful lights. Gazing across the road I found the answer….

KEBAB, PIZZA, CHIPS and FREE HOME DELIVERY all shone out at me in varying colours of vivid neon. The entire front of the shop was taken up by this behemoth of a sign which the proprietor had just switched on.

How the council ever gave planning permission for this energy sapping Jurassic beast I’ll never know. ‘For pities sake’ Not only was I now cold and hungry but even when I closed my eyes I could still see the glowing words as they were now burnt indelibly onto my retina; I was cursed to think of kebabs and chips for all eternity. I pulled my donor card out of my wallet to score out the section for bequeathing eyes ‘No point in giving these to anyone now’ I mumbled.

It also dawned on me that the bus hadn’t yet arrived? It was now more than 5 minutes past the allotted arrival time and there was nary a vehicle to be seen of any kind. My celebratory beers seemed more distant than ever. Braving the pelting rain I checked the timetable again. Using the remaining unburnt retinal tissue between the E and B of kebab I noticed there was a number you could text which would tell me when the next bus was due. All I had to do was text my bus stops ‘unique’ 16 digit reference number and they would reply with the time the next bus would arrive.

You can imagine the feelings of joy and happiness when the reply I received stated ‘unknown location please check your reference’ Three more times I braved the elements to triple check the fecking number and IT WAS as printed on the timetable. Twice more I received a reply stating I was a f@nny and couldn’t input the number correctly. This may not be the actual text of the reply but it was what they were implying. The vein on my forehead was throbbing angrily now and tetchiness levels were reaching a critical threshold. This seemed a good point to call their helpline.

My good humour was further improved by having to press nine numbers to allegedly route me to the most inept, sorry appropriate operator at which point I was cut off anyway. Feelings of anger and resentment were not dissipating; I tried again.

‘Hello how can I help you sir?’, ‘Ah yes I wonder if you can tell me if you own any buses?’, ‘pardon?’, ‘Buses, do you have any?’ there was a pause on the other end of the line ‘I’m not sure I understand sir?’, ‘well the thing is I’ve been waiting at this bus stop, for an hour, in the clearly faint hope that a bus might arrive’, ‘yes I-‘, ‘your timetable clearly indicates that two buses should have arrived by now’, ‘yes sir but the timetable is just a guide’, ‘a guide’ I replied quietly ‘yes sir’, ‘so what your telling me is your buses are subject to the Heisenberg uncertainty principle’, ‘sorry sir?’ clearly my operator was not the recipient of a high school education. Sesame street was probably more his standard. I felt I should educate him.

‘The Heisenberg uncertainty principle states that the values of certain pairs of conjugate variables (position and momentum, for instance) cannot both be known with arbitrary precision’, ‘That is, the more precisely one variable is known, the less precisely the other is known’, ‘although this usually refers to quantum physics rather than public transport’, ‘but I don’t want to blind you with science so let’s put it in simpler terms’, ‘what I really mean is YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE YOUR FUUUUCKINGBUSES ARE DO YOU!!’

It was at this point I was drenched to the skin as two buses came thundering past at 60 miles an hour showering me with the contents of a large brown puddle. If my hand had been out to stop them I would have lost it. Sighing heavily I trudged wetly across the street ‘large donner please mate, sauce salad everything’ ….

Family

2008-11-30T23:16:00.000Z

Hey hey hey kids

It's nearly December. Not long till Sunty is climbing doon yer lum tae steal mince pies and drink yer sherry!

Here's something to take yout mind off this impending breach of household security

Kindest Regards

Ham

Family Fortunes

Regular readers will know that I have a twin brother; an ‘evil’ twin obviously. I also have an older brother who’s not quite so evil, lets’ just say he’s ‘twisted’. From those two pieces of information you should have been able to work out that we have a mother; no it’s not rocket science is it. Anyhoo dutiful son that I am I recently persuaded my siblings that we needed to pop round to the ancestral home and carry out some odd jobs for mother dear. This I did out of the goodness of my heart, the three and a half hour phone call from my mum nipping ma heid about the leaky tap the previous evening was neither here nor there.

The ‘Twinnys’ were to rendezvous and meet no 1 son up at the hoose. Being a former boy scout I thought we best ‘be prepared’ so I had a look at the weather forecast ‘Oh marvellous!’ there was a severe weather warning for the North East of Scotland. The met office advised of a ‘60% chance of moderate to severe wintry weather affecting the region in the next 24hrs’ Travel was to be avoided if at all possible.

When I mentioned this to my twin he intimated that I was ‘a big jessy’ and ‘to dry my blubbering eyes’ he further suggested that having taken a day off work were I to bail out of this journey that he would fashion mum some ear rings from components of my nether regions; I told you he was evil. Aborting the mission was clearly not an option so instead I vowed to be prepared for every eventuality ……

It was 5:30am as I drew up outside my brothers’ house that dark Friday morning; a light dusting of snow covered the car like automotive dandruff. I crept my way to his front door ‘Bing Bong’ ….. ‘Bing Bong’ ….. ‘Bing Bong Bing Bong Bing- WAAAAH! Bong’ Lights flickered on and the sound of a crying child pierced the crisp morning air. I could hear footsteps then a key being frantically turned before the door was flung open to reveal my twinny looking less than amused as he shivered in his tartan boxers ‘Morning Bruv I-ooomppfffff!’

When I came round the crying had ceased and my brother was now fully clad and clutching a steaming mug of tea in his hand. His expression was not dissimilar to that of a man who’d just stepped on a turd with bare feet ‘You’re not really my brother are you? The fecking fairies must have left you on the doorstep’, ‘what do you mean?’ I replied sullenly ‘I have a 9 month old bairn you simple fud!’, ‘aye so?’, ‘You rang the fecking doorbell at 5 in the morning!’, ‘I wasn’t ringing for him!’ I replied tetchily whilst examining my rapidly blackening eye in the kitchen window ‘Oh, of course, well I’ll let him know it wasn’t for him WHENHESTOPSFUUUUCKINGCRYING!!!’ ‘Oh aye right; sorry’ I mumbled whilst mopping the spittle from my face.

Having placated his child (and wife) we headed out to the car ‘So what’s mum wanting us to do this weekend then-‘ my brothers voice trailed off when he saw the car ‘Ham’, ‘yes?’, ‘why?‘, ‘Why what?’, ‘Why’ he replied with the voice of one speaking to a simple child ‘do you have a sledge on the roof of the car?’, ‘well I can explain-‘, ‘and skis?’, ‘and what appear to be animal hides?’, ‘just being prepared’ I replied cheerily ‘uhuu’ he mumbled ‘shame your not prepared for reality’

Which may be true but he certainly wasn’t prepared for the wet nose on the back of his neck as he sat down in the passenger seat ‘Jeeeeusfuuuuuuuck!!’ he screamed ‘oh don’t worry; that’s just Moose’ I grinned as the Alaskan Husky slobbered in his ear ‘he’s the lead dog’, ‘lead?’ replied my brother as he turned to see a plethora of hairy faces in the back seat ‘Who would have thought fourteen dogs could fit in the car’ he mumbled weakly. ‘Aye it surprised me too’ I replied as we rumbled off, the snow chains digging deep welts into his tarmac driveway.

‘So you still haven’t told me; what exactly are we doing at Moothas again?’ enquired my brother as he wound down the window, his face screwing up in disgust ‘Aye sorry about that I don’t think the Aldis dog food agrees with them’ I replied bashfully as a wave of canine flatulence washed over us ‘Leaky tap was her main complaint’ I continued, winding my own window down ‘Anything else?’, ‘Oh just a couple of odd jobs; rewire the house build a conservatory that sort of thing’

We’d barely driven out of his estate when the first flake of snow hit the windscreen. My hands gripped the steering wheel tightly ‘Oh sh*t!’, ‘What?’ replied my brother, ‘Blizzard!’ I squealed hysterically. He peered out the window and scanned the clear morning sky ‘what the feck are ye talking about it’s three flakes of snaw at most ye baldy eedjit!’, ‘I told you we should have postponed this trip’ I wailed ‘We better break out the emergency rations’ my brother looked at me incredulously ‘have you been eating soap again?’, ‘We could be marooned here for months’ I sobbed ‘I could walk home in 5 minutes ye f@nny’, ‘get a grip!’ he retorted sharply; slapping me on the back of the head for extra effect.

The blow to the head suppressed my hysteria and I managed to regain some composure ‘right, aye sorry aboot that Bruv, am just a bit jumpy’, ‘tell you what; I’m going to grab some shut eye seeing as a complete cretin forced me out of my bed this morning’, ‘do you think you could manage to hold it together for half an hour without adult supervision?’, ‘aye fine, no bother bruv you can count on me’, ‘aye I can count on ye tae be a complete fud’ he muttered whilst propping his head against the window ‘don’t wake me up unless it’s an emergency ok?’, ‘right ye are bruv’ ……

That’s a difficult one, when someone says an emergency you have to be sure the situation merits that status. I mean to you and me a broken nail is not particularly serious; but to some lassy on a night out it can constitute a major crisis. However after a few minutes mulling things over our current predicament I gently nudged my brother ‘Eeer Twinny can ye wake up please?’, ‘whasat? Mnggfff’ he lifted his head up and peered through bleary red eyes ‘for gods sake Ham am tired’ ‘DON’T MOVE!’ I screamed as the car rocked gently from front to back ‘what’s going on?’, ‘I’ve had a little bit of an accident….’ I replied whilst gesturing outside with my eyes

My brothers’ face quickly formed a rictus of terror as the mountain top opposite swayed in and out of view. Husky’s were piled on top of each other beside us and whimpering as pallets of pemmican emergency rations slid dangerously backwards ‘What have you done Ham?’ enquired my brother through gritted teeth ‘Eeer I took a bit of a short cut Bruv’ I replied as we swayed on the rocky precipice ‘I’m going to fecking kill you!’ he whispered ‘better make it quick then’ I retorted as another crate of dog food started slipping towards the rear of the vehicle.

It’s at time like this you can regret only taking out third party insurance ….

2008-11-23T22:47:00.001Z

Hey hey hey folks

Here's another piece of vented spleen. Yes it's late again, ok very late again. I posted it Royal Mail third class. It's a new category to help with the credit crunch......

Hope ye enjoy

Ham

Bawbags and Bandwagons

Are we becoming a more hysterical and shallow Nation I wonder? There have been a number of stories in the press recently which seem to have spiralled out of all proportion. Take the whole Russell Brand/Jonathan Ross fiasco. It went a bit radio rental didn’t it? Yes they shouldn’t have left obscene messages on Andrew Sachs answer phone and yes the producers probably deserved a kick up the backside for thinking that it was actually ok to broadcast such drivel (given they had two days to mull it over)

But hello people! Did the controller of Radio two really have to fall on her sword? Did it really merit Politicians getting involved? Questions in the House of Commons and calls for the death penalty to be reinstated? I think not.

The question we should really be asking is where did Andrew Sachs get an answer phone that could actually hold an hours worth of puerile schoolboy messages? My answer machine stores about three and a half seconds before truncating any future message into meaningless gobbledygook ‘Alright Ham I’ll see you at-‘, ‘Ham can you call me back on 014-‘, ‘Ham you’re a twa-‘ I just never seem to get the whole message? I’d like to know what make and model it is and where he bought it! Those are the answers the public deserves.

I actually felt a tad sorry for Messieurs Brand and Ross; even though I find Russell Brand about as funny as syphilis and I reckon Jonathon Ross is 15 years past his sell by date. But hey! We all like different things and anybody that can negotiate 18 million over three years is far from stupid. Well done ‘Wossi boy’ for convincing the muppets at the beeb 500 thousand a month was a reasonable salary for endless knob gags and childish innuendo.

Of course the Beeb have just saved one and a half million by taking him off the air for three months and another two hundred grand when Brand belatedly noted the sharks circling and did the decent thing. As for Joe Publics indignation; nobody gives a stuff about Andrew Sachs or his grand daughter. Most people don’t even know who they are! Andrew Sachs? ‘Manuel from Fawlty Towers!’, ‘I thought he was deid?’, ‘Georgina who?’ They don’t have any empathy for these people! They just heard what the entertainers were getting paid ‘Two undred graaaand faack a duck’, ’18 million!’, ‘That’s a faaacking disgrace!’, ‘What did they do again?’

Now that the furore over ‘Wossgate’ has subsided it’s time for Aunty to kick herself in the other cheek with Strictly gone bonkers! Yes it’s the most important news item of the decade. Forget the credit crunch and the fact the pound is now worth less than a Zimbabwean dollar. Never mind that first black President of the largest democracy in the world is assembling the key personnel in his administration that could change the face of the world forever (whether we like it or not) Don’t fash yourself about that, oh no, let’s get ourselves all steamed up because somebody that cant dance is no longer going to dance anymore!

John Sergeant is an ex political journalist, witty raconteur, all round good guy and probably the most affable and enjoyable company you could wish for; can’t dance for toffee though. ‘Sounds like a top bloke’ I hear you cry. Yeah he is, that’s why the public are voting for him; because they like him. This is where the program creators didn’t really think it through. If you want a pure dance competition then surely you get proper dancers to enter? But it’s not a dance competition is it? It’s ‘entertainment’ and therefore people are going to vote for the person that entertains them the most.

They want to see the bloke that has three left feet, they like to see somebody that’s every bit as keech as they would be, they enjoy rubber necking the car crash that is Mr Sergeants Cha-Cha-Cha. Why? Because it’s enter-fecking-taining! It takes their mind off the fact the bailiffs are knocking down the front door to repossess the very TV they are watching it on. Feckless footwork and error filled timing provides a welcome distraction from the pain of the knee capping your local loan shark is currently administering for default on an interest payment.

Furthermore; if you are going to suck people into the program by giving them a say in the eventual outcome then you can’t blub and spit the dummy when things don’t go the way you planned; that’s democracy. In fact politicians are clambering to get on now. I even heard a suggestion on the radio to expand the principal from the current format and have Gordon Brown and David Cameron in a dance off for the next election? That’s plainly ridiculous! Gordon Brown only has one eye and his lack of depth perception would leave him at a distinct disadvantage.

Anyway I’d have made it an ‘Ultimate fight’ to the death instead, and then you’d find who really wanted to be involved in politics. Big Gordys missing eye would make him look like a bad b@stard! Spotted red Tie secured round his forehead he’d lumber into the cage ‘R.r.right ya Ff.f.fancy dan f.f.fop, geddit up ye!’ Camerons Quiff and tailored suit not quite so intimidating, although he’d probably ‘get a man in’ to do the work anyway ‘I say Jeeves give that Scottish oik a dam good thrashing will you’ Jeeves being a 20 stone black dude with no neck and fists the size of watermelons ‘I’ll be downstairs pumping the scullery boy’

But we needn’t worry. The Beeb have concluded their extensive and expensive investigation into Wossgate and reiterated that it was a "deplorable intrusion with no editorial justification" and no further action is to be taken. That was definitely worth the time and money not to mention the Culture, Media and Sport Committee hearing held at the House of Commons. As long as we’ve kept the nations curtain twitchers, Tory MP’s and very vocal moral minority happy that’s the main thing.

But just in case your blood pressure has returned to normal apparently there was a guy called Johnny Rotten who said some sweary words on the telly a few years back, lots of sweary words actually! I know you didn’t see or hear that either and it was on the now defunct Thames television but don’t let that stop you feeling righteously indignant and getting on your high horse anyway.

I’m sure by this time next week you will be getting your knickers in a twist about some other non-event which you feel compelled to comment on while the world continues to plummet into financial meltdown and you stick your fingers in your collective ears about that one and go ‘la la la la la it’s not happening’, ‘la la la la la’

And next on the dance floor is the Honourable bawbag for Hartlepool …..

2008-11-09T23:36:00.001Z

There may be trouble ahead doo doo do dooo….

Dance, intransitive verb, 1. to move or seem to move up and down or about in a quick or lively manner 2. to engage or perform in a dance

Ok folks I want to do a quick straw poll; hands up if you like to dance? C’mon don’t be shy, get those hands raised. Right let me do a quick head count here, ladies first of course 1.2.3.4.5.6 mumble mumble…. I’ve run out of fingers but I think 27 girls like to dance out of ..123.4... mumble mumble … 27! Ok now for the boys …. Boys? …. C’mon gents I can see you; who likes dancing? …

I think we all know how many hands were raised, and the reason is actually more complex than you’d imagine. I’m going to let you Gals into some secrets about blokes that will blow you away! This is the sort of expose that could result in a couple of large gentlemen knocking on my door and cracking their knuckles in an unfriendly manner ‘your gender are not impressed Mr Shanks’ will be the last thing I ever hear before I’m dragged away to sleep with the fishes. However I think it needs saying so I’m going to say it ……

Firstly ladies you need to understand that guys can’t dance, not much of a revelation I agree but bear with me and I’ll explain why we can’t dance. It’s genetics you see. Many thousands of years ago man was a hunter gatherer and the ability to maintain perfectly motionless whilst carefully stalking prey animals was essential. Your average woolly mammoth could get quite tetchy, especially when you attempted to creep up on it and thrust a spear in its backside. So to avoid being trampled into chunky salsa ‘Man’ had to able to remain concealed.

Most prey animals were not only well armed with pointy horns and hooves like dinner plates but they had good eyesight, keen hearing and excellent olfactory skills. So this ability to remain still as a hunter was crucial. Swivelling your hips and mincing across the forest clearing to the rhythm of the universe didn’t just leave the dinner table bare but was a good way to meet your ancestors slightly earlier than you might have wanted. As such ‘Man’ developed a fierce rigidity in our movement, not dissimilar to the flexibility seen in a plank. It’s also the reason why boys smell; it’s to mask ourselves and prevent prey locating us.

Of course woman didn’t develop these traits because they would be left at home tending the cave; usually complaining about the state of the floor. Repeated furious sweeping actions lead to development of a rhythmic sway in the hips and an opposing swing of the arms. This combined with an absence of razor toothed carnivores and gigantic hooved herbivores trying to mash, spear and generally eviscerate them allowed time for singing and ’music’ to develop. In between bouts of obsessive cleanliness of course.

It is a wonder that men and women ever managed to procreate given that the man would come home covered in excrement dragging the corpse of some recently deceased creature in his hands, he’d be sweaty tired and hungry, looking to collapse on a comfy rock when instead he immediately gets his heid nipped for bringing ‘that dirty thing’ into the house ‘and you’re humming by the way’ these are not the gracious words of thanks he was expecting for putting a meal on the table.
Given that ‘woman’s’ over zealous cleanliness regime has allowed her to develop a sense of smell that could detect a gnats chuff at four hundred yards, the still warm and bloodied antelope cadaver cooling on her good kitchen floor was unlikely to pass unnoticed. Cue heid nipping and mans hand on spear for the first ‘domestic’ of the Stone Age.

But moving forward a few thousand years the real reason we don’t dance is because we’re actually intimidated. No not by you! Don’t be silly silly girls now (condescending enough?) It’s actually something you’ve probably never thought about. But when you are all dancing round your handbags a cold shiver runs down our spines. Because not only does that never leave home without item have significantly more co-ordination style and rhythm that your average bloke, it looks better!

And it doesn’t end there either. We can’t compete with your handbags on any level; we’re up against it from the start. Not only is the bag better at dancing but a handbag wont get p*ssed and start chatting up your friend with the big t*ts. It won’t spend the whole evening looking at other bags and dribbling when a black patent leather number with tight silver buckles wiggles its strap past your seat.

A handbag won’t stand you up in the pouring rain or forget your anniversary. It doesn’t fart nosily in bed then force your head under the duvet to ‘savour’ the aroma. Nor will your bag keep you awake all night because its snores are akin to a badly running tractor. To rub salt into the wounds a handbag is actually quite useful; you can store things in it that aren’t burgers and beer.

Many's the time in years gone by I’ve stood at the bar, imbibing courage with my fellow youth, whilst eying up the talent ‘hey Ham what aboot the one wi the shoulder pads?’, ‘naw I fancy the one wi the pink legwarmers’ (it was the eighties) ‘ach hud on though have ye seen her bag’, ‘aaaw naw man it’s fuuucking gorgeous man, OH! It’s got extra pockets on the side and an adjustable strap’, ‘fuuuckinggreat!’, ‘what aboot the minger with the tie-dye jute bag?’, ‘dinna be feel min she’s got a better tache than me!’, ‘beggers cant be choosers Ham’, ‘Oh aye like you’re beating them aff wi a sh*tty stick’

At which point a drunken fight with the fellow suitor would ensue and finish any chance you had with Miss Moustache and her hippy hold all anyway. Not that I need have worried as the doormen would be arriving by now to ‘escort’ us off the premises via the back door where we could receive a complimentary kicking free of charge. Ah the 1980’s what a f*cking dreadful decade. I blame that bleached flat top ‘Dolf Lundgren’ haircut for my baldy napper now. I remember asking the hair dresser at the time if it should be painful getting hair bleached?

So you see girls it’s not our fault, we’re ‘programmed’ this way. Thousands of years of evolution and your selfish addiction to bags are the root cause of our inability to dance. So you’ve nobody to blame but yourselv- ‘Heeey I’ve just thought, that John Sergeant gets top blonde totty on strictly come dancing?’ and he cant dance for toffee either? … Aaaah you know why don’t you …. Cos they don’t have bags!!

Anyway can’t stay to chat I have to get to my ballroom dancing cha-cha-cha ….

Another Brick in the Wall

2008-10-20T00:07:00.000+01:00

Hey hey hey Kids

Back from holiday and feeling refreshed, revived and re.... eeeer another word beginning with re

Here ye are - hope ye enjoy the ramblings

Kindest Regards

Ham

The Marathon

Loch Ness is a large freshwater Loch in the highlands of Scotland. By surface area it is the second largest in the country but by volume it’s by far and away the largest. In fact it contains more water than all the lakes of England and Wales combined; you’re dead impressed I can tell. But instead of trying to imagine how much water that actually is let’s just say it’s fecking deep and if you dropped your wallet I wouldn’t recommend diving in to recover it.

And not only because it’s 750ft deep as black as ink and as cold as ice but because it’s home to a MONSTER! (da da da da DAAA!) At least its home to a monster if you’re the kind of person who believes in Fairies, Hogwarts and thinks Merlin is the latest BBC fly on the wall documentary. If on the other hand you are sane; then it’s just a fecking big lump of water. Don’t swim in it cos you’ll die of exposure if you don’t cramp up and drown first of course. I’d suggest that if you want to find monsters then look under the bed with any luck an earwig might crawl in your empty skull and significantly increase your IQ.

It is amazing how one forged photograph from the 1930’s sparked such a craze. A grainy fake made by a p*ssed up London gynaecologist having a laugh on holiday and the area has been swamped ever since. Thousands of gullible tourists flock there year after year to gather at the tackiest visitor centre in the Northern hemisphere. Happy to be fleeced for over priced plastic tat made in China before being shoo’d out the door with their ‘Nessie net’ in the futile hope of sighting this mythical creature. It doesn’t exist you faaaaaaaaaaaanies!

However despite being a magnet for the worlds simplest people the Loch is also very picturesque and at over 23 miles long somebody thought it would make a nice backdrop for a foot race. Just add another three miles trotting round Inverness and hey presto you don’t just have a marathon; you have the ‘Loch Ness Marathon’ cue more Nessie tat and cach’iiiiing the cash registers are open again. This just goes to prove I am also rather simple because I entered the fecking thing!

Many thoughts were running through my head as I sat on the bus taking us out to the start of the race but the main one was ‘wish I’d gone for a p*ss’ before we left. It’s fairly unique getting a bus to the start but due to the rural nature of the route they have to do it this way. You just can’t have a 1000 cars pitching up in the @rse end of nowhere, it would be gridlock. So instead they bus you out (via London it seems)

As I crossed my legs and read the pre-race blurb there were some fairly dire warnings on public decency at the start. ‘Respect the local residents and use the portaloos provided’ it exclaimed in bold black lettering. Squirming in bladder filled discomfort I prayed we were close to our destination. I was on the 3rd bus of 30 so had high hopes of maintaining my decency …..

‘Pssssssst’ the pneumatic door on the bus slid open and I sprang out like a gazelle and smacked straight into the back of an orange clad runner ‘oomppff’ picking myself up and apologising profusely I glanced behind him ‘Aw for fuu-‘ the queue for the portaloo was already enormous. A quick guesstimate suggested there was a ratio of approximately one loo per 3000 participants. Given that practically everyone was in the same nervous state as me decency was going to have to take a back seat as I sprinted towards the nearest bush.

Fumbling with the cord on my shorts I looked down just in time to see a lady in a bright blue tracksuit squatted behind the bush, her face a rictus of horror as I guddled inside my scants. I was already on my heels before her high pitched squeal started. The next three shrubs were similarly occupied ‘Jesus chriiiiiiist!’ I sobbed as the pain became excruciating. I could wait no longer I just popped the wee fella out and let rip into a nearby drainage ditch ‘Ooooh yeeeeeeees’

The remainder of the day was always going to be a let down after the relief and satisfaction I experienced in those short few minutes of bladder emptying bliss. Even when a snooty woman without a bush to hide behind ‘tutted’ at me in disgust I simply smiled and told her I was going to turn round on the count of three unless she departed forthwith. The water level in the Loch increased by a few feet by the time I’d finished I’m sure.

Bouncing down to the start I was just in time for the ‘warm-up’ a group aerobic session organised by a girl from the local gym. Given there were 1500 of us crammed onto a single track road her standard routine of large sidesteps and elaborate twirls could have done with some modification. It accounted for at least 15% of the field before we’d crossed the start line. St Andrews ambulance personnel attending the wounded in the urine filled ditches as we galloped past.

I remember reading the course description when I received my race pack. It portrayed the route as ‘undulating’ but downhill. ‘The Marathon will start on the high ground between Fort Augustus and Foyers’ it said ‘and will drop down to the banks of Loch Ness at Foyers’ it continued. That’s good I thought, starting high and dropping to low ground; excellent. It even warned about excessive speed in the first half due to this drop in altitude. Woo Hoo! Should be quite a fast course then …..

Undulating (Verb used without object) 1. to move with a sinuous or wavelike motion; display a smooth rising-and-falling or side-to-side alternation of movement: i.e The flag undulates in the breeze.

Or my own preferred definition: Undulating (Adjective used with anger) 1. F*cking Hilly i.e The road undulates like a b@stard!

‘J.j.jj.esus ff.ffu.. h..h.ere comes another undule’ I wheezed to Karen as we braced ourselves for yet one more hill. This was my running partners’ second marathon, quite what had possessed her to enter a second was beyond me (and her at that moment) but I was certainly pleased to have the company. We were nine miles in and had climbed three Munros in the process. This was proving to be a tougher challenge than the Edinburgh marathon ‘Still g.g.glad you e.nn.tered’ I puffed as a mountain goat tumbled past towards a watery grave in the Loch ‘oh l.l.loving it!’ she replied sarcastically as one last painful bleat preceded a loud splash below.

Better take a ‘gel’ I thought as we passed the nine mile marker. It’s essential when you are running a marathon that you take in calories while you’re on the move. If you don’t you will ‘hit the wall’ a metaphor for completely depleting your glycogen reserves and running (quite literally) out of energy. This is on top of all the ‘carbing up’ you have to do the week before a race. I was planning to do this refuelling at 9, 14 and 18 miles.

There are various theories on what is best to take as fuelling on the move is a balancing act. Some people rely on energy drinks, others take energy gels, and some have dried fruit. What you have to be careful about is fluid balance. Too much and you need to go pee-pee all the time, too little and you will take fluids from the surrounding tissues which can lead to ‘digestive upset’ I’d plumped for an energy gel which I washed down with some energy drink. Double the energy I surmised …..

Thirty minutes and three hills later I was feeling a tad queasy. My lower intestine was rumbling as the gel also seemed be experiencing an ‘undulating’ transit ‘are you alright?’ enquired Karen as she noticed my pained expression ‘fine’ I mumbled quickly ‘If you want to pick up the pace I don’t mind-‘, ‘great idea’ I blurted out before sprinting off into the distance. The next toilet wasn’t for another three miles and I knew I wasn’t going to make it. It was time for a ‘Paula pitstop’ and I scanned the side of the road for suitable cover. A heaven sent tree caught my eye in the far distance ‘yes!’

I confidently predict that was the quickest mile of my life never mind the race. I definitely managed a personal best over the distance. My running style being not dissimilar to the famous Eric Liddell; head back mouth wide open and in my case buttocks firmly clenched! For the second time that day joy was soon unbounded. The tree sadly will never be the same again. I definitely wasn’t having anymore gels!

I rejoined the race and got myself into a decent groove, no idea now whether Karen was ahead or behind me now. Another half hour and the 16 mile marker was approaching. We had been warned about a steady climb from 16 to 18 miles; I feared the worst given they hadn’t felt it necessary to mention the preceding fifteen miles of hellish torment! Gritting my teeth I attacked the hill.

The hare and tortoise analogy seemed to be true. I was slowly working my way through the pack as faster runners ground to a halt on the hill. Maintaining a steady pace and a workmanlike grimace on my face I ploughed onwards until the last crest appeared along with the 18 mile marker. It was literally all downhill from here on in. Eight more miles and the torture would be over. I felt elated and proud, I was getting into a much better rhythm now, my stride lengthening and my pace quickening.

The 20 mile marker passed by and I was still feeling good! I was well into unknown territory but with only 10k to go I felt pretty confident ‘I can p*ss on 10k’ I thought as the sun broke through the clouds for the first time that day ‘woo hoo’ …

Fast forward three tenths of a mile and Ham is experiencing a major propulsion failure, despite gritting his teeth again it’s having no effect. Two more tenths and major warning messages are coming from his legs ‘The muscles just cannay take it Captain’, ‘wur running on empty here Sir’, fight it I scream in my head ‘ye cannay change the laws of physics!’ comes the reply in the voice of Lieutenant commander Montgomery Scott, USS Enterprise ‘Oh great now I’m f*cking hallucinating’ I mumble as my legs grind to a halt.
And that my friend is what it’s like hitting the wall! Nothing you can do about it, not a sodding thing. I sooooo nearly got to 21 miles but oh no I never even saw it coming. A head on smash with a brick wall and I’m now reduced to hobbling. All the niggles and pains come to haunt you now. You realise that you’ve been held together with sticky tape and bogeys for the last ten miles and now it’s all unravelling.

But there was no way I was not finishing; not now, not after getting this far. Pausing for a stretch and a quick blub I regrouped and pushed on. I was able to hobble at a slow jogging pace. Walking was actually more painful than jogging which didn’t bode well for the finish but right at that point my only focus was to get this awful experience finished as soon as possible. If I walked I’d only be out here longer.

I managed to get into a nice rhythmic hobble. Difficult to describe but imagine a man moving gingerly to protect painful piles whilst simultaneously walking over hot coals. Add in the occasional agonised staccato scream and I could have been mistaken for a Jazz singer ‘oooh aaah’ shuffle shuffle jump ‘yeah oooh aahhh’, shuffle jump shuffle

The 22 mile marker appeared just as I heard a familiar voice in my ear ‘I am never doing this again!’, ‘Ooh aaah me either’ shuffle jump ‘aaaaah’ Karen was limping heavily, ‘my calf keeps cramping uaaarghhh!’ this seemed as good a point as any for us both to walk/hobble. Comparing notes I established she’d managed to avoid the dreaded wall but was now suffering cramps. Sorry though I was to hear she was suffering I was mighty grateful to have company again.

The last four and a bit miles were the longest of our lives. It just seemed to go on for ever and EVER! We did manage to pass a pantomime horse that was in the process of being put down. A valuable lesson when choosing your fancy dress option; pick a protected species. In the last half mile we even overtook an old biddy that looked well into her 70’s. Up until then I hadn’t had a competitive thought in my mind; I was racing me and nobody else. I did feel slightly guilty about the elbow into her ribs but she wasn’t beating me!

The last 100metres were fantastic, we could see the line and hear the crowd going wild; well clapping politely whilst looking at their watches. You cross that line and it all seems worthwhile, you forget all the pain, all the hours pounding the roads in training. The endless pasta, the early mornings, the late nights. You hold that piece of metal in your hands, you look at it and you think ….. 26 miles for this piece of sh*t!

4hrs 38mins of my life that I’ll never forget. Would I do it again? …….

Yup!

Ps I didn’t really dig the pensioner in the ribs!

Pps I tripped her up

Ppps Of course I didn’t!!!

Pppps It was Karen

Ham Returns from the Dead!

2008-09-28T22:07:00.001+01:00

Ham Shanks Returns

A door clicks open and a man steps into an austere white room. It’s completely bare apart from a single iron bedstead in the corner. Weak summer sunshine is attempting to sneak in through a high barred window near the ceiling. Once inside it has a quick look around and scurries back out again. This is not a place for natural light or indeed anything natural. Footsteps carefully approach the bed. A sleeping figure is draped in crisp white bed sheets, crisp doesn’t quite do them justice; any stiffer and they would make good plasterboard. Three thick leather straps evenly spaced across the bed ensure that the incumbent doesn’t ‘fall’ out and hurt themselves.

A large hairy hand reaches out towards the prone figure. It’s covered with scar tissue and faded tattoos, the hand that is; not the figure. It’s not a pianist’s hand it’s safe to say, more the kind of hand that’s used to performing free dentistry and bone realignment should you accidentally knock the pint that’s clutched in it’s sausage like fingers. The kind of hand where the owner has significantly more fingers than brain cells, particularly distressing considering at least one and a half of said digits are now missing after last weeks minor ‘disagreement’ with mad Ronnie.

Still the ability to discuss the merits or otherwise of Descartes ‘meditation on first philosophy’ are not particularly relevant when your trying to restrain a crazy at the local nuthouse. I believe the correct job description is actually ‘medical orderly assisting in the restraint of combative patients’ Although quite how combative I was likely to be after 10 mg of morphine and an hour and a half of electrotherapy was a point for debate.

Not with big Dave obviously; dialogue was usually limited to him gasping for breath as his badly broken nose prevented adequate oxygen intake to fuel his pineapple sized biceps for the preferred number of blows required to ‘persuade’ me to behave. This inability to clear lactate generally spared me another dozen skelps so I refrained from suggesting a rhinoplasty operation by way of cure. Anyway my ‘half’ of the conversation was mainly restricted to whimpering or ‘back chat’ as Davey saw it.

Still I can’t complain I’ve more than had my moneys worth out of my national insurance stamps now. I would have preferred an intensive physiotherapy course for my dodgy back rather than being sectioned; but fate is a cruel mistress. Not that I’d ever slept with fate, or indeed cheated on her, but clearly I had angered some deity or other to end up in the soothing fists of the honey monster.

As he tightened the straps and checked my gag was still in place Davey gave me five or six quick punches in the happy sack before departing to spread more joy and happiness around the wards. Clearly my ‘bleeding’ on him earlier in the day had not been well received. Groaning and slipping from consciousness once more I tried to recall the sequence of events that had led me to be imprisoned in the house of fun (cue wavy special effects and that music you always get in old movies and cheap soap operas) ……..

It’s August 2008 and we’re in the midst of the hottest summer since records began, Gordon the Gopher is Prime Minister and petrol prices have been cut so far they are now paying you to take the stuff away …… no hold on that’s the morphine talking. It’s August 2008 and it’s wetter than Fern Brittons scants in a pie shop. The sun is missing, presumed dead. Heroine is cheaper than petrol and Gordon Brown is jumping on the Olympic bandwagon despite being as sporty as a can of spam.

Ham is sitting at home brooding. The European touch championships have been and gone but the pain of losing the final to our Welsh cousins (The fecking Taffs as they shall henceforth be known) has yet to subside. ‘Six, four’, ‘Six fecking four; the baaaastards’ he mumbles whilst hurling another dart at the picture of Tom Jones taped to the wall. It shudders and vibrates as it hits home ‘Absolutely faaaabluuuus right in his leathery Welsh gub!’ shouts our baldy hero …..

Devoid of further ammo I amble through to the kitchen to make a brew. Glancing out the window I can’t help but notice I’ve let the garden go whilst wallowing in self pity. The grass is at least head high and the top ten feet of hedge is losing its fight against gravity. Now leaning precariously over itself forming a gloomy green tunnel. On closer inspection it appears that an Impala is grazing inside; it’s being stalked by a lion? The herbivores survival strategy of standing motionless seems only marginally more effective than covering itself with best back bacon. As the lion pounces I mutter ‘I’m gonna have to phone those f*ckers at the safari park again’

But it wasn’t this impromptu wildlife show that tipped me over the edge; it was something far more mundane. Whilst double checking that the cat flap was closed I noticed there was a large blue plastic box on the back doorstep; it was filled with decaying vegetables. Not something generally perceived as the trigger for psychosis but for me it was a very red rag indeed.

Left cheek twitching and giggling to myself I quickly retrieved the box and headed out to my car ‘Morning Ham’ shouted my neighbour cheerily. I blanked him and continued my purposeful march to the vehicle. Placing the box on the passenger seat I fastened my seatbelt and started the motor. Mirror, signal, manoeuvre then full throttle and lots of black smoke.

With hindsight placing the object of my anger next to me wasn’t the brightest move in the world. The aroma of decomposing vegetable matter is not pleasant at the best of times; all the pungent odour did was stoke the fire of retribution within me. My nose wrinkled in disgust as I pressed on taking corners and junctions at faster and more dangerous speeds. Oil pressure and blood pressure rising in a dangerous synchrony.

Screeching to a halt outside the warehouse I grabbed the box and strode up to the front door; it was open so I entered. A middle aged gent in a boiler suit looked up from a piece of paper ‘Good afternoon sir, how can I help?’, ‘Help?’ I giggled ‘Help?’ my face turning puce ‘yes sir?’ he replied with a puzzled expression ‘Do you sell marrows?’, ‘yes sir we do’, ‘giant marrows’, ‘yes sir’, ‘Excellent! Could I have the largest marrow you stock please’, ‘eeer why?’ he replied nervously, sensing the danger in my voice ‘Why? Because I’m going to shove it up your f*cking @rse that’s why!’

A schoolboy error, I shouldn’t have mentioned what I really wanted it for until he’d got the beast. But I was so enraged at finding yet another unwanted box on my doorstep I couldn’t contain myself any longer. However we continued the discussion through the letterbox of his office door. Quite a turn of pace he’d shown for an older gent and he’d managed to duck out of my strangling hands and hole up inside before you could say ‘yerfuuckinggdeidpal’. The office was a basic wooden clad rectangle in the corner of the warehouse complete with a door and a window, not Fort Knox, and certainly not beyond the capabilities of my Swiss army knife.

‘I’ve called the Police you know’ he wailed over the sound of my rhythmic sawing ‘yes well I called you five times to tell you to stop delivering vegetables and you didn’t listen to me did you’, ‘it was a mistake Mr Shanks, a genuine mistake!’, ‘you said that the first time’, ‘it’s our computer system’ he whimpered as I posted another rotten carrot through the letterbox ‘you said that the second time’ I replied calmly ‘I’ll give you a refund!’, ‘bit difficult that seeing as I never paid in the first place’ my first cut was high enough now and I started on the lateral incision ‘anything I’ll do anything!’ he screamed over the sound of my cheery whistling.

‘No I think you’ll only learn when you’ve had a vegetable delivered somewhere you didn’t want either’ He glanced out at the large fat marrow I’d propped against the door ‘Nooooo sweetjeeesus noooooo!’, ‘shhh shhh shhh it’ll all be over soon’ I whispered softly whilst commencing the final downward cut. He was weeping uncontrollably now.

‘This is the Police!’ came a staccato metallic shout from outside ‘Come out with your hands up’ The weeping stopped and a relieved voice shouted ‘Hear that Mr Shanks it’s all over; ha ha you’ll get yours now you f*cking psycho’, ‘I don’t think so’ I replied calmly ‘They wont rush in; they never do’, ‘Only another couple of inches to cut and I’ll be able to complete my delivery anyway’ the sobbing recommenced ‘will you be wanting a receipt?’ with that there was a sharp splitting noise and the wooden panel tumbled slowly to the floor ‘tiiiiiimber’ I chuckled gleefully before picking up the marrow and stepping inside.

He was backed against the wall, hands clasped together in prayer ‘pp.p.p.lease’ he whimpered ‘Now just relax and it wont hurt as much’ I was interuppted by a fast whistling sound and then sharp pain ‘ooyaafuuuckr’ I reached up and pulled a metal object from my neck, it had a bushy scarlet tail and a sharp metal point, the room started spinning and the marrow fell from my limp hands ‘whattheooommmTHUMP!’ Turns out not only were the Police less patient than I thought but the Safari Park was doing a two for one on tranquilisers. One escaped Lion and one deranged psycho on the same day.

That was twelve weeks ago and I’d been on free board and beatings ever since. But today was a special day; today was parole day. A second figure entered the room, a kindly looking gent with greying temples and gold rimmed glasses ‘alright Ham?’, ‘Yes Doctor’, ‘do you know what’s happening today?’, ‘I get to go home’ I whispered hopefully ‘that’s riiight and what are you not going to do anymore’, ‘try and shove vegetables into people’ I mumbled sheepishly ‘excellent, and?’, ‘keep taking my pills’, ‘good boy’

The good thing about crisp white sheets is you can’t see shapes underneath. Crossed fingers are all but invisible…….. Aubergine anyone? …….

Ham Lives!

2008-07-02T21:37:00.001+01:00

A crack of thunder echos across the night as sheet lightning illuminates a dank filthy room. A man is hunched over a laptop, his finger trembling over the 'enter' key. It's been so long since he started, he cant even remember how long. Where has he been? What was he doing?

Does anyone care?

Nae luck cos he clicked enter and as a result you are now the 'happy' recipient of the latest Ham Shanks diary. With the emphasis very much on 'Late'

So to answer your questions

A) I am not deid (sorry)
B) No I have not fallen off the edge of the world
C) The world doesnt have edges; it's spherical

Try some word association instead. I'll throw in a few to get you started .... 'Bail', 'Punching', 'Judge', 'Without', 'Weeks', 'Seven', 'Or' and 'Parole'

Anyhoo I hope ye enjoy this twice as much as I enjoyed writing it. No in fact make that four times as much, no no, hold on let's say eight times .. in fact why dont .......

Bins and Skins 29^th June 2008

You will be familiar with the phrase ‘Clutching at Straws’ it is believed to refer to the last desperate act of a drowning man; grasping a handful of straw even though he knows it can do no good. It can’t possibly save his life; he’s toast and he knows it. And for a bit of a history lesson (cos I know you like that sort of thing) the origin has been traced back to 'Dialogue of Comfort Against Tribulation' (1534) by Thomas More (1478-1535) yes that was rather dull wasn’t it.

Ok so it originated in 15 oatcake but it’s a phrase that’s now in modern use and has come to represent all futile efforts that are doomed to fail. So what’s the reason for bringing up this rather uninteresting fact? I was recently accused of being that drowning man (cue shocked expression and dramatic music ‘da da da da daaaaaaaa’)

You can have your face ‘stand easy’ now. To explain: I have only just returned to exercise after 4 months out with injury. A nasty bout of sciatic back pain that left me feeling jaded, bitter and angry with the world in general. So basically the same as normal; but with a sair back.

When I did eventually return to exercising I was desperate to make up for lost time and also avoid recurrence of this debilitating injury. Extensive research indicated that magic beans and stardust are not just in limited supply; but they don’t exist at all. Disappointed at a lack of available magical help I plumped for some body-moulded compression performance equipment instead ….. or ‘painty on tights’ if you prefer. Figure hugging does not do them justice. See any straws yet?

The picture on the outside of the box holding these miracle garments depicts some finely honed athlete posing in a relaxed fashion. Relaxed despite being photographed in skin tight under garments; a wife beater sleeveless top and full length tights to be exact. When you’re endowed with rippling muscles and a winning smile it’s probably easy to look relaxed and comfortable poncing about in yer scants.

However for me it wasn’t quite as relaxing. After taking three quarters of an hour to wedge myself into the exact same outfit I looked in the mirror and my heart sank; my stomach would have followed suit but it was hamstrung in bright lycra.

‘What the fu-?’ Surely this must be a trick mirror; I must have stumbled into a circus tent to change. Nobody can have love handles that big! And let’s not even talk about cellulite. I thought that was an urban myth generated by womans magazines to sell overpriced beauty products to bored middle aged women. I didn’t just have the orange peel effect; I had the net bag to match. It would appear that my body-moulded garment had moulded me into Pavarotti.

Luckily my real skin is also rather thick. I really don’t give a monkeys what people think about me. After all this wasn’t a fashion item; this was sports equipment. This garment had a purpose….. for £100 I had to believe that. So I chose not to believe the mirror (or my eyes) Instead I looked at the picture on the box as if it were a small compact ‘looking goooood Ham’ I purred whilst angling the box for a better view.

Fast forward two days and its Perth Volleyball tournament. This was to be the debut of my new moulded body. I’d missed the traditional Friday night ‘warm up’ which precedes the tournament. An evening of debauchery that punishes the liver like it’s a ginger step-child and destroys brain cells for casual enjoyment. If you can snatch three hours of sleep over the whole weekend you’ve done pretty well. The entire messy affair is based at an impromptu campsite on Perth’s North Inch, which is basically a field; classy stuff I’m sure you’ll agree.

The new-fangled moulded me was safely concealed under trackies as I waded through the empty beer cans into the team campsite. ‘Alright Bruv, how’s it going?’ I enquired as my elder brother poked his bleary eyed face out of the tent ‘am I dead?’, ‘fraid not’ I replied sympathetically ‘b*gger, this must be Perth then’ nodding kindly I walked on towards the centre of the bombsite, pausing briefly to pull a prone figure out of a bin ‘Alright Kenny, how’s it going?’, ‘fnn.fnn.bastruuurrrrghhhhhhh’

He didn’t seem in a chatty mood so I left him to regurgitate in peace.

The tannoy was attempting to cajole the happy campers out of their sleeping bags and onto the lush grass courts. Play was to start in five minutes according to the pleading staccato voice. Our team was being called to court 24. A quick glance round showed little signs of life and/or movement. We were looking at an opening forfeit; a bad start to our title hopes and I was keen to enjoy all the biomechanical benefits of my restrictive undergarments.

Strong leadership was needed to get things moving. Placing my foot on an empty keg I took a deep breath ….. after several minutes of dramatic and powerful oratory a chorus of heavy snoring suggested my ‘I have a dream’ speech was falling on deaf ears. I shook my head in dismay. Strong words were all very well but a change of strategy was obviously required. A glint in the grass caught my eye and I smiled a wicked smile….

‘Oyaah’, ‘OWW’, ‘ayaah’, ‘fnnuurggh’ , ‘Go on gedoutofit ye lazy feeckers! Gawon get on that court!’ The sharp tent peg is mightier than the pen or the sword I find and within thirty seconds we were all on court. Time to reveal the new me, the man in tights, the man for the moment ….

Laughter would have been better than the stunned silence. Kenny took one look and lost his breakfast, lunch and dinner (again) A woman spectator screamed and ushered her small child quickly away. The referees jaw was nestling on the grass and the rest of my team mates looked at me in disgust ‘eeer they’re compression tights’ I pleaded ‘bio-compr.r.r.e.s..s..ion’ I trailed off lamely as they just shook their heads ‘I’ll get me coat’ I mumbled as the slow handclap started

Bending over to pick up my tracksuit there was a large ripping noise. The pressure had finally been too much and my left cheek popped out for wee bit sunshine. The remaining spectator fainted and Kenny lost his dessert in the bin. This was not turning out to be a red letter day. On the plus side my back was absolutely fine even after the 10k cross country steeplechase run I had evading the pursuing mob and that’s got to be down to the tights you’d think? Wouldn’t you? ….. straw anyone?

Ham Shanks Holiday

2008-05-19T07:49:00.000+01:00

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 18^th May 2008

Summer is here and my holidays are fast approaching. This year I’m going on a motorcycle tour round Scotland with my elder brother. Not the whole of Scotland you understand, mainly Caithness and Sutherland and maybes doon the West coast to Oban. A poor mans ‘Long Way Round’ if you like. ‘The Short way roond’ in fact; an abbreviated trip without the support crew, cameras and indeed any external interest. Despite the lack of documentary team and film star participants my bruv was determined to do the whole trip ‘properly’…..

Picture the scene : It’s 6 am in my brothers house; I have been shouted out of bed, shouted down the stairs and I am now sitting bleary eyed at the kitchen table whilst my brother loads a carousel on the overhead projector. Having successfully armed the beast he turns to face his audience (me) ‘So Ham, what’s the most important aspect about our holiday?’, ‘Eeeer to enjoy ourselves?’ I ventured gingerly ‘Wrong!’, ‘It’s the three P’s’ he replied, beaming a manic smile in my direction ‘The three P’s’ I mumbled weakly ‘Planning, Preparation and Performance’ he barked at me, a light spittle settling on my face ‘eeer that’s three P’s and an A surely?’, ‘the and is merely for grammatical correctness ye f@nny!’, ‘oh aye; right’ I replied as the first of many slides flashed up on the screen.

Fast forward four hours and I’m losing the will to live. I’ve seen slides of our route from every conceivable direction, slides depicting the workings of the internal combustion engine, slides illustrating the formation of the many geographical strata we will encounter, satellite images of the terrain and I’ve been forced to memorise the historical meteorological information for Caithness coast from 1945 to present day. ‘Can we take a break please?’, ‘look we’re never going to get through it all if you keep taking breaks’ he replied impatiently ‘I’m going to sh*t myself’ I replied bluntly. Sighing he pointed his swagger stick at the door ‘You’ve got 2 minutes; get out of my sight’

Waddling towards the door I mumbled ‘oh thanks very much, very big of you; ye f*cking prick’ he raised his head from reloading the projector ‘What did you say!’, ‘I said thanks very much, I’ll be double quick’ I replied before slamming the door and giving him the vees from the safety of it’s cover. I probably would have spent more time gesturing from behind the door but I was very nearly touching cloth as it was.

It’s a sad situation when you’d prefer to sit on the cludge with yer eyes watering and yer nose wrinkling like a shrivelled prune than go back and speak to yer own kith and kin. I needn’t have worried though, my two minutes quickly passed and a terse rap at the door was followed by an envelope being thrust under the gap at the bottom ‘here’s some forms for the uurgghh next gnnfmmm sess..jeeesus .. ion’ I did derive some small satisfaction from the sound of his gagging as he legged it back to the kitchen and fresher air.

Opening the envelope I found a questionnaire titled ‘Personal Profiling for Expedition managers’ Thirty two pages long, 250 questions ‘forfuuuucksake!’ This was a Forth Road and Rail bridge too far; I realised I had to escape. There was no prospect of evading capture should I leave the normal way, he had the exits covered. However the toilet does have a small window situated high up behind the ‘user’ But when I say high; I mean ten feet up. It can’t be reached even if yer standing on the cludge.

The prospect of another four hours was motivation enough though. I’d seen this trick in the movies. The room was narrow enough for me to put my feet on one wall and then wedge my back against the oppostite wall. With a bit of effort I should be able to crab my way up to the window. I elected to leave the toilet unflushed as a) flushing it would draw attention and he would wonder where I was and b) it provided an effective nasal deterrent.

The mission impossible music playing in my head I started to ascend ‘da da da da dadaaaa dadaaaa da da da’ I’m sure Tom Cruise wasn’t sweating as much when he did this and I doubt he was suppressing a gag reflex either. It’s not only heat that rises, stench appears to follow a similar path ‘gnnnmmpff n.n.earl.y. th..e.re’ I grunted as my muscles started to protest, but not as much as my nose ‘jeeeeesus am never eating broccoli again’ I was closing in on the window when my left leg started cramping up ‘Ooooyaaaf.f..cker’ fortunately the sudden spasm propelled me the last few inches to the sill and I gratefully pushed open the window and sucked in huge volumes of fresh air ‘Oooooh that’s good’

The respite was brief as a suspicious shout came from outside the room ‘What’s taking so long?’, ‘eeer I’ve had a prolapse’ I shouted back whilst trying to wedge myself through the narrow aperture ‘That’s it I’m coming in!’ I could hear the swagger stick thumping on the door followed by the sound of splintering of wood. I slipped quickly out the window and landed on the roof of the garage. I had to think fast; time was of the essence.

My car keys had been removed along with my belt and shoelaces prior to the start of the presentation but I had a backup plan. My brother kept an old landrover in the garage, the keys were always inside the exhaust pipe. A foolish policy that he was about to regret. Shinning down the drainpipe I crept inside the side door of the garage. Retrieving the keys I quietly opened the drivers’ door and slipped into the seat ‘ha ha I’m home free now’ I whispered as the engine burst into life.

Grinding her into first gear I floored the throttle and let out the clutch. The ancient timbers of the garage door were no match for two and half tons of British engineering ‘Yeee Haaaa’ The boy blunder heard the commotion and came sprinting out the back door ‘Too late ye officious bawbag ha ha haooomppfff’ a little less gloating and slightly more attention on my driving would have helped. Brick walls provide more than adequate resistance and the last thing I saw before I passed out was a swagger stick heading towards my nose.

‘Whassat?Mmnnff?’, ‘Ah you’re back with us; excellent’ I realised I couldn’t move, I was tied to a kitchen chair, my hands had been bound behind my back and my eyelids were being held open with gaffer tape, a second strip was across my mouth ‘I’ve had to take steps to ensure your attention Ham’ the projector screen was in front of me ‘Now if you remember we were covering communication’, ‘here’s some slides depicting the wiring of a radio set’, ‘what’s wrong Ham you look tense?’, ‘mmngnffmastard’, ‘what about some nice relaxing music’ he hit the play button …

‘You make me feel like dancing; gonna Dance the night away’, ‘You make me feel like dancing’, ‘I’ll just leave that on a loop for you Ham; I should be back in an hour or two, three at most .. mhuhaha ha haaa’, ‘NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!’

Ham Shanks Diary - The Trial

2008-05-05T22:21:00.000+01:00

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 4^th May 2008

You may remember that I mentioned receiving a jury citation last week. Well I wasn’t fibbing (for once) and this week I have been privileged to be part of the finest justice system in the world; the Scottish Justice System (cue fanfare and wild round of applause) Of course were we American a round of applause would not be enough, we’d also be clutching our chest and tears would be rolling down our bulging ruddy red cheeks. Not out of misplaced pride in our country and a missionary zeal to convert the globe to the American way. But because that’s what a high fat diet and no exercise does; it gives you heart attacks.

Here in Scotland we too are proud of our country, we also have a high fat diet, and take little exercise. However we shrug heart attacks of as ‘a wee bit nippy’ and choke down another deep fried mars bar as the ambulance carts our fat backside off to A&E ‘Gonnay stop at the offie big man, ah need some buckie tae wash doon ma pie’ Makes ye proud. Nobody kicks Scotland’s @rse at heart disease; not even the mighty yanks.

But I digress. I was talking about our judicial system, of which I learnt a lot this week. For instance did you know that there are 15 jurors in Scottish criminal trials? No me either. Did you also know that the decision doesn’t have to be unanimous? Oh no, in fact in Scotland all it needs is a simple majority to get ye banged up. So if it’s seven votes for ‘hang him and flog him’ and seven for ‘let him go, he’s misunderstood; hug a tree’ and you are the last person mulling the evidence over in your mind, it’s basically going to be down to your opinion! How fecking scary is that.

However it’s a far cry from being a ‘potential’ juror to actually making the cut and sitting in judgement. It’s also a very slow process. A very very slow process. I should have guessed when I saw the number of people with books and the one old biddy knitting a scarf. A lot of jury service is sitting around waiting.

It’s a distinctly odd process the actual ‘empanelling’ of a jury. The potential jurors are all herded upstairs into the main courtroom; the first major shock comes very quickly thereafter. Jurors are pointed to one side of the public gallery; a large area of seating not dissimilar to a lecture hall. Rows of wooden bench seats ascend from the grandeur of the courtroom floor up towards the much gloomier recesses at the back of the room. However unlike a lecture hall where it’s free places throughout and first come first served. The seating here is most definitely split into two halves. Home and away sections would be a suitable analogy.

Because the first shock is watching the accused and their ‘supporters’ being directed to the other side of the gallery from where you are now ensconced. Yes that’s right, all of us together in the same room; predator and prey looking at each other. You couldn’t make this up. The sea of Burberry check and the occasional tarnished glint of 3 carat bling does allow the casual observer to work out which side is which but it does seem somewhat archaic.

The accused is eventually called up to the dock by the clerk of the court. Chants of ‘here we go’, ‘here we go’, ‘here we go’ are quickly silenced by the burly policeman at the door. Two feet of polished riot baton being slapped gently into an open palm can have that effect. ‘All rise’ cries the clerk of the court, time for everyone to get to their feet, the Sheriff is in town ….

I was expecting a dour faced Scot with a white horse hair wig, black robe, a trio of legal texts tucked under one arm and perhaps a pair of gold rimmed spectacles. The archetypal man who has made it to the top of his profession through an awful lot of hard work, prayer to his god, extreme diligence, forgoing a social life of any sort; and of course kissing the right cheeks (the trousered variety)

What I wasn’t prepared for was the jangle of spurs and the wide brimmed ten gallon hat. Not to say that the leather chaps and tasselled shirt were high on my list of expected attire either. The Sheriff moseyed on down to his seat on the bench and once his cowboy boots were resting easy on the table ‘Y’all be seated’ was uttered in a slow Southern drawl, albeit the drawl was from the Southside of Glasgow rather than the plains of southern Texas.

Eyes out on stalks and jaw hanging slackly open I was frozen in disbelief. Thankfully my legs were working on autopilot and they slowly lowered me back down to my seat before I drew attention to myself. Nobody else appeared perturbed at this Johnny Cash tribute act. The clerk of the court calmly carried on as if nothing untoward had happened whilst the Sheriff palmed another lump of chewing tobacco in his mouth.

‘How do ye plead boy?’ asked the Sheriff. A voice from beneath the hood started to mutter ‘Eeer Naw guilty yer hon-BANG! Aaargghhh’ the youth slumped to the floor, his left hand clutching his chest ‘oooyaahfu.c.c.ker..’ The Sheriff nonchalantly blew the smoke from the barrel of his gun. Other than the court stenographer struggling to transcribe the youths last words nobody batted an eyelid at this court sponsored slaying ‘Now I’ll ask you again boy’, ‘how do you plead?’

Suddenly a voice broke the silence ‘you’re a bloody idiot m’lud’ was bellowed across the courtroom ‘you can’t shoot first and ask questions later!’, ‘are you fuuucking MENTAL?’ with mounting horror I realised the voice was mine. My brain was shouting ‘be quiet ye eedjit!’ inside my head. But I paid no heed. Just in case Deputy Dawg wasn’t sure who dared speak I now appeared to be standing; to make a clearer target for him presumably ‘you made a big mistake there boy’, ‘Ach away and lie in yer ain pish ye faaaanny’ I blurted in reply

My brain was now screaming ‘what are you doing? shutupshutupshutup!’ I clamped my hands over my mouth but it was too late. He levelled his six shooter at my head and his finger started to squeeze the trigger ……‘IT WASN’T ME NOOOO!’

My head snapped back and I could feel wetness spreading down my shirt. This was odd, dead people shouldn’t notice these things? I opened my eyes, again good work for a corpse. Everybody was looking at me? With a mixture of relief and horror I realised the front of my shirt was covered in drool not blood. The bench in front was empty; it had all been a terrible dream. Sheepishly I dabbed at my shirt whilst the clerk of the court shouted ‘All rise’ ……

….. Is that the sound of spurs jangling?

Ham Shanks Secret Diary - The Letter

2008-05-05T22:20:00.000+01:00

Ham Shanks Secret Diary we 27^th April 2008

Fimbriate adj (also Fimbriated) 1.Bot & Zool. Fringed or bordered with hairs etc. Great word that isn’t it. Not only would it win you maximum points on countdown and a wee wink from Susie in dictionary corner it is also a pretty accurate description of the contact lens after I carelessly dropped it on the floor the other morning. I had to fumble about blindly and fish it out from under the sink. It certainly nipped a bit when I inserted the afore mentioned optical aid into the correct eye. Naturally if I’d noticed its fimbriated nature then I would have cleaned it first; but of course I didn’t have my lens in so couldn’t see. It was a lose-lose situation.

But let’s cut to the chase, I’m not here to talk about the hirsute nature of my contact lenses, oh no, I’m here to talk about something far more sinister, something so dreadful and heinous that words can scarcely convey the true magnitude of it’s ghastly nature; I’m here to talk about filing! Daah daah daa daaa DAAAH! (that was sinister music reaching a crescendo by the way)

I sense by the stony silence and the sneering nature of your upper lip that you’re less than impressed by my ground shaking revelation? Well that’s fine but don’t come crying to me when you can’t find your bank statement from August 1973! Ok so I may have over played it but I did have a particular reason to rue my lack of home filing.

I recently received a Jury Citation in the post and after cursing my luck in a loud, blasphemous and particularly sweary fashion that I had been chosen to pass judgement on the guilt or otherwise of some Burberry clad Ned I filed the letter away somewhere safe; I would be required to produce the citation when I attended court.

Fast forward four weeks and the time to retrieve said letter has arrived. Luckily I’d put a reminder in my calendar to prompt me to look out the letter from it’s secure storage place and phone the ‘Jury Helpline’ as mentioned in the citation; but I would of course need the actual correspondence.

Historically my approach to filing letters has been to have a quick glance at the front to see if it’s got big red writing on it, and if not, shove it on top of the coffee table until I’ve got time to open them later. Once the coffee table is at a state of near collapse I am forced to ferry them upstairs into the spare room and stack them in piles, not organised piles of course; that would be too sensible. I’m very much an ‘out of sight, out of mind’ kind of fella. This works well right up until the point I need to find something.

Having spent an hour sifting through the contents on the coffee table it became apparent that a) the letter wasn’t there and b) dairy products don’t fare well when left at ambient room temperatures for several weeks. I couldn’t be sure but I think my half eaten Muller fruit corner had evolved into a sentient life form. Possibly photosensitive as it appeared to shun the light. I gave it a good thrashing with a rolled up newspaper until it stopped moving anyway; better safe than sorry.

No sign of the errant letter meant a trip to the upstairs ‘archives’ was going to be necessary. Sighing wearily I got tooled up for the job ‘Headlamp – check’, ‘ropes – check’, ‘respirator – check’, ‘Packed lunch – check’ I was ready to tackle the North face of the wardrobe. Popping a Murray mint I gingerly opened the door to the spare room and peered inside.

I could hear a gentle rustle of paper as the opening of the door let a light draught enter the gloomy interior. My jaw dropped open as I surveyed the scene; possibly referring to this as the ‘spare’ room was no longer appropriate. Sheer cliffs of brown and white paper towered above me as far as I could see. The floor, what little was left was buried under drifts of bank statements and junk mail. I could barely squeeze inside ‘Hmmm a birrova tidy might be in order’ I mumbled weakly as the scale of the task dawned on me.

At least I knew the document had arrived in a brown envelope so I focused on the darker strata and fished out my starter for ten ‘okay what do we have here?’ it had already been opened which was encouraging ‘congratulations you are in with a chance of winning two hundred Guineas in the Readers Digest prize draw!’ checking the post date it would seem I was thirty years late with my reply. Not an encouraging start. A quick inspection determined that the lower layers of correspondence had matured into a form of peat so it was logical to assume my letter was somewhere near the top of the pile.

Hauling myself gradually up the sheer North face I made good progress for the first hour. After traversing a particularly tricky cornice of tax disc reminders I bivvied down amongst the ‘consolidate your debt’ flyers and made myself a brew. A quick date check revealed I was in the 1990’s now; not far to the summit. Steeling myself for the final push I hammered in another piton; my last as it turned out.

The piton struck a fault line in the face, I’ll never know what for sure, I think it was a polythene magazine wrapper. It doesn’t really matter, the result was an avalanche and I was caught right in the middle ‘wooannngffmppffff’ nothing was stopping me now as I tumbled down the mountain engulfed in a river of letters ‘ooh aah’, ‘oooya fuuuckr’, ‘oww paper cut! ow oww’ ignoring my wounds I swam for the top with all my strength, it was my only chance. My face burst through the surface and I sucked in lungfuls of dusty air ‘ooohthankfuuuck’ I was on top but still travelling at great speed.

Snatching on to a large cardboard package I jumped on board ‘Wooaahshiiiiit’ I’ve never surfed before but I was now learning fast. Fast being the operative word as my velocity also seemed to increase dramatically. Worse still I was running out of mountain and there was no gentle nursery slope to coast into. My flowing tears only lubricated the descent and I briefly reached my terminal velocity; ‘Ooommpfffff!’

All was still, after the roar of collapsing paper an eerie silence now filled the room. Only the sobbing of a small child could be heard; unfortunately that was me ‘Uhuuu huuu I’ve got a pp.p.paper c.cut … uhuu huu’ Pulling my head out of the oak bookcase that had been my crumple zone I wiped the tears from my eyes ‘ffckin jury bastar-‘ I stopped abruptly. There, right on front of me, placed carefully between two books so it would be safe was the citation

Feelings of goodwill? Naaaaaw; somebody is going down today!

Nuclear Biological and Chemical

2008-04-13T21:26:00.000+01:00

Hey Hey Folks

Another diary on time, wonders will never start!

well I hope ye enjoy thi- .... what do you mean missing a week? I think you must be mistaken ..... nooooo? .... the last thing I remember is going for a shower and ....

ok ok ok!! So I missed a week. I'm sorry OK! I've not been well/My internet was down/I tell lies* (*delete as appropriate)

Look ye knew it wouldnt last so just dry yer eyes and think yourself lucky that you dont pay for this drivel

Kindest Regards

Ham

ps we value your custom

pps no really we do

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 13^th April 2008

Some of you may recall that I have recently become an uncle. My evil twin has spawned forth and added another hungry mouth to the Clan Shanks. I say hungry mouth not because he’s been born into terrible hardship or a life of poverty; oh no I say this simply because the boy seems to be a remorseless eating machine.

I made the foolish mistake of offering to baby-sit ‘anytime they needed a break’. It’s the sort of glib thing you say to new parents in the confident knowledge that they are unlikely to trust their first born child to a big baldy eedjit with no parenting experience and they know you are really only saying it because it’s the done thing. At least I thought that’s what the deal was. You can imagine my surprise when the phone rang the other day.

Briiing Briiing! ‘Hello Shanks residence’, ‘cut it oot Ham, I know ye don’t have a butler’ bringing my voice down from the austere introduction I grudgingly mumbled ‘awright bruv how’s it gawn?’, ‘great; I need a babysitter’ thump! ……. ‘hello?’ …… ‘hello?’, ‘aye sorry I was just …. Examining the floor’, ‘aye well stop messing aboot and get yersel up the road’, ‘what now!’, ‘aye ye said ye wernay doing anything tonight’, ‘ah well now, the thing is’, ‘you promised anytime’, ‘yes about that i-‘, ‘come in number five yer time is up; am calling in the favour’, ‘right right, fine, I’ll be there in half an hour’

I slammed down the receiver and bolted up the stairs. My emergency bag was in it’s usual place ‘ok, money, passport, address of a plastic surgeon; let’s go!’ bounding down the stairs two at a time I wrenched the front door open ‘going somewhere’ enquired my twin brother, mobile phone still in his hand ‘I, I, I’, ‘we thought it would be easier if we just brought Robbie round here’, ‘oh great’ I mumbled weakly as he pushed past carrying four large holdalls. Shirley followed immediately after with another three huge bags and the all important baby.

I will admit I softened markedly as the wee lad was plonked in my lap. He was smiling and gurgling softly as the parents emptied the contents of the bags around me. ‘Jings he smiles a lot now doesn’t he’ I remarked as Ma & Pa hurriedly emptied the contents of their car into my front room ‘oh aye’ mumbled Fraz as he lugged in another crate ‘aaaw look he’s smiling at me’ all my reservations went out the window as the wee lad beamed and drooled at his uncle Ham.

I’d fed the wee mite before so was up on meal preparation; a quick lesson in nappy changing was most enlightening. I didn’t know you could get nappies for 39 year olds but it certainly helped me understand the process. ‘You’ve got my mobile number if there’s any problems’ said Fraz as he headed towards the door ‘and we’ll be back by 10:00am tomorrow’ shouted Shirley as they sprinted out the door ‘TOMORROW!’, ‘WAAIT’ distant squealing of tyres signalled their departure.

I looked down at the wee boy in my arms ‘awooga ga ga goo’, ‘aye yer nae wrong Robbie; they are a pair oh b@stards’

At least they had left everything I might need. The cot was set up; I could hardly get to the kitchen for packets of nappies. This was rather worrying; how many nappies could he need in 18 hours? I popped him in the ‘neglectomatic’ this is a wee rocking chair that has a built in electric motor. After all it’s so tiresome having to actually lift your foot up and down, up and down, up and down….. Anyhoo it kept him quiet while I stashed the cartons of milk powder and set up the steriliser.

This was still quite a lengthy task as I felt compelled to dash back to the neglectomatic every thirty seconds to make sure he was ok. Robbie probably thought this was a great game of peekaboo as my increasingly red and sweaty napper repeatedly hoved into view between stowing all his various paraphernalia.

Twenty minutes later I slumped into my lazy boy recliner ‘thank goodness for tha-’, ‘WAAAH!!’, ‘holy fuuuuuck’, ‘Waaah, waaaah, WAAAAAAHH!!!’, ‘okay Robbie, dinna fash loon’, ‘yer dinners coming shhh shhh shhh’ my soothing words had little effect as Krakatoa erupted in my living room. Thankfully Ma & Pa had left me one bottle to be getting on with and now I was glad I hadn’t drunk it myself.

‘Okay boy get this down ye’, WAAA-gluggluglug’ peace was restored and my pulse rate slowed to a gentle 200 bpm. ‘Help ma bob Robbie ye’ve got a fair set of lungs on ye laddy’ Glancing down I noticed the bottle was draining alarmingly fast. Lifting him up to check for leaks all appeared ok. It was apparent he was merely a quick feeder ‘jings Robbie you’re a hungry bo-‘, ‘WAAAAAH!!!’

There was still milk in the bottle but he wasnay happy. ‘WAAAAH!’, ‘right ok, waaah, disnay mean anything to me, what’s wrong?’, WAAAAAH!’, ‘shouting is not going to help Robbie, enunciate …. Frantically I picked up the flowchart I had prepared earlier ‘In the event of crying after feeding the baby probably has wind’. The diagram indicated that placing the bairn over yer shoulder and patting its back was the preferred solution.

What the diagram failed to show was the subsequent projectile vomiting and the now milky white cat sprinting out of the living room. On the plus side the boy blunder had settled down into a dairy induced soporific state and I could briefly relax ‘Bloody hell’ I mumbled as I slumped back into my chair; It wasn’t for long though.

‘What the-‘ within thirty seconds my eyes were streaming and the wallpaper had started peeling. An acrid noxious smell filled the room. I flicked on the telly but there were no warnings of biological or chemical attack. With mounting horror I realised the smell was emanating from my nephew ‘aaaw no no no no that cant be right’, unwrapping said boys undergarments revealed horrors that are too terrible to describe with the written word. Suffice to say I’ll never eat English mustard again.

No sooner had I changed the offending wrapper and he was greeting for mair milk ‘Aw c’mon ye canna possibly be-‘ ‘WAAAAAAH!’, ‘ok ok ok am getting it, am getting it’ and so it went on …. and on …… and on …… and on …. Groundhog day?

Fast forward 16 hours ‘Hello? …. Were back’, ‘did you get on ok?’ Red eyed and with bags under my eyes like Droopys I grabbed my brothers’ hand and started kissing it ‘oh you’re here! Thankyouthankyouthankyou, sweet jeeesus thank you!’

Amazing the things you’ll put up with for a wee smile …..

New X-Man?

2008-03-30T20:02:00.000+01:00

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 30^th March 2008

Some of my more avid readers (thanks Mum) will be aware I’ve been having back problems of late. I’m actually almost healed now so you can imagine my joy and delight when a letter finally popped through the door last week asking me to attend an MRI scan at the hospital. For those of you not familiar with such a thing; MRI stands for Magnetic Resonance Imaging and it uses a powerful magnetic field to align the magnetization of hydrogen atoms in your body and visualise the structure and function. Or a magic window if you prefer.

The theory being that the medics will be able to locate the source of my back pain and sort me. Unconvinced of my own ‘evil dwarf living in the spine’ theory they are suggesting it’s more likely to be a disc problem? Pah, what do they know? The only way to prove my theory correct was to take the test. Obviously I checked with my Chiropractor first, I wouldn’t want these National Health witch doctors getting their hands on me before I consulted a professional.

After receiving the all clear I made my way to the hospital and arrived, as requested, 15 minutes ahead of my appointment, ‘Good afternoon Sir, how can I help?’, ‘I’m here for my scan’ I replied with some disdain ‘Name?’, ‘Shanks (pause) Ham Shanks (slight raise of eyebrow)’, ‘Very good Mr Shanks have a seat and fill out this form’ Distraught that my 007 gag had fallen so monumentally flat I slunk along to the nearest chair and tried to hide my glowing cheeks behind the piece of paper that had been thrust into my hand.

After regaining some composure I studied the form ‘Do you have any metal implants?’ was the first question, wrinkling my brow I had a quick squeeze of my pectorals. They seemed quite blubbery and unmetallic ‘that’ll be a no then’, ‘Q2. Have you a pacemaker?’ I always run alone so that was definitely another no. Six ‘No’s’ later I handed back the form and within five minutes a nurse was calling me in. I had to concede the process was very slick.

‘Right Mr Shanks if you’d like to get changed into this gown please’ she ushered me into a cubicle and handed over what seemed to be a thin piece of rice paper ‘eer’, ‘don’t worry about the ties’, ‘right right’ I unfolded the garment and it consisted of a paper ‘pinny’ with some extra ties around the back and sides. The ties I had been informed to forget?

Donning the item of clothing I couldn’t help but feel quite vulnerable. If I’d actually been standing totally in the nip I think I’d have felt more secure. There was a quick tap on the door ‘ready Mr Shanks?’, ‘Aye am ready’ I mumbled whilst opening the door. Shrieks and screams I have come to recognise as a bad sign and I returned to the room as quickly as I’d emerged. A few shocked seconds later there was another tap on the door ‘two things Mr Shanks, first your gown is on back to front and secondly you are supposed to keep your underwear on!’

A few minutes later I emerged looking very sheepish ‘m’sorry bout that’ I mumbled as they prodded me with long sticks and corralled me into the MRI room. The rest of the instructions were now via a loudspeaker on the wall ‘Please lie flat on the bed and put on the earphones Mr Shanks’ doing as I was told I lay down on the gurney and placed the DJ style earphones on my head. A muffled voice continued ‘The bed will automatically move into the MRI chamber. This was the bit I really wasn’t looking forward to as I am somewhat claustrophobic.

After some brief shuddering there was an oily squelching sound as the ‘bed’ started to slide inside the MRI chamber; a large white archway containing unknown blackness and all the evils of the world as far as I was concerned. ‘Be brave Ham’ I whispered as the great white beast swallowed me whole; my eyes now firmly shut.

A crackly voice came through on the earphones ‘Ok Mr Shanks the first scan will take approximately 10 minutes, please remain perfectly still’ like I was going to move a fecking muscle! ‘you wont feel a thing’ continued the disembodied voice ‘but it will be rather noisy’ All good salient information you’ll agree. And definitely facts I would like to have been privy to prior to crawling down the gullet of this electronic monster.

True to her word it was noisy; it sounded like a 1970’s twin tub washing machine perpetually trying to get up enough steam to actually spin. That was ok; it was the accompanying sensations that were unsettling. When she said ‘you won’t feel a thing’ she must have been referring to pain. It wasn’t sore but it did make all the hairs on the back of my neck raise up. I say back of the neck merely for illustrative purposes. The beast was scanning my lower body so it was actually the hairs on my sack that were standing on end. A unique and novel experience hopefully not to be repeated.

Unfortunately this procedure was repeated three more times and I was getting the distinct impression there could be lasting damage to my joy division. I was about to press the supplied panic button when the crackly voice returned ‘Alright Mr Shanks that’s you finished’ more oily squelches and a feeling of openness made me open my eyes again. Sweet sweet freedom. The voice crackled once more ‘please remove the earphones and make your way back to the changing area’

Sighing with relief I removed the earphones and stood up ‘what the fu-‘ my paper gown appeared to be levitating around my nether regions. A quick glance underneath revealed a perfect ‘Afro’ hairstyle around my plums ‘aaaaw no, ye’ve got to be kidding!’ Hunching over I waddled back towards the changing rooms. ‘This cannay be happening’ I wailed. But my troubles were only just starting.

As soon as I stepped out the door there was a whooshing sound and a metal bedpan came flying through the air and smacked into my groin ‘Ooommpff’ my eyes crossed painfully and I slumped on to the floor ‘Ooh fckinhell’ I tugged at the container but it just would not budge. A scratching noise caught my attention and I raised my head just in time to see the receptionist scrabbling in vain at her desk as an invisible power drew her metal chair towards me, both our eyes were out on stalks as she finally lost her flimsy grip ‘mummy’ I whimpered

The last thing I remember as the receptionist and her metal steed thumped into my ethnically styled groin were shouts of ‘Sweet jeeeeesus we’ve got a live one’ and lots of red flashing lights

Magneto meets Shaft – You decide on the film title ……

Easter

2008-03-24T21:31:00.001Z

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 23^rd March 2008

Easter; a time to reflect on the true meaning of life. After all this is the time that Jesus returned from the dead. Stumbling out from the cave shouting ‘oh very funny boys, first ye nail me to a cross, then ye trap me in a pothole’, ‘Yer a shower of b*stards that’s what ye are’, ‘Am off home to see my Dad, he’ll sort ye oot ye f*ckers!’

So an important date for the Christian faith but also an important time for hefty discounts at most DIY stores. Apparently it’s the busiest DIY weekend of the year. It would have been churlish to buck the trend…..

However I was going to be flying solo this weekend having burnt all my bridges with my elder brother. He was at a concert in Germany anyway, apparently Leo is still big in Deutschland ‘Ya ya Leo vee feel like dancing jawohl’ you can just imagine the scenes of straining lederhosen and tapping jackboots. Plus whatever the Germans were wearing of course.

I wasn’t concerned at his absence though, it was only a bit of sanding, how hard can that be? Well pretty hard without a sander so first thing to do was go shopping and save my 15% (we’ll gloss over the fact I’m spending 85%) It turns out there are a plethora of wood devouring machines to choose from. You can get orbital sanders, belt sanders, palm sanders, detail sanders, ½ sheet, ¹/₃ sheet and full sheet sanders.

It was at this point I was regretting alienating my bruv. Say what you like about his music tastes but he knows his DIY. I was so far out of my depth the bubbles hadn’t even reached the surface yet. ‘Okay Ham just take your time and read the boxes’ this didn’t help much as each one claimed to be all things to all men ‘suitable for small and large areas?’ I picked up another ‘the T742 orbital sander can tackle all situations’ another ‘Palm Sander for every DIY task’. Taking a deep breath I closed my eyes and resorted to fate ‘eeny meeny miney mo’

Returning home with my 8 megawatt twin turbo Belt sander I set about unpacking the crate and laying out the various components. The instruction manual came in four volumes. Two hours later I was on the last section ‘Okay so the sanding tracks attach to the rear drive sprocket and are fed over the forward return rollers?’ heaving a sanding belt over my shoulder I shimmied underneath the rear of the sander. Manual dexterity and I are not good friends. Only patience is a more distant relative. But without my bruv I was on my own ‘ggnnffmmm’, ‘gnnnfffAAAH!’, ‘Ha Ha!’

Clambering out from underneath the behemoth I raised my hands aloft ‘she lives!’, ‘mhuahahaha’, ‘MHUHAHAHAHA’ this insane cackling did little to impress my neighbour who was walking past the front window as I pranced round the living room with my shirt pulled over my head. But I’ve zero kudos with either set of neighbours after last years barbeque ‘incident’ ….

A quick check of the fluid levels and she was ready to go. I had to admit a diesel powered sander had seemed odd, but at least this way there would be no cable to restrict movement. Having a seat was also going to make life far more comfortable. Mounting the beast I made a quick lifesaver glance over each shoulder and bellowed ‘CLEAR!’ before punching the large red starter with my index finger.

The plan had been to skim a couple of millimetres off the top of all the floorboards to remove old paint and any surface imperfections, followed by a second sanding with a much finer paper to give a lovely smooth surface ready for varnishing.

Four seconds in and the plan was a bogey. I’d already sliced through the floorboards as if they weren’t there and was now burrowing through the bottom of the cellar ‘Ooooaaargggh f’cin hell’ hanging on for grim life my tracked mole dug ever deeper as I yanked at the stop lever in vain. It would seem the molten core of the Earth was my next destination. It would have been nice to see a mannequin in a window changing styles with the ages as I descended even deeper but instead I had to settle for eating an awful lot of mud.

As quickly as it had started there was a large bang and I shuddered to a stop. There was a feeling of openness that was at odds with my current predicament. Opening my eyes did not improve the situation any ‘Hello’, ‘gmmmfnn’, ‘Yes people tend not to be very chatty at first’, my eyes were popping out on stalks and my mouth hung slackly open ‘mmmbbmm’, ‘Welcome to Hell’ smiled Beelzebub as he helped me dismount.

‘But but but’, ‘Oh you don’t believe in God do you?’, ‘well no’, ‘ah well then you’re in the right place, thought we had another admin error there’ he smiled, nudging me in the ribs ‘but I don’t believe in you either!’, ‘Cant help you there I’m afraid; I do exist’, ‘so I’m dead then?’, ‘Fraid so; bummer eh’, ‘hold on a minute how did I die?’ Lucifer sighed and looked down at his clipboard ‘name?’, ‘Shanks, Ham Shanks’ he flicked over a few pages, his forehead wrinkling with puzzlement. He went to consult his desk calendar ‘that’s strange, you’re not due for another 40 years?’, ‘Woo Hoo!’

‘Ah now don’t get too excited, there’s not really an exit here’, ‘what!’, ‘well we don’t usually send people back’ he grinned ‘lets just say you got time on for bad behaviour’ My bottom lip was well and truly quivering, tears welled up in my eyes ‘So what horrors do you have in store for me’ I bubbled ‘what fiendish terrors am I to be subjected to for the rest of time you hideous ba*stard!’ ‘now now there’s no need to be rude’, ‘it’s not my fault your godless is it?’, ‘you had ample opportunity to pick one, God knows there’s hundreds of the feckers’, ‘b.b.bu.b.b. uhuuu huuu huuuu’, ‘think about me, I’m all on my own here and the place is filling up!’, ‘uhuuu huuu HUUUUU’

‘Anyway here’s your room, if you need anything at all don’t hesitate to call’ I perked up at this and sensing my hope he continued ‘nobody will answer obviously, but do try anyway, we like to laugh’ with a cheery smile he nudged me through an open door….

Eyes firmly closed and hands over my face I braced myself for the worst. The sound of a microphone being tapped broke the silence and I peered through my fingers. A forest of curly hair filled the room ‘Oh no, no no no’, ‘folks were here for eternity with one track only’, ‘ok guys let’s take it from the top .. 1..2..3.4 You make me feel like dancing, dancing the night away, oooh aaahh, baby baby dance the night away’, ‘uhuuu huuu huuu huuuuuuu’

And that’s what you think has happened when you apply three coats of varnish in a room that’s not properly ventilated …..

Feedback

2008-03-16T22:32:00.000Z

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 16^th March 2008

I’ve been doing a spot of D.I.Y this week, ‘that’s not like you Ham’ I hear you mumble, and you’re right. I certainly know my limits. When it comes to any task which requires patience, diligence and manual dexterity; I have none of these attributes and as such I tend to save up my pennies and get ‘a man in’. Unfortunately I’ve had a couple of bad experiences in the past. For example the man who replaced my broken chimney after some storm damage managed to put the wrong type on for a chimney with a gas fire. Were it not for the carbon monoxide alarm in my living room I would now be pushing up the daisies.

Two valuable lessons came out of that experience; a) if you have gas appliances in your house then please make sure you have working carbon monoxide alarms. Carbon monoxide is completely odourless and undetectable and will kill you stone dead. You’ll drift off into a nice never ending sleep from which even the bravest Prince Charming won’t be able to resuscitate you. And b) don’t get dodgy Irish geezers with less teeth that brain cells to do any domestic repairs on your house.

Apologies to any Irish readers, I don’t want to stereotype a nation but this man was one of your countrymen. I blame myself really, when the tweed cap appears to be more coherent than the owner underneath then you really should be asking yourself if he’s the right man for the job. Either ask the cap to fix your chimney or fish out the yellow pages and get someone in possession of a cerebrum to do the work. In hindsight the insistence on payment in cash and the speed at which he disappeared over the horizon after the ‘work’ had been done should have rung some alarm bells.

However you live and learn. As a result I thought I might attempt to do some domestic improvements myself. Nothing too ambitious, I thought I would start by lifting the carpet in the living room and refurbishing the wooden floor underneath. After all I am fortunate enough to live in a house old enough to actually have floorboards and I think they add character to a room. The fact that the cream carpet which had been in the house since I moved in now looked like a skinned Dalmatian with mange and you could grow tatties on it probably encouraged me to get cracking.

Now as an aside here, hands up how many of you think off-white is a sensible colour for a carpet in the main living area? The only route between the front door and the back door. The first thing you step on when you enter from the great outdoors. Hmmm? Anyone? Anyone at all? …. No exactly!

I didn’t really think about it when I was viewing the house as the bulk of the floor was covered with a nice rug. But by the end of the first week I was cursing the previous owners like there was no tomorrow. I was inventing swearwords as I scrubbed forlornly at yet another embedded stain. They must have covered the thing with a sheet of polythene between viewings; the b@stards! But that’s all water under the bridge now and as long as I keep more than 500 metres from them at all times I don’t have to go back to see the nice Doctor with the white huggy jacket for me.

So the first task was obviously to lift the hated carpet. As the vile object was going into the bin anyway I needn’t worry about getting it up in one piece. It also meant I didn’t have to remove the furniture from the room. I could just cut around the fixtures then move it all about to pick up the remaining pieces of carpet. Like one of these puzzles where you shuffle shapes about till you get the ‘space’ in the right place!

I was quite looking forward to this job, armed as I was, with a sharp Stanley knife and a stout pair of textile scissors. However I’ve never forgotten what my primary school teacher Mrs Donnelly told me all those years ago; a) don’t run with scissors and b) always get a grown up to help you. As a result I was perfectly stationary and had recruited the help of my elder brother for this task. A seasoned veteran of home refurbishment; just the man for the job.

Apparently the first thing we had to do was have a planning meeting? My brother brought the room to order with a rap of his tape measure on the mantelpiece ‘Right Ham if you can take the minutes’, ‘the what?’, ‘the minutes’, looking at my watch I whispered ‘you cant take minutes Neilly’, ‘they are an abstraction, a temporal measurement at best, you cant actually takoooowww!’, ‘just write down what I’m saying!’ he barked, whilst rubbing some life back into the palm of his hand.

‘Why?’ I replied sullenly, gingerly feeling my reddening cheek ‘so we have a record of these events’, ‘why?’, ‘so that we are not in any doubt as to what was decided and what happened’, ‘Well that’s easy; nothing seems to be happening just nowwwwww!’ I was in a real quandary. Clearly I was still holding the scissors and therefore beholding to the promise I made back in 1974. On the other hand I felt a growing compunction to kick my brother in the happy sack. But a promise is a promise so I remained still.

Talking to a space just above my left ear he continued ‘Neil Dicks sends his apologies for not being able to attend this afternoons carpet lifting’, ‘I thought you said he was p*shed last night?’, ‘just write it down’ he hissed, pointing a finger at the notepad ‘right right’ I mumbled whilst scribbling furiously, ‘Dicksy cannay make it cos he’s hung-over; got it’, ‘No no NO! write down exactly what I say’, ‘including that?’, ‘what?’, ‘the bit you just said about writing down exactly whaoooowww!’

Half an hour later and things were not going well. We’d barely read through the agenda and I was reeling under the blows. The scissors still clutched tightly in my hand, my arm raised aloft as if holding an Olympic torch ‘musnt drop scissooooww!’

I couldn’t help but sense some latent aggression from my brother. Normally he’s quite laid back but something had clearly got under his skin, it wasn’t just my inability to document a meeting ‘I’ve changed my mind about the floorooomppff!’, ‘s’ok, really Neilly, I like the carpegnnfmmpff!’ dropping on to my knees. He loomed over my prone body ‘Oh aye and the last person that can’t make it’ SLAP! ‘is Leo’ SLAP! ‘fecking’ SLAP! ‘Sayer’ SLAAAAAP!!

So outing your brother in a previous diary as a closet Leo Sayer fan would appear to be a dangerous strategy. Don’t fight it Neilly, the first step in your rehabilitation is to admit that you’ve got a problem. Well clearly that’s the second step. The first would appear to be ‘beat seven colours of keech out of your younger brother’ But I think we both know who the real loser is there ……. Ah …. It’s me isn’t it?

Doei

Murray Mint?

2008-03-09T22:38:00.001Z

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 ….

Magic Mushroom anyone?

2008-03-02T22:42:00.001Z

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 2^nd March 2008

March already. Where has the year gone? This time last week it was February for goodness sake. Although I have to say I am enjoying the longer days and the glimpses of daylight before and after work. Nothing more depressing than getting up in the dark, going to work all day, and its dark when ye get home at night again.

Mind you if you actually think about it there are hundreds of things that are more depressing. The work bit in between springs instantly to mind. As does say opening your credit card statement to find out that the magic pixies haven’t miraculously paid off that whopping big bill you racked up over the festivities. Although relying on mythical creatures famed for stealing money is probably a foolhardy form of insurance when it comes to debt repayment.

But I digress. March is here; cue hares going mad. It’s thought that the male Hare goes a bit mental because the breeding season starts in March. All those frustrated amorous leporids jumping about because they think they are finally going to get their end away after long winter months nibbling tree bark. You cant blame them, not a lot else to think about when you’re a hare ‘Ok I’ve got some lovely tree bark for dinner so that’s nutrition taken care of’, ‘No sign of any predators trying to eviscerate me so I’m safe’, ‘OK! When I’m going to get laid?’ ……..

Do you think the lady hares are quite as excited turning over the calendar to reveal the third month of the year. Initial elation uncovering Chip & Dale as ‘Squirrels of the Month’ is quickly dispelled ‘Ooooh I could do that Dale’, ‘Och b*gger Mavis; it’s March already’, ‘Aw yer joking Agnes, that’s us knackered then’, ‘aye won’t be able to get the shopping done’, ‘we wont be able to get the kids to school’, ‘wont be able to do anything for those bloody men’, ‘thoughtless pricks!’, ‘In every way Mavis, in every way’ ….

You see people used to think that when they saw two Hares ‘boxing’ out in a field that this was basically two males sparring over the right to service the ladies. When in actual fact it turns out these sparring matches are often between male and female hares. The latest studies suggesting that ‘it is usually a female hitting a male, either to show that she is not yet quite ready to mate or as a test of his determination’

‘Want a bit?’, ‘Do ye? Do ye?’, ‘Getoutoffit ye filthybaaastart’, ‘Cmon am gagging for it’, ‘aye well yer no getting it’, ‘Aaw go on, I’ve got some lovely bark here’, ‘can a girl no walk across a field withoot being pestered!’, ‘it’s really nice bark?’, ‘I don’t want yer fecking bark’, ‘what about a sh*g thenooompppfffff!’ pan right to amateur naturalist talking to his friend ‘that’s the males fighting for supremacy’, ‘really? That ones just kicked the other one in the nuts?’

I guess that’s why Hartley the Hare had to resort to a career in TV. He always struck me as a little bit effeminate, can’t imagine he got much action. One slap from a lady hare and he’d have been picking his teeth out of the grass. In fact there were some unsubstantiated rumours that he was having an affair with Topov and that’s why the whole Pipkins series was axed in the early 80’s. (for those of you under 35 you’ve probably not a clue what I’m talking about. For those over that age – you should be able to handle the truth now)

Having destroyed the last vestiges of innocence of a good portion of my readers lets quickly change the subject and see what else March is famous for; The Ides of March springs to mind?

That did happen a very long time ago so not much chance of offending anybody that saw it first time round. Mind you if Caesar had been warned by some ‘Seer’ to beware of great peril on the 15^th March I think he’d have had him tossed in the clink and hung up by his goolies until he spilt the beans ‘so exactly what should I be aware of pal?’, ‘hmm?’ a quick tug on the rope to grab his attention ‘ooohyaaahfckr’, ‘not much of a seer are ye pal’ yank ‘didnay see this coming did ye’

It’s a little known fact but it was actually at that point he was killed. History may say it was ‘in the senate’, ‘by a bunch of lads in togas’, ‘with the dagger’ (hold on that’s Cluedo isn’t it?) Anyway I think you will find that if you open the wee black envelope it was ‘crushed to death’ by a falling, ‘knackerless seer’, ‘in the dungeons’. An all to tragic outcome from a catastrophic scr*tum failure. I mean it’s not designed to hold all your weight is it? Practically guaranteed to happen.

I think all the senators probably stumbled on Caesars still warm corpse and thought ‘Jeeeesus the media is going to have a field day with this’, ‘quick let’s get him upstairs and stab him’, ‘we cant do that we’ll be done for murder!’, ‘no no no we’ll just call it tyrannicide and say it was for every ones own good’, ‘that’ll never wash’, ‘oh yeah and they’ll believe this’, ‘c’mon go go GO!’ And the rest is history; or lies if you like.

Everybody believes the rubbish Willy Shakespeare wrote about it. Let’s get real people; that’s the fecking screenplay. That’s not what actually happened. Caesar didn’t mutter ‘Et tu Brute?’ as he collapsed under a flurry of dagger blows. He whispered ‘oh b*gger’ before being crushed under fifteen stones of disgruntled seer.

Mind you I think Willy had a thing for daggers. Were there not a few dagger lines in Macbeth as well? ‘Is this a dagger I see before me?’ springs to mind. Bloody daggers floating in the air definitely suggests a magic mushroom omelette for breakfast to me.

His publicist must have been driven spare ‘what’s with the daggers Will?’, ‘whaddya mean?’, ‘every fecking book has daggers in it’, ‘not every book’, ‘Julius Caesar, Macbeth, Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet?’, ‘Aaah now that last one was poison’, ‘Juliet stabs herself in the last scene!’, ‘only a little bit’, ‘she dies!’, ‘well it is a tragedy’, ‘Yes I’ve been meaning to mention that, can you try and do something different?’, ‘what do you mean different?’, ‘have you thought about poetry’, ‘fuuuuckoff that’s for Nancys’

‘Ok a comedy perhaps?’, ‘not my bag’, ‘I think you could make it work’, ‘I like tragedies’, ‘yes but the markets not really there just now’, ‘Othello was a bleeding classic’, ‘Yes I-‘, ‘Seventeen scenes in five acts; slick that’s what it was’, ‘The press didn’t agre-‘, ‘the press! B@stards to a man’, ‘look take a couple of weeks holiday and think about it’, ‘I’d love to but you still haven’t paid me for the last gig’, ‘ok you can use my holiday home’, ‘where is it?’, ‘Italy; just outside Venice’ ……..

Hey it could have happened like that! You don’t know it didn’t.

Doei

Anger Management

2008-02-24T20:40:00.001Z

Ham Shanks secret diary w/e 24^th Feb 2008

As you may be aware I am currently injured and unable to exercise. A couple of disgruntled vertebrae have colluded to ensure I can’t get my daily endorphin fix; and like most addicts I have taken this well. My normally sanguine, placid and patient temperament has taken a turn for the worse. You know how it goes, little things that I would normally shrug off just GETONMYFUUUCKINGTITSOK! And I find it difficult to keep perspective when IWANTTORIPYOURFUUCKINGHEADOFF for asking me whether I’d like a cup of tea or not.

Helpful hint here; telling a very angry person to ‘calm down’ is akin to putting a fire out with paraffin whilst holding a lit distress flare between your teeth. It doesn’t help and you’re likely to become ‘collateral damage’ in the process. Best thing to do is let the ‘fire’ burn itself out. Let the ranting person pop a blood vessel and slump gently under their desk. Plenty of time thereafter to shake your head and remark on their idiocy as the paramedics charge the defibrillator and shout ‘clear’ for a third time

But you’re absolutely right; that’s not what should happen. The person that’s ranting should ‘get a fecking grip’ stop spreading misery and pull themselves together. Whilst technically this is correct and obviously you have the moral high ground; having not lost the napper. I would have to suggest that in the heated environment of a major rant this is being somewhat unrealistic. Moral high ground is a poor defence against a well aimed fist and feeling righteous is little consolation for ending up with a smile like Doug Rougvie.

They do say people who don’t bottle up their anger live longer. Perhaps this is because they kill everyone else first? Just a thought.

This got me thinking about other scenarios where the correct advice might prove less than useful in a ‘real’ situation. Let’s take the analogy of a bear attack. Lots of people like hiking in foreign lands and should really know what to do if the encounter these animals. The advice states that the first thing you should do is ‘remain calm’ Ok let’s think about this, you’ve just stumbled across an extremely large, extremely powerful and now exceptionally angry carnivore. Yes calmness would be my first reaction I’m sure; after evacuating the contents of my bowels into my hiking trousers obviously.

Now you have to ‘back away slowly – never run! Bears can run as fast as a racehorse both uphill and downhill’ Nice to know, and I’m looking forward to the Yogi Bear 2000 Guineas next year. However the knowledge that this enraged beast has the ability to outpace me even were I mounted on a horse does not aid feelings of calmness and serenity. I’d probably plump for a trouser filling encore and hope the beast slips up on my slurry trail as I leg it in the opposite direction.

However assuming I’ve managed to follow points one and two. Which in all likelihood I might actually manage as I’d be frozen with terror anyway. We are now advised that if an attack is still imminent to ‘roll up in a ball protecting the face and back of the head with your arms; and play dead’ So not quite presenting myself with an apple stuffed in my mouth but certainly a couple of limbs as a nice ‘starter’ for Boo Boo.

But it gets even better, they have further advice to remember whilst you are being eaten alive ‘Remain still until the bear leaves the area. These attacks seldom last more than a few minutes’ Oh well that’s fine then. After all how much damage can a half ton predator armed with razor sharp claws do in a few minutes?

I mean I’ve got my epidermis to protect me. It’s got to be at least 20 cells thick and waterproof. Can’t say I recall the term ‘bear resistant’ anywhere when I was studying physiology at Uni but it definitely serves as a protective barrier preventing internal tissues from exposure to trauma, ultraviolet radiation, temperature extremes, toxins, and bacteria. Other important functions include sensory perception, immunologic surveillance, thermoregulation, and control of fluid loss. Nothing about carnivore repellence unfortunately?

However I needn’t worry because ‘If the attack continues for more than several minutes, consider fighting back’ Yes well, I shall definitely consider that. I’d probably have to get a meeting organised though. Make sure that my head and the rest of my body could be briefly reunited while we discuss how best to repel the marauding beast. If only I’d purchased a ‘bear attack survival kit’ I’d have been fine.

Don’t laugh. There is such a thing.

Foolishly I’d presumed this would consist of a 45 revolver and a sh*tload of ammunition. But no, what you get is a little less lethal; some may say effective. The patented bear attack survival kit contains six ‘bear bangers’ which are not condoms as I first thought. They are bangers as in firework – Scare the nasty ole bear away. You also get six flares. Presumably one for each remaining identifiable body part and really as an aid for the recovery team. A large can of bear ‘repellent’ which turns out to be chilli spray. So nae luck if yer bear likes spicy food – you’re effectively seasoning yourself. The last item is described as a ‘screamer/whistle’ somehow I’d imagine there would be ample screaming already?

Now you see what the real advice should have been for the real situation was; Stay the f*ck out of the woods there are bears in there for Christ sake! They are fecking enormous and will gut you like a clam without compunction. STAY at home, watch TV and live to a ripe old age. Or ‘Shoot it and eat it first’

Oh and the last piece of advice ‘Afterwards, leave the area or take a detour. If this is impossible, wait until the bear moves away. Always leave the bear an escape route’ Hmm technically you do leave the area; albeit in the stomach of a satiated bear. Best not to think of the resulting escape route….

It’s amazing the things you learn when you’re home on ‘sick leave’ for head butting your PC. Although I do think it’s a bit harsh to be formally disciplined when I definitely came off worse in the altercation. YTREWQ will be tattooed on my forehead for ever more. A lasting reminder of that moment of folly and a testament to the resilience of Dell computers.

Au revoir mes ami

(thought I might as well learn a language in my time off)

Thicker than Water?

2008-02-17T22:47:00.001Z

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 17^th Feb 2008

You will all be familiar with the saying that ‘Blood is thicker than water’ A strange phrase I’ve always thought. Suggesting that an ancestral or family bond is more important than a hydrogen oxygen bond? The scientist in me says I beg to differ; parents excepted (cos you can’t be here without them) you can probably manage quite nicely without any other blood relatives. Nae brothers or sisters or Aunties or Uncles won’t harm ye. However a few days without water and yer going to be deid.

And why is thickness the preferred measurement of choice? After all treacle is thicker than blood and tar is thicker than treacle? So by the strict definition of the saying you should put your relationship with the road above everything else (some people do love their cars more than their partners right enough – and let’s not even talk about the bloke that was caught humping his pushbike) but I digress. What’s so great about being thick anyway? Generally speaking that’s an insult. ‘Oi thickee!’ isn’t likely to be complimenting you on your familial closeness is it? Hmmm?

‘What the f*ck are you talking about Ham’ I hear you cry

Ok I’ll get to the point. My evil twin has recently spawned. Well clearly he didn’t; his wife Shirley did. In fact she did an excellent ‘baking’ job producing a healthy six pounder three weeks ahead of schedule. I certainly hope she got a productivity bonus for completing the contract within timescales and to specification – Bouncing baby boy called Robbie. Uncle Ham was invited up to see his new nephew.

Bing-Bong! Bing-Bong! A few seconds later my bleary eyed brother answered the door ‘can ye not just use the bell like everybody else?’, ‘I like saying bing-bong’ I replied before brushing past ‘Where’s the wee lad then’, ‘in the living room, but he’s having his dinner and-‘, ‘Hello ShirlWOOAH .. sorrysorrysorry’ I leapt back out of the living room like a scalded cat ‘as I was saying, he’s being fed’ muttered my bruv, shaking his head ‘not on solids yet then?’ I replied sheepishly ‘No strangely enough he’s still on milk what with him only being a week old’, ‘yes well um I saw that eeeer I mean uum eer …. Here’s a present’ I replied, thrusting a badly wrapped package into his hand.

‘Shall I keep this for Shirley to open?’, ‘why?’, ‘I think you’ll find the mother generally gets to open the presents’ he said patiently ‘after all she’s done most of the work’, ‘yeah fair point’ I mumbled, feeling somewhat out of my depth with the unknowns of these child related protocols. Fraz meanwhile had fallen asleep leaning against the coat rack. Hanging my jacket on his nose I knocked gently on the living room door ‘safe to come in yet?’, ‘yeees it’s fine now’ came the reply.

Noting that the ‘Milky bar’ was now closed for business I tiptoed across the room and peered at the tightly wrapped package sleeping in her arms. A wee pink nose was nestled at the top of a white wool chrysalis, tufts of dark brown hair were sticking out from under his hat ‘Aw he’s a wee mite isn’t he’, ‘what did you call my son!’ shouted my brother; now standing behind me and bristling with anger’, ‘a wee mite M-ite’ I replied whilst mouthing the letter m theatrically ‘oh sorry bruv, am a bit tired the noozzzzzzzz’, ‘doing that a lot is he?’ I asked Shirley as he slumped back onto the sofa

‘Yes we’re both a wee bit tired’, ‘would you like to hold him?’, ‘Not really, he’s a bit big?’, ‘Not him! The baby!’, ‘oh aye … eer yes I’d love to’ Two minutes later and I was holding my nephew. I’d have said in my arms but at arms length would be closer to the mark ‘he’s not an unexploded bomb’, ‘right right … eeeer so like this?’ Shirley turned him through 180 degrees ‘that’s probably better’, ‘oh yeah right I see now’

The wee lad was now correct way up and nestled in the crook of my arm. I gazed down at his rosy face. All of a sudden I was beginning to ‘get’ this blood is thicker than water malarkey. Cos if I’m being honest up until this point in my life most every bairn I’d ever seen was exactly the same; a mini pensioner. Stick a cigar in their mouth and you’d have the spitting image of Winston Churchill. But wee Robbie felt different. I mean he looked exactly the same as all the other new sprogs, but he somehow felt different.

In any Childs defence you’re never going to look your best after you’ve just been born. Who would? You’ve been tucked up indoors nice and warm for the last 9 months. Patiently dividing from a single cell, cleaving yoursel into yet more cells, gastrulating (which doesn’t sound nice) then differentiating yer shiny new cells into tissues and before ye know it yer forming fancy things like limbs and heids and all the other complicated paraphernalia that makes up a bairn.

Hard graft all that cell division but at least ye get free central heating, food on demand; without even having to think about it. No need to go to the bother of chewing and swallowing it all arrives in optimum concentrations and quantities. Throw in the rent free/mortgage free accommodation, no commute to work in the morning and life’s pretty sweet you’d have to agree. Well it is until some complete git pulls the plug. Bang! Waters break and soon after yer getting sucked down a plughole.

I mean think about the process people. It’s a long time ago and ye probably don’t remember (if ye do I’m very worried) but try to imagine……

If you were shoved very slowly through a narrow rubber aperture whilst having seven lumps of keech knocked out of you all the way; you’d look less than happy. Add the indignity of being pulled the last couple of feet by the application of large metal tongs hooked behind yer lugs and yer just not going to take a good photograph. And what is your reward after ye’ve endured this traumatic experience and made it to the outside? To the Promised Land? A smack on the airse; can ye blame the bairn fer greeting.

Anyway I still think Robbie looked a bonny lad and I’m not even the faither; am only the uncle. It seems there must be some strange genetic witchcraft at work after all because I wasn’t even fibbing when I said it ‘Aye he’s a bonny lad …. Fraz? …. Shirl? ….’ Zzzzzzzzzzzz

‘Looks like Ma & Pa are sparked out Robbie’, ‘lets see what’s on telly’, ‘Ah now this is what we call football; first thing ye need to know about this is that footballers are overpaid mincing primadonas’, ‘Now Rugby on the other hand …….’

Doei

2008-02-10T22:06:00.000Z

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 10^th February 2008 – Best Laid plans

This weekend has been a bit of a ‘so near and yet so far’ one for me. I’m not referring to any dodgy decisions by Italian TMO’s that cost Scotland a game of rugby (cos let’s be honest we were keech and deserved to lose) Although I do think Mr Damasco may be registered blind or perhaps half welsh or maybe he was simply on the other channel watching Italian housewives cook pasta in the nip as was asked to rule on whether Shanes whitewashed covered foot was in touch or not ‘Che? Try? Si Si eets a try … mama mia nice teets’

It was actually my Friday night that caused more consternation. I was out celebrating with a friend who had just landed a new job. This was her leaving night so a group of us were out painting the town red. We’d spent quite a few hours applying an undercoat of fifteen lagers and a couple of bottles of wine. Over that time almost everyone had departed for trains and buses. In fact by midnight it was just me and the lucky escapee left. We were now discussing whether to go for the single malt or tequila slammer topcoat when things started going slightly awry

I tottered up to the bar and waved at the barman. After trying to ignore me for several minutes he eventually came across ‘Sorry pal the bars shut’, ‘whaddya mean shshshut?’, ‘I mean it’s closed’, ‘closhedd.d.d?’, ‘but you jusht gave h.h.him a drink’ I slurred, pointing a thumb at the guy next to me ‘yes but the thing is; he’s not sh*t faced’, wobbling gently I tried to focus on the man; it would appear my eyes were broken ‘s’afair point’ I mumbled before stumbling back to the booth ‘fnbaashtard wont sherve me’ I dribbled before sliding under the table.

‘Whaddyamean he wont sherve you’ mumbled Jennie from far above ‘he thinksh am drunk’, ‘whaaaat?’, ‘thatshfuuuuckingdisshgrasheful’, ‘am having a word!’, ‘Ooh I wouldn’t do that ee’sh gorra point - am f’nsteamin’, ‘No no no! amnot .. hic … aving it!’ drawing herself up to her full height of five foot five she marched off to the bar. Well she was aiming for the bar, but some strong invisible gravitational pull seemed to drag her to the left. Or possibly it was the lack of a left shoe? Either way the couple enjoying a quiet drink were less than impressed when she appeared on their lap ‘you couldn’t get ush a drink could you?’

Dusting ourselves off outside we turned to give the doorman the vees before staggering off down the street towards the chip shop ‘never liked that plashe anyway’, ‘aye sfnpants ishnt it’, ‘yeah real ddogy customers …. they served us after all’

‘Chipsh or kebab?’ I slurred as we stood in Stirlings Bermuda triangle of eateries. Certainly it’s where my money always seems to mysteriously disappear on a Friday and Saturday night ‘Dunno which ones better?’ replied Jen as she clung grimly on to the lamppost ‘Eeeer the nearest one?’, ‘s’good enuf fer me’

Just as we were ascending the steps to the chip shop door it was slammed in our faces and a ‘closed’ sign spun quickly round onto the glass. A greasy faced youth glowering at us in disgust ‘looks like it’ll have .. hic .. to be a kebab then’ tottering across the street we were literally feet from the door when the same thing happened again. At least the proprietor had the decency to tell us to f*ck off as well – Nice to have a personal touch. Looking at my watch I realised it was well after 1am ‘Och buuugger theyur all shshshut now’, ‘better get a taxi …’

Not a chance. The taxi queue was snaking down the pavement and away out of sight ‘where does you shister live again?’, ‘Bannockburn’ came the reply from the prone figure slung under my arm ‘Oh that’s ok, that’sh not too far’ ….

Amazing how alcohol affects the brain. I live about a two mile walk out of town and I tend to tramp home cos it’s only a 40 minute walk and ye can never get a taxi anyway. Bannockburn high school is a 5 minute walk from my house so it seemed reasonable to assume that it would only be a 45 minute walk to Jens sisters. Turned out I was having a bit of a ‘blonde’ moment. You see what I forgot was that Bannockburn is quite big and the school is at one side; the near side.

Jennie’s sister lives at the far away side. Sorry I mean the far far far far fecking far feckity far away side. We found this out the hard way.

‘Are we there yet?’, ‘No’, ‘Are we there yet?’, ‘No’, ‘Are we there yet?’, ‘No’, ‘are we there ye-‘, ‘how the f*ck should I know you’re the one that lives here!’, ‘that’s a good point Jeffiner …. Are we there yeooooomppfffff!’ I felt a punch in the face was a tad harsh considering that due to her loss of footwear I was being her ‘steed’ for the journey home ‘look you can wear my shoes if ye want to take a turn driving?’ I mumbled through my fat lip ‘ooooh I’d like to but they are just too big; I could go over an ankle’ she replied ‘now c’mon giddyup!’

Boosted by the sugar lump she’d palmed into my mouth I accelerated into a steady canter. At least the rain had stayed off and we were making steady progress towards home. Unfortunately the litres of lager I’d consumed earlier were now wanting to wave goodbye ‘m’gonna have to stop’ I shouted to my Jockey ‘Why?’, ‘need a wee wee’, ‘Oh for goodness sake’ I pulled over beside some bushes and waited ‘what now?’, ‘can you get off please?’, ‘And stand on this barefoot! Don’t flatter yourself Ham my eyesight isn’t that good anyway; get on with it’

Nothing as underrated as a good p*ss;‘Aaaaaaaah’ Bliss! Well it was right up until the flashing blue light lit us up ‘Shiiiit’, ‘c’mon go go GO!’, ‘but we-‘ WHIISHK!! ‘ooya fuuuu-‘ WHIISKK! ‘-ker’ Quite where she got the whip from is probably best not answered but by gum it did the job; I was off like a rocket. Our ‘hack’ home had suddenly been converted into the Grand National as we took an ‘off-road’ route to lose the feds. I could practically hear Jim McGrath commentating in my head

‘And it’s Bald Beauty coming up to the first fence’, ‘it’s Bechers Brook and he’s stuttering slightly; could be refusing, but the jockey is reaching for her whip’, ‘Oh my word he’s cleared it by a good ten feet’, ‘he’s four lengths in the lead now with Blues & Twos coming up on the rails’, ‘they are both about to reach the canal turn and this is where the race really can be won and lost’, ‘Bald Beauty has gone for it! …. ‘Oh what a leap!’ ‘Blues & Twos are right behind’, but he’s gone too early, he’s clipped the fence, oh my he’s landed on his face and Bald Beauty is out of sight!’

Cue music and slow motion shot of steed galloping across the moor ‘la la lalalala laa’

Ready Steady Cook?

2008-02-03T20:49:00.000Z

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 3^rd February 2008

Tell me dear reader; have you ever wondered whether programs like ‘Ready Steady Cook’ are actually genuine? I mean do you really think the chefs haven’t seen the contents of the bag before the contestant upends their mystery plastic holdall on to the work surface of the green pepper/red tomato kitchen and this week’s celeb chef regales us with a fantastic recipe before the spuds have even finished rolling?

I also have to take issue with the number of ‘store cupboard’ ingredients these culinary wizards have at their disposal. A dozen eggs, milk, cream, cheese, butter, breads and every herb and spice you could imagine constitute a weeks shopping in my book. Both these points might seem pernickety to you but given the fact we have only just seen the back of the leanest month of the year my cupboards are fecking bare. I can’t replicate any of these dishes! In fact I’d like to see what Nick Nairn could have done with my ‘goodybag’ and the normal store cupboard ingredients you could find in the average house at the end of January.

Cue Ready Steady Cook music and dancing Ainsley Harriott …..

‘So ladies & gentleman our first contestant is Ham Shanks from Stirling’, ‘So Ham what have you brought in for Nick today’, ‘Well this is a pretty normal days rations for January’ I reply as I tip up my goodybag on to the worktop …… a piece of tumbleweed blows across the stage as Ains and Nick stand slack jawed ‘As you can see I’ve got a handful of woodlouse that I found underneath the bath; just think of them as land prawns’, ‘I’ve also got four thin stemmed mushrooms I managed to find growing on some rotting wood in the garden’, ‘lastly I have some dust that I swept from the back of the cupboards’ after a lengthy pause Ainsley pipes up ‘any ideas Nick?’

Of course that would never happen because the floor manager would have inspected my bag long before I set foot on stage. So no doubt I would have tipped out a leg of lamb, a couple of lobster and a packet of baby asparagus! ‘All for three pounds twenty’, ‘oh we have shopped well’ squeals Ainsley ‘No pal; you’ve shopped well’, ‘I’ve been licking the fecking pattern off the wallpaper for the last three weeks’ I’d reply before quickly seasoning his leg and taking a big bite.

Sharp hunger pangs brought me rudely back from my reverie ‘Right c’mon Ham, only three days till payday, there must be something left to eat’ rummaging in the depths of the lower cupboards I managed to find a brillo pad and bar of ‘Pears’ soap ‘Oooh medicated, my favourite flavour’ Placing the brillo pad to the side for dessert I was about to bite into my aperitif when the cat flap burst open ‘what the fu-‘

The cat came bolting in and skidded across the wet floor; it had a mouse in its mouth. Our eyes met; there’s a lot of good eating on a mouse. Human and feline were weighing each other up. I smiled as the cat started to growl ‘Here puss puss’ I murmured gently, my left hand gently reaching back for a frying pan. Its eyes were still fixed firmly on mine, I tensed for the strike ‘Meeeeeiow’ it sensed my attack and shot out from under the descending orange blur and 4lb of cast iron Le Creuset smacked on the floor WHUMP! ‘come back ye wee sh*te!’ …… The chase was on

The foolish moggy had scuttled into the lounge, running after it I slammed the door shut behind me ‘Nowhere to hide now ma wee kitty’, ‘Ha ha mhuuaHAHAAAA!’ there were limited hiding places and it was only a matter of time before I caught my dinner. Creeping round the back of the lazy boy recliner I gently placed a foot on the side arm. Hefting the pan above my head I kicked oot ‘Aaaarggotchyayeweebas!’

But it was empty underneath apart from a piece of half chewed Wrigley’s Orbit gum, ‘Mmmm minty’ Buoyed by my sugar free fresh breath I turned to the only other refuge the cat could have found; the couch. It was too heavy to tip over without using both arms so I would have to use guile and brains ‘Okay Ham first we need to find out which side the wee sh*te is hiding at’ slipping off my shoes I crept stealthily up to the sofa and leant down ….

From the cats point of view life seemed a tad unfair. After half an hour of careful stalking it had managed to slay some poor hapless rodent for its dinner. It was so hungry it hadn’t even bothered torturing it before it took its life. Just as it was about to tuck in to this well earned repast a bigger cat took umbrage at this unauthorised invasion of it’s territory and attempted to scratch seven colours or cr*p out of it. Having successfully evaded evisceration and managed to scarper home with dinner intact it would appear the big baldy cat was now trying to scone it with a frying pan.

Sometimes enough is just enough ……

Breathing as quietly as I could I lowered my head to the floor so I could peer under the sofa, my eyes slowly adjusting to the light levels as I scanned for my quarry. Suddenly there was movement to my right! ‘Ahaa..AARGGHHH!!’ a whirling dervish of angry fur and claws shot out from under the sofa and clamped itself on to my face ‘Aaaaah AAARRGHH GERROFF! GEROFFYAFUUUCKER!’ Predator had turned into as the raging feline dug its claws firmly into the side of my head ‘GERROFFGERROFFGERROFF!!’ sharp teeth were sinking deep into my nose as streams of blood spattered onto the floor.

Flailing wildly about the floor I wrestled vainly with the enraged feline. I was losing big style; I didn’t have the speed or the strength to compete. This wasn’t going to be a points decision, the cat was going to win in a first round bloodbath. With one hand trying to pull the livid moggy off my face my free hand fumbled blindly about the floor. Miraculously I caught hold of the handle of the frying pan. Without hesitation or compunction I swung hard ‘CLUUUUUUNG!’

It was indeed fortunate I was already lying on the floor. It was only this that prevented me from further ‘falling’ injury as I knocked myself unconscious with 4lbs of continental cookware. The cat escaped unscathed.

‘5…4…3…2…1…Stop Cooking!’, ‘so Nick what have you managed to make for Ham?’, ‘well Ains we’ve done a Filet mignon of woodlouse with magic mushroom soufflé and florets of dust all smothered in a lovely cream, cheese, butter and herby bread sauce.

It’s like Bullseye isn’t it ‘Here’s what you could have won’ …….

2008-01-27T20:48:00.000Z

Ham Shanks Secret Dairy w/e 27^th Jan 08– Auld Lang Syne

Fellow Scots will be well aware that last Friday was Burns night. That special day of the year where we all celebrate the life and works of our National Bard; Rabbie Burns. This usually involves getting wired into a huge plate of haggis neeps and tatties and scooping a good lot of bevy. Very cultured I think you’ll agree.

Once again a group of us attended a local Burns supper in the toon. It’s an annual event raising cash for a local charity. So we were in fact getting blootered to help the poor wee sick kiddies or whatever they were collecting for; quite noble of us really. It’s a posh do though and they have singers and poetry readings on top of the traditional ceilidh hooching and chooching (that’s dancing & singing by the way)

Obviously the readings are all Burns poems and this year we were treated to the daddy of the all; Tam ‘O’ Shanter. Two hundred and twenty eight lines of prose. Over fifteen hundred smegging words; it’s not for the faint hearted or weak bladdered. If yer going to be listening tae Tam and his ghostly shenanigans I’d recommend emptying yer bladder and filling yer glass (not with the contents of your bladder though, that would be disgusting) Just be a good boy/girl scout and ‘be prepared’ cos yer going to be sat in yer seat for a very long time.

In a novel change from the traditional it was a lady delivering the reading. I don’t have a problem with that, I believe in equality. She’d even dressed up in period red and black costume to add to the authenticity; at least I think she had. Either that or her wardrobe was in need of some serious updating.

Things started off badly when we realised that the speaker wasn’t actually using a microphone. We were in a huge room with nearly two hundred people spread over a large area. A big ask to carry a voice over that distance, ‘Rab’ was doing her very best though. She was also giving it big licks with the theatrics, ‘When Chapman billies leave the street-’ arms flailing wildly about her. Shame we could only hear every third verse when she actually turned to face our table.

It didn’t help that the temperature in the venue had gone off the scale and we were all now sweltering in 100 degrees of kilt melting heat. I was fanning myself with a dessert menu as loose skin started slipping down my face; I was going to look like Droopy by the end if this performance. A couple of hours into it and there was still no sign of Mrs Burns wrapping up the Shanter number. Leaning over the table I whispered to another guest who happened to be pregnant ‘When are you due again?’, ‘June’ she replied wearily ‘better get some towels and hot water ready then’…

Time seemed to have stopped for us; I was convinced we had fallen into some form of temporal anomaly. I nudged my friend Brian and enquired ‘Is that not the third time she’s done that verse?’ when I received no reply I turned to look and he was slumped forward into his ‘fruits of the Forrest’ dessert. The custard bubbling gently as he snored peacefully into the bowl. I was going to pull him out but I felt he was better off where he was.

Most patrons were in a similar state of torpor, glassy expressions fixed on their anguished faces. Quite a number at the tables nearest the dance floor had utilised toothpicks as impromptu eyelid ‘stands’ to maintain at least an external impression of interest. All the while Mrs Rab was whirling about the dance floor, a scarlet clad dervish animating words few of us could actually hear. It occurred to me that perhaps Burns wrote this poem as a joke.

I was just sticking a fork in my leg by way of light relief when I heard a noise from under the table ‘psssst’ glancing down I saw a dirt covered face looking up at me ‘it’s me; Euan, we’ve dug an escape tunnel’, ‘but-‘, ‘there’s no time for questions we’ve got to go’, ‘but what about the otherswoooaahh!’ strong hands pulled me below the floor and before I knew it I was standing in a dark musty tunnel. Euan beamed at me whilst waving a fragment of metal in his hand ‘not bad for a dessert spoon eh’

‘They are bound to notice were gone’, ‘got it covered dude’ he replied, thrusting a stuffed manikin back up through the hole. As my eyes grew accustomed to the light I could see the remainder of our party all smiling and mugging happily in the gloom ‘we had to leave you till last as you were nearest the dance floor’ he explained as I was ushered down the tunnel ‘it’ll be another twenty minutes before she’s finished so we’ve got time bef-’ Muted applause started to filter down from above ‘GO GO!!’

We raced along the tunnel stumbling out into the fresh air of the Kings Park ‘any reason you tunnelled so far?’ I whispered ‘this is 2 miles from the Hotel’, ‘do ye want to go back!’ he hissed through gritted teeth ‘fair point’ I mumbled looking sheepishly at my feet. Within twenty seconds we were all hidden inside a large lalandia, Brian peering out from the topmost branches to establish the lay of the land ‘there’s Burns police everywhere’ he whispered from his lofty perch. Word had obviously got out that we’d escaped without listening to the whole of Tam ‘O’ Shanter.

This is a heinous crime punishable by the dreaded ‘Glen’ ordeal. Any Scotsman found showing disrespect to the Bard is brought to the famous Thistle Glen just outside Bannockburn. Here the thistles grow particularly tall, particularly bushy and with razor sharp spikes. Those who have sullied the Bards memory are forced to run through this Glen, stripped from the waist down; we take our poetry very seriously in Scotland.

The thought of Thistle Glen weighed heavily on us all as we had a group tremble inside our bushy haven ‘well we can’t stay here forev-’, ‘SHHH!’ we froze as another kilted policeman marched past, stopping abruptly as his hunting haggis strained at the leash ‘what’s that Hamish?’, ‘Dee ye smell the traitors?’ the haggis was snarling and whining ‘Perhaps ah should let ye aff the leash lad’ he said in a loud voice ‘after all ye’ve no been fed the day!’

‘ARGGHFUCKINGNOOONOTTHEHAGGIS!’ I screamed at the top of my lungs.

There was a collective sharp intake of breath. Every face in the entire hall turned to look at our table. ‘Rab’ was standing open mouthed in the middle of the dance floor, frozen in mid Shanter. I shot upright from my impromptu slumber, bleary eyed with an after eight mint glued to my right cheek. It fell to the table with a noisy splat …..

‘I’ll get my coat’

2008-01-20T22:03:00.000Z

Ham Shanks Diary – Revenge is sweet

You may have heard me rant in the past on the subject of religion ‘No Ham; Just leave it, you’ve done that chestnut a million times’ I hear you moan in despair. Hold yer horses and wind yer necks in cos this time I’m not actually having a pop, it’s even more surprising; I’m having a rethink! ‘Look Ham we know you hate rel- … What!’

Don’t panic though I’ve not become a born again or a happy clappy. However I’ve begun to think there might be something in this Karma malarkey. I was idly surfing the t’interweb and stumbled on a reference to Karma, quite interesting after I got over my initial disappointment that it wasn’t an article on Culture Club and a throwback to my youth; 1983 what a year. I was 15 years old and had hair on top of heid. I’d discovered drink, girls and cigarettes. All illegal for a 15 year old, although to be fair I could only get two out of three …. Ok one of the three …. Ok none of the three; In fact I hated being a teenager so let’s just leave it OK!

Aaaanyway moving swiftly back to Karma: The basic principle is ‘do bad things and bad things will happen to you, do good things and good things will happen to you’ Seems fair enough I think you’ll agree. However further reading revealed that in fact it’s the intention behind the action rather than the outward appearance of the action itself that determines the effect ‘What the f*ck are you talking about Ham?’

Ok here’s an example: If you were spending your weekends working for the Sally Army handing out soup to the poor and/or needy, helping the less fortunate than yourself. That would appear like an altruistic act, people would think you were a nice person, a caring individual. It would be reasonable to expect given the stated ‘rules’ of Karma that good things may happen to you in return.

If however you’d been gobbing in the soup and stirring it with your bell end prior to dispensing because you actually despise the stinking needy b*stards and believe they have brought it all on themselves and should just hurry up and die then you’re not creating good Karma. You’re also probably a member of the Tory party. So despite the outward appearance of good works Karma knows about the cockaleekie soup and you’ll be getting yours pal! (I may be paraphrasing here but I think you get the gist)

The idea of Karma is rooted in the Indian religions of Hinduism and Buddhism. Even though I’m not a follower (although I do like a good curry) recent events have led me to consider the possibility that Karma might actually exist. Cue wibbly wobbly special effects and flashback music……

Date: Oct 2007 Location: Way up North; possibly Never Never land

‘Oh aye she’s a great wee runner’, ‘Really?’, ‘Aye it’s in great nick and it’ll do seventy five to the gallon’ I eyed the car suspiciously, giving the back tyre a sharp kick before jumping back quickly. The rear wheel didn’t fall off, perhaps it really was ok. ‘And you’ll swap it for my old one?’ I enquired again ‘aye nae bother’, ‘it’s out of it’s m.o.t mind’ I prompted ‘not a problem’ I slid myself into the drivers seat ‘it’s nae very comfy though’, ‘No it’s supposed to be like that, it’s got a special seat that helps to realign your vertebrae as you drive’, ‘shouldn’t I be able to feel my legs?’, ‘don’t worry they’ll be fine when your spine has fused into the correct shape’, ‘Jings Neilly, cheers min, you’re a diamond brother’ …

Date: Jan 2008 Location: The Dark side of the moon (painkillers may be effecting me now)

The ‘Crippleomatic’ is parked outside my house. I’ve long since given up trying to wedge myself into the drivers’ seat, not that I can drive the vehicle anyway since the exhaust systems so corroded it now sounds like a jet fighter when it starts up. It would seem that sticky tape and bogies are a poor substitute for stainless steel and workmanship. Surveying the vehicle from the comfort of my mobility scooter I notice the thin layer of airfix paint which briefly covered the deep scratches down the drivers’ side door has finally given way to a patina of orange rust. It might just be the light but I’m sure the shape resembles a clenched fist with extended middle finger.

I’m waiting for my brother to arrive with a replacement vehicle. Give him his due; even though he was adamant there was nothing wrong with it he is personally delivering a replacement all the way from Aberdeen. Perhaps he’s racked with guilt for giving me such a poultice after all. Perhaps I’ve misjudged him …..

A squeal of tyres and a plume of diesel smoke herald the arrival of the boy blunder ‘Alright Davros’ he shouts cheerily whilst exiting the vehicle. Once the smoke settles, I can see my new transport for the first time ‘whadya think’ he enquires with misplaced glee ‘That’s my old car’ I reply in icy tones ‘yes’, ‘the mot failure that wouldn’t start’ I prompt through gritted teeth ‘uhuu’, ‘are you f*cking mental?’, ‘Woah woah woah, it’s mot’d, it’s taxed and it’s running bonny now’, ‘that’s what you said about the Iron Maiden across there!’, ‘ach yer just overreacting ye big jessy’, ‘now gies a hand with this stuff’

Gliding over to the car I noticed it was jammed full of boxes. It would appear his mercy dash was not quite as altruistic as it first seemed ‘so still haven’t got an Ikea in Aberdeen then?’, ‘shut up and lift’ ….

Twenty minutes later and it’s all crammed into the Crippleomatic along with my brother Neily who is wedged into the driving seat like an elephant in a phone box ‘don’t gnnff know what youaaarggghhh talking about this is a really comfysweetjeeesus car’, ‘why’s yer face twitching then?’, ‘it always does that when I’m haaaargghppy’, ‘fair enough’, ‘ye should probably know that it’s not running very we-‘, ‘look this car runs sweet as a nuu-ooohaaagnnff-t’, ‘aye bu-‘ he glared at me and slammed the drivers door shut ‘this is a peach of a caaarrghaarrghaaarrghr’ ignoring any further protests he started up the car, a look of agony shot across his face the second he did ‘aye the clutch pedal does fly up when you start it‘, ‘Goodby-aaaaaarghyafuuucker!’

I waved him off as the car lurched away from the kerb, leaving the majority of the exhaust system behind and a disturbingly large pool of oil ‘Needs some fuel’ I shouted after him ‘and the back tyre could do with air’ I bellowed above the noise of the thundering exhaust note. Watching him kangaroo down the street I felt what I can only assume was a Karmic tingle shivering through my body

‘Oh jings I can stand up straight’ I mumbled as the excruciating pain which had been racking my body seemed to miraculously disappear, my brother was out of sight now and feeling was definitely returning to my legs. The faint sounds of a police siren could be heard it the distance as I skipped back to my front door; clicking my heels as I entered.

In the words of that great philosopher Nelson Muntz’ ‘Haa Haaaaa’

2008-01-13T22:29:00.000Z

Cabin Fever

The windaes closed, the door shut tight,

I’m stuck inside this wintry night,

With nowt to dee, wi absent friends,

Ah’m swift gawn roond the fecking bend.

The tellys covered wi twa big sheets,

Nae point in watching TV the neet,

After all it’s prime time Saiturday night

The schedules filled wi ‘Reality’ shite.

It is real to live inside a hoose,

Where cameras watch yer every move?

Where all yer words are caught on tape,

Where so called celebs just laugh and gape.

As attention seeking trailer trash,

Perform like Chimps to chase the cash,

To seize their fleeting TV fame,

Show any flesh; play any game.

And then complain when they’re kicked oot,

‘I’m not like that! I’m really good’

Ach dry yer eyes; cover up yer tits,

Naebodys buying that crock of shit.

Ye wanted fame, ye wanted cash,

Ye were even prepared to show yer ga-

STOP! Ham STOP! Ye can’t say that,

It’s not PC! You’ll get a slap.

This is why I don’t watch anymore,

Saves policemen knocking on my door,

And asking me to keep it doon,

As I rant and rave aboot the room.

So TV is oot; let’s read instead,

I’ve a pile of books beneath the bed,

Although ‘magazines’ would describe them best,

And my wrist could do with a week’s mair rest.

So I reach across and start to twiddle,

but nothing comes out, despite my fiddle,

I give it a slap and a shoogle around,

But the radios broken; there’s nary a sound.

Time tae get the screwdriver oot,

And have a wee guddle aboot,

Inside the guts of my Bakelite tranny

What was I thinking; ye handless fanny,

Ye ken ye are always fingers and thumbs,

To open it up was incredibly dumb,

It’s now bits ‘n’ pieces scattered over the table,

An interesting project for somebody able.

It’s obvious to anyone; it’s totally Ga Ga,

No more background noise, no radio blah blah,

It’s had it’s time; it’s got no power,

It’s definitely had its finest hour.

Dear God I’m going mad! I’m now quoting songs,

Is this what can happen, when you’re stuck on your own?

Should I be able to see Pixies, dancing under the chair?

I take off my glasses; perhaps a new pair?

Cooped up all day; totally alone,

Devoid of craved company, without even a phone.

It’s driven me mental, I have to concede

Without some real contact, I’ve gone aff ma heid!

Yes I know there are phones, but I have to confess

it too was victim of my lack of prowess

That toolbox gets turfed this very weekend,

I’ve yet to find something I can actually mend!

My back is still gubbed and it’s now plain to see,

That lack of endorphins do affect me,

Without my running, my sport and my friends,

I’ve gone Doofuckinglally; I’ve gone round the bend.

Ham Shanks Secret Diary Twa Thoosand and Eight

2008-01-06T23:13:00.000Z

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 6^th January 2008

So how was it for you then? The festivities that is? Was the jolly fat housebreaker good to you? Did he shimmy down yer chimney and ruin a perfectly good sock by stuffing it with oddly shaped gifts he’d purloined from the previous property? You didn’t realise that did you. The thieving git just ‘shuffles’ all the gifts about, that’s why you’ve always got stuff from mysterious Aunties you’ve never heard of. Santa doesn’t actually make any presents, he doesn’t in reality bring a chuffing thing on his sleigh. He’s just a slightly obese kleptomaniac who gets his kicks breaking in through yer lum and dumping stolen goods on unsuspecting kids.

The other common myth about our red jacketed friend is that he was a creation of the Coca Cola Company. This is also incorrect. In actual fact he was created by a global sock producer, why else would you hang a stocking at the end of your bed? Surely a big wooden box would be better suited for the task. It could store so much more and wouldn’t be destroyed in the process of being filled.

But destruction is the major part of their evil plan. You see ruining a single sock necessitates the purchase of a new pair! Unless you have an extremely odd shaped foot or a single leg. So Heather Mills McCartney is probably quids in on both counts.

But for the rest of us it’s rather annoying. Did you thrown out the remaining good sock or did you use it to wipe up the sherry stains and mince pie crumbs after the thieving fat b@stard raided your drinks cabinet in the process of committing his crime? It didn’t bother me this year because I’d popped up to the roof the previous evening to set a couple of ‘reindeer’ traps. Caught three of the b@stards; we ate like Kings on Christmas day. Ye canna beat a nice piece of venison slow roasted over a chimney stack.

Mind you I had a fecking nightmare with the trimmings. On top of the traditional pigs in blankets, stuffing balls and other meaty treats that are mandatory on these occasions I’d planned to do a couple of the vegetable recipes I’d seen on TV. Specifically Nigellas (mwuuuaaahh oooh my oh my she’s flipping gorgeous) brussel sprouts with chestnuts, pancetta and parsley and her perfect (she is isn’t she) roast potatoes. Unfortunately I’d left the shopping to my elder brother Neil or the PG Tips Chimp as he will henceforth be known.

I really enjoy cooking and I’m not a bad cook; but I’m no chef. I couldn’t design a dish; however I’m a dab hand at following recipes. This is because I am very meticulous about temperatures, weights, measures and getting the correct ingredients. I have never failed when I’ve followed a recipe precisely and when it comes to the Christmas dinner I always execute it with military precision. Everything has to get cooked at the right time in the right order or it can all go horribly wrong. I was currently at the sprout preparation stage.

‘Okay that’s leaves peeled, stems trimmed and X’s cut on the bottoms’ tossing the last sprout into a pan of cold water I opened the fridge to retrieve the pancetta. After ten fruitless minutes of searching I had raked in every nook and cranny but nary a slice of salt cured spiced pork was to be found. I marched through to the living room where my elder brother was reclining with a glass of vino ‘Eeer where’s the pancetta’ I enquired with raised eyebrows.

‘The what?’ he replied with both eyes still fixed firmly on the TV ‘The pancetta’ I repeated, I was now standing in front of the television ‘you know you really shouldn’t stand with your hands on your hips like that’ he mumbled whilst trying to squint past me, ’it makes you look quite gay’ jabbing the off button I rounded on my brother ‘the pan-fecking-cetta where is it?’, ‘oh yeah, I couldn’t get any’ he smirked in reply ‘WHAT!’ my face was crimson with rage and I was about to explode into a full blown strop when he continued ‘keep yer pinny on, it was sold out so I got a substitute’, ‘WHERE!’, ‘cupboard above the fridge, top shelf’ I stomped back to the kitchen as he poured himself another vat of wine and switched Noels Christmas Presents back on.

I was well and truly bumping my gums as I raked through the cupboard ‘I ask him to do one simple thing and he-‘I spotted the substitute ‘you have got to be fecking joking’ clutching the object I strode back through to the front room ‘SPAM!’ I exclaimed, thrusting the can in his face ‘yes?’, ‘chopped ham and fecking pork!’ I continued in an increasingly high pitched voice ‘yes’, ‘what in Gods name were ye thinking?’, ‘it’s from a pig isn’t it?’, ‘I-‘ beep-beep-beep-beep!

Fishing out my timetable for the day I quickly cross checked the time - That had been the roast chestnut alarm, I should have finished the pancetta by now and be preparing to roast the nuts ‘Right I’ve no time for this, where’s the fecking chestnuts?’, ‘oh aye, couldnay get chestnuts either’ I stared at him incredulously ‘for fuuuucksake what did ye get then?’, ‘walnuts’, ‘WALNUTS!’, ‘aye’, ‘they aren’t sweet ye Muppet, they are bitter as hell, ye might as well have got fecking wingnuts ye dozy prick!’ Beep-beep-beep-beep!

He just shrugged and took another slug of wine ‘You fn-’ Glaring fiercely at my brother I legged it back to the kitchen. I hadn’t factored in 20 minutes searching for ingredients and 5 minutes cursing the chimp so now my carefully planned timings were in disarray ‘Okay Ham, just get the chest- I mean walnuts in and then-‘ tssspffftt ‘Shiiiiiiiiiiiit the tatties’ I pulled the overflowing pan off the hob.

‘Oohahh oyaahfckk’ the potatoes were supposed to be par-boiled for 4 minutes before roasting. I stared forlornly at the pan of mush in my hand ‘Okay so we’ll have mashed potatoes, if I can jus-‘ Beep-beep-beep-beep! ‘What’s that, what’s that’ I whimpered as I pulled out my timetable again ‘stuffing balls in the oven and-‘ suddenly everything went black, no lights, the fan of the oven whirred to a stop and all was silent but for the faint hissing of cooling food – A power cut on Christmas day – Yo ho fecking ho!

‘Beep-beep-beep-beep! ‘shut-up shut-up shut-up’ I ripped off my watch and started ‘tenderising’ it on the worktop ‘for pities sake stop fuuuucking beeping!’ Beep-beep-b.e..e… My brother came through with a candle as I carefully folded my schedule and placed it on the table beside the remnants of my watch. I untied my pinny and pulled it over my head. There was no longer any humour left in a comedy ‘bikini’ pinafore.

‘Ish it ready yet’ he slurred though an alcoholic haze …….

Ham Shanks Exceptionally late Post

2007-12-20T22:45:00.000Z

Hello Folks

Apologies once again for the dreadful service, it's quite odd having a 'real' excuse for a change!

The Back is better but I'm not as yet 'healed'

However you know me and 'Stoic' is my middle name, so I have managed to pen a few words through the agony (laying it on too thick yet?) It's taken a while but it was worth it just to think of the smiles on all your faces (taken it too far havent I)

Ahem

Anyway it's all yer getting till am able to walk aboot without looking like ah've jist filled ma punders wi a big jobby and I'm trying to gingerly get to the toilet afore it runs oot the bottom of ma troosers

So on that happy note - Merry Chrimbo and a Happy New Year folks, hope 2008 is a fab year fer ye all

Cheers

Ham

To A Spine.

It’s right behind ye, tucked oot of sight,

It huds ye up, it gives ye height,

It lets ye bend and touch yer toes,

It lets ye flex tae raise yer nose.

It gies a place tae rest yer skull,

Tae fix yer ribs and clavicles,

In fact it hosts near aw yer bones,

this central towering knobbly home.

Dinnay forget yer muscles noo,

they need somewhere tae hud on too,

ligaments need tae bind the pair,

without a spine they’ve just thin air.

Yer poor auld back, it toils so hard,

A dreary job with scant reward,

Nae a ‘glamorous’ body part,

With top place billing like the heart.

Ye cannay ‘lose’ it to another,

It wont profess to be a lover,

It disnay drum a steady beat ,

But by God it keeps ye on yer feet.

It keeps ye straight, protects yer nerves,

Fer far less praise than it deserves,

A place to hang that heavy pack,

The unsung hero is yer back.

So why the homage to the spine?

I’ll tell ye why in double time,

Ma back is gubbed! It’s goosed! It’s knacked!

And noo am scunnered, lying flat.

Ma toes are noo but distant friends,

Ah doot ah’ll no see them again,

My socks hing limply in ma hands,

Useless woolen stripy bands.

Bendings but a tearful fancy,

Fer this greeting faced, baldy Nancy,

Laid oot rigid on his bed,

Oor bubbling bairn wishes he wis dead

He called the Surgery to plead his case,

They took his call with little grace,

But surely he could struggle through?

They didn’t seem to have a clue

‘Ah cant stand up, ah’ve shat myself’

‘Does that sound like I’m in rude health?

With wounded pride she did conceed

That maybe I really was in need.

The Doc came oot and had a look,

A poke, a prod; then stood aloof,

‘I’d take it easy for the next few days’

He spouted forth with listless gaze

‘Oh really Doc’ I replied with scorn,

‘I’d planned to run a race the morn’

‘How long did it take tae ye tae learn aw that?

Ah micht as well have asked the cat!

Yer supposed to try and diagnose,

A reason for my anguished pose,

Perhaps a pill to ease the pain?

To save you coming back again?

His face grew red with bluff and bluster,

But puff was all the boy could muster,

Go on, F*CK OFF! ye useless quack,

Yer smeg all use for my sair back.

So please dear friends, heed my advice,

As I lie here prone, applying ice,

Treat yer back like treasured gold,

Ye’ll need it till yer very old

Dinnay slouch and slump in chairs,

Forgoe the lift and take those stairs,

Keep that spine moving freely,

Don’t be like me; tired and weary

This tower of strange shaped vertebrae,

Designed to hold yer shape all day,

In truth they are yer ‘real’ best friend,

Ye need them all tae twist and bend

So to prevent repeats of this sad farce,

And let ye kick the Doctors @rse!

To pull yer socks upon yer toes,

to say goodbye to bending woes

Revere the back and worship gaily,

Do your stretching three times daily,

Cod liver oil will reduce your woes

and help you reach those distant toes

ps Remember a backs not just for Christmas ….

Hams Back

2007-12-09T19:13:00.000Z

Hams Back!

Have you been away? Is probably your retort to my two word opening. No, I haven't. I am in fact referring to my spine.

'What about it' you enquire with feigned interest

It's gubbed! I say gubbed when of course I mean fucking agony. Every time I sit down a small dwarf sneaks up behind me and starts inserting needles into the small of my back. By the time I've stood up the wee bastard is gone! To be fair standing up is such a gradual process, it might not be a dwarf; that's only a guess seeing as a tortoise could have legged it in the time it takes me to get erect ......... hmmm I could have phrased that slightly better

One the plus side once I'm up; I'm fine! ...... again more thought could have gone into that sentence. What I'm trying to say is movement is good, mobility is my friend, walking eases my aching back and I almost forget about it - until I sit down again. If I remain sedentary for more than a couple of minutes then the dwarf returns.

Anyhoo it does mean that I'm not overly keen on sitting in front of my laptop for four hours tonight to write more 'truths' for you. I'd like to, really I would. But instead I will be walking around my house guzzling ibuprofen, paracetamol, crack, smack, windolene, fecking ANYTHING that might take the nippiness out of my vertebrae.

Tried Ice - Didn't work

Tried heat - Didn't work

Tried Heat, then Ice - Pissed masel and it still didnt work

So you will have to excuse me yet again while I go for another wee stroll to change my underwear. I do apologise for the dreadful service but it is due to circumstances outwith my control. And if you dont like it feel free to kiss my hairy fucking arse you prissy c-

Sorry sorry sorry - I am prone to slight 'tetchiness' at the moment, I think it might be the drain cleaner I had earlier.

Fondest Regards

Ham

Ham Shanks Secret Diary - The Home of the Truth!

2007-12-02T22:39:00.000Z

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’

Ham Shanks Secret Diary - The Cars the Star

2007-11-26T22:38:00.001Z

Ham Shanks Secret Diary – Slipidee Doo Dah

One definition of ‘addiction’ according to the t’interweb dictionary is: ‘The condition of being habitually or compulsively occupied with or involved in something’

Now that ‘something’ could be exercise, it could be illegal Dutch cigarettes, it could even be bedroom aerobics; if you’re not married of course – that all stops as soon as the rings on yer finger. However in the case of my elder brother this addiction is motor vehicles. Any kind of motor vehicle. Cars, vans, bikes, 4x4’s, buses there’s nothing he hasn’t owned at some time or other in the 22 years since he fluked his driving test. My evil twin and I sat down and worked out that he has owned well over 120 vehicles in that time. Although when you average it out it’s actually less than 6 cars a year, hardly one every other month, barely an addiction …

You see he’s a very good mechanic (self taught) and this allows him to buy MOT failures for thruppance halfpenny and get them back on the road for a fraction of the cost a ‘real’ garage would charge. This way he can feed his habit without spending too much cash. In fact he often makes a few quid in the process, selling these on to naïve members of his family for instance. New cars don’t really interest him. They don’t have any character apparently. Neilly likes’ classic’ cars i.e. old pieces of excrement that require ‘tweaks’ with screw drivers and hammers to get them started every time you actually need the fecker to move off it’s rusted wheels.

Neillys idea of character was having to remember that certain windows on the vehicle would wind down, but not up again. I don’t know about you but I would suggest that the window moving in both directions is a basic function for a driver or passenger side window is it not? The minimum you could reasonably expect from said objects? Or perhaps I’m being a tad fussy.

Doors were always a good laugh as well. It was a gimmie that you would have to lift and twist the door as if you were trying to draw an occult symbol in the air should you want to open or close the fecker properly. Doors don’t just hang on hinges and you pull them open; that’s crazy talk! Security was always very important though, ok sometimes doors would only lock from inside the vehicle, which is a minor drawback should you wish to leave the vehicle unattended. But occasionally they would lock from the outside on their own anyway. Many are the times I’ve had to enter a vehicle from the passenger door, or the back door. In one case the boot; burrowing under the back seat to emerge grimy and out of breath in the front footwell.

Fuelling the vehicle was often a trying experience. Sweating feverishly as cars blared their horns impatiently in the station forecourt as you wrestled with the reticent fuel cap for a full ten minutes. After you’d given up and pushed the thing home Neil would inform you they had to be opened with a ‘special’ tool stored in the glove box. I say special tool when of course I mean a carefully bent screwdriver or a fish slice liberated from mums cutlery drawer. Now that I think about it most of the caps had a thin coating of ruskoline and our fish & chips always had a hint of WD40?

Noises that would normally cause great consternation to the discerning motorist were just to be ‘ignored’ according to the boy blunder ‘oh aye dinnay worry about the scraping noise that’s nothing serious’ Which did always make me shudder at what he might deem to actually be serious. He would continue listing ‘features’ of the vehicle as you rolled up your left trouser leg and contorted your fingers into the appropriate Masonic handshake position required to start up the latest offering from Shanks Autos. ‘Oh and if ye hear a grinding type noise when you ease off the gas that’s just the diff at the back’, ‘it’s a bit noisy’, ‘wear these’ he would say as he handed you a pair of battered ear defenders.

It was therefore always a joy borrowing one of my brothers’ motor vehicles. When you wearily asked what’s wrong with it he’d reply ‘nothing its fine’ sometimes he’d even have the barefaced cheek to look affronted when you asked the question. Then just as you were pulling out of the driveway he would shout a stream of dire warnings and special instructions such as ‘remember third gear doesn’t exist’ and ‘the rear tyre needs blown up every day’ would be the last thing you’d hear as you kangarooed off down the street; vainly pressing the brake pedal as you rapidly approached something solid and unyielding.

So you can imagine my apprehension when he asked me to help ‘move’ a couple of vehicles this weekend. He obviously clocked the look of terror that spread quickly across my face ‘it’s okaaay you’re getting to drive the Landrover’ he muttered in a patronising voice. My hackles settled slightly at this news; after all its proven engineering is a Land Rover. Bullet proof technology.

Although my evil twin would disagree with my assessment of Landrover technology. He had a ‘bit of an off’ in one a few years back; a Shanks Auto obviously. It had a little bit of a steering issue i.e. it didn’t really have any. There was a ‘bit of play’ in the steering I think was how Neil described it. ‘F*cking Death Trap’ was my twins rather less sanguine assessment. Admittedly he was upside down in a field at the time and that’s going to colour any ones judgement. He was therefore not considered an option as designated driver for this particular mission.

After the usual pre journey lies I cut to the chase ‘Right c’mon then what is it really like?’ cue much practiced hurt expression from elder brother ‘what do you mean?’ he replied with customary nonchalance ‘I mean what doesn’t work?’, ‘Noth-‘, ‘Or only works a little bit’ I interrupted ‘Everything is f-‘, ‘or needs six warm-up presses and a quick prayer to actually function?’ I replied quickly. He leant his elbow on the door frame and looked me straight in the eye ‘look it’s nae fast but it’s a great runner’ he kept eye contact for a few seconds, with hindsight I think this was so I wouldn’t notice his crossed fingers.

Adjusting the Saint Christopher around my neck I hastily lit an incense stick and placed it in the Mikoshi Shrine I’d glued onto the dashboard. A quick pray towards Mecca and I felt I’d covered most of the bases. Handing over a last letter to loved ones I gingerly slipped the beast into first gear and trundled out of the driveway, counting in my head ‘five, four, three, two, on-‘, ‘mind the clutch is slipping a wee bitty and the brakes arnay too hot’ came the doppler’d cry as my elder brother sprinted in the opposite direction and I lumbered helplessly down the street., the brake pedal thumping uselessly to the floor.

So a great runner but a poor stopper it would seem. ‘Fnnbasstrd’ I mumbled through gritted teeth as the first tardy pensioner bounced off the bonnet …..

Ham Shanks Secret Diary - The late one

2007-11-22T21:49:00.000Z

Hello folks

The tortoise won again - The Hare just never learns .......

aye ok I'll be quiet

Hope ye enjoy

Regards

Ham

Ham Shanks Secret Diary – Death of a Salesman

As you may be aware I passed my bike test this year. I had to do something quickly as my midlife crisis had stalled slightly after the whole Prince Albert fiasco in May [Flash back to Piercing studio and brief conversation with the jangling proprietor ‘you’re going to put a hole where?’, ‘Get tae fu-‘] Still Desperate to prove myself young after bottling the butchering of my bellend I’d elected for a more traditional form of delusion; hence the motorbike.

However after successfully negotiating the actual test my single remaining sensible brain cell inside had prevented me from buying something insane like a 1000cc sports bike. This dominant neuron had convinced me to buy a 650 ‘all-rounder’ when the salesman had been writing out the order form for the brand new 1000cc Fireblade I had been drooling over.

However, neurons, like pay packets, are very short lived. Repeated baths in 12 year old malt had put paid to the wee fella and any lingering sensibilities I may have had along with it. Devoid of a conscience I was now free to look at something a little bit bigger than the wee commuter I’d originally purchased.

In fact the whole scenario had been triggered by my older brother, himself a biker, he had suggested that we go on a wee tour round the North of Scotland next year. I was dubious about such a trip on my wee bike (see Mum it wasnay me. It was Neil, it was actually his idea! A bigger boy made me do it) That never worked 25 years ago and I have little hope it will work now, but as my mum is dusting down the slipper as we speak I’ve got nothing to lose.

Anyway moving swiftly back to the present, I was forced to agree (against my will Mum) with my evil dominating elder brother that this tour was in fact a splendid idea (I had no choice mum, he was hitting me) he suggested between blows that perhaps my little commuter would struggle to keep up with his Honda Pan European and I should trade-up. He did have a point, his bike has a fairing the size of West Africa and a seat that would make a leather Chesterfield look distinctly small and uncomfortable. His 1100cc’s could cruise all day with minimal effort whereas my 650cc needs a bit more of a caning to keep up. It was becoming all too apparent that I was in need of an alternative bike.

To be honest I didn’t fancy a ‘Pan’ they are great bikes but they weigh about nine tons and they cost a bleeding fortune. They hold their value for ever; even a ten year old bike will set you back the guts of three grand. But besides not actually having three grand I wasn’t ready for the pipe and slippers quite yet. After all I was still in the midst of my mid-life crisis. I’m young and virile dontchyaknow! I couldn’t possibly be seen on a Pan! They are for bank managers and crumblies in their forties dude! Like no waaaaaay!

A trip to the bike shop was required to test ride a few machines; what a chore …..

First stop was the BMW garage. Their machines are popular, reliable, and excellent quality. More importantly they are ridden by movie stars! (Messieurs McGregor and Boorman) This all fitted in nicely with the old mid-lifer.

However I think the salesman that I met may have been resting on the laurels of this Hollywood association …. [Ham enters showroom stage right]

‘Hi I’m interested in doing a bit of touring next year an-‘ the salesman held up a weary hand, waving me into silence, before strolling round me in the manner of a judge inspecting a prize dog ‘You don’t look like a potential BMW owner’ he sniffed, while holding my mouth open to examine my teeth ‘I ‘eg oor ardon?’, ‘we can tell you know’, ‘oh weally’ my jaw was released and he jabbed a finger into my ribs, checking for muscle tone, or in this case losing his finger up to the first knuckle ‘oh yes and I’m not sure you have what it takes’ he continued with barely disguised disdain, gently slipping on a latex glove as he talked.

‘So how much is the 1200Gs then?’ I asked politely. He shot up ramrod straight ‘How much?’, ‘yes’, ‘How much?’ he repeated in disbelief, his faced now screwed up with a look of the utmost revulsion. I fear he would have looked happier had he been munching on a turd sandwich. He had cocked his head to the side and was plainly lost for words; a first for any kind of vehicle salesman I would have thought. Enquiring about fiscal matters this early in the proceedings when at a BMW dealership was clearly a social faux pa ‘well just roughly’ I continued foolishly.

‘Roughly’ he exclaimed in a high pitched voice, his face now an angry crimson colour ‘you want to know the rough cost of a BMW!’ The last three letters had been loudly yet somehow reverently uttered. Having dug this deep I felt there was only one way to go, after all I’d need a step ladder to get out of the hole I was already in so I might as well start digging a bit more; see if I can break into an escape tunnel somewhere below. In the circumstances attack seemed the best form of defence.

‘Well they are for sale aren’t they’ I replied sarcastically. This was not a good move. The mans eyes rolled so far back in their sockets all I could see was white, I say white when of course I mean bloodshot demonic yellow ‘You don’t buy a BMW’ he roared furiously ‘You don’t sully the Bayerische Motoren Werke by purchasing anything!’ he continued with gathering zeal ‘You enter the realms of the BMW experience’ he cried, his hands raised theatrically aloft, I felt the only thing that was missing was a pulpit.

Unfortunately this was just the first commandment ‘you revel in the cosseted sensual glory of being fortunate enough to straddle such a gloooooorious machine’ he continued (2^nd commandment) I backed slowly towards the door scanning for any suitable blunt instruments that might be lying around ‘you live BMW, (3^rd) you breathe BMW (4^th), you become one with BMW (5^th), you are assimilated into the collective and resistance is futile (6^th), you WILL be part of the BMWWWWWWW’ (7^th of how many more I don’t know)

I think he may well have exploded after that; but I wasn’t there to find out. As soon as he’d started foaming at the mouth I’d done my Billy whiz act. I don’t think I’ve ever done the 100m in 6 seconds before? And that was whilst fastening my helmet and donning my gloves on route. Got to be a candidate for the Guinness book of records you’d have thought? Although independent verification is unlikely as I shant be returning to that particular dealership.

Yamaha perhaps? I’ve always liked their organs …..

Slow but Steady

2007-11-19T22:32:00.001Z

Slow but steady wins the race, or so they say

This is the ethos I am following for this weeks diary. It'll be worth the wait though .... what's that? .... two weeks since the last one? Really? Noooooooo

How time flies when your having fun .......

Ahem

Sorry about the particularly dreadful service of late, I'm burning the candle at both ends just now. I've also started in the middle and I'm blow torching the bits inbetween for good measure.

Not only have I bitten off more than I can chew, I've bitten off more than I can bite. In fact my jaw is locked open and a crew of fireman are currently inside trying to work out how to get it closed again. It's such a big task they have called for another unit and they setting up a command post under my tongue.

I think I'm going to have to cut back on my exercise regime, twice a day, five days a week is taking it's toll. It's also playing havoc with my sleeping patterzzzzzzzz ......... whassat? mmmm? s ... and I fear I am starting to hallucinate. Only this afternoon I saw a squadron of flying beetroot kidnapping the tooth fairy

Which is ridiculous - beetroot cant fly!

Anyway I can only prostrate myself at your feet and beg for your forgiveness. Although having said that I'm not 'actually' going to do that cos the ground is quite muddy and begging is just so undignified.

Let's settle for 'I'll sit nearby, somewhere dry and comfy, and tell fibs about why my diary is so late'

So are we ready?

'A bigger boy stole it and ran away'

'The dog ate it'

'Indians surrounded us and we had to corral the wagons to protect ourselves'

'Aliens abducted me and probed me'

I've always thought that was a particularly weak excuse that one. I mean these vastly intelligent creatures can build a spaceship to travel through space faster than light, they have the technology to traverse the galaxy and must have seen countless planets and species on the way. Yet they need to get a stick out to look up my backside and see what the smell is? I think not

It's shite boys!

Just like this excuse - Sorry folks as my school report cards always said 'could try harder'

And I promise I will

Doei

Last Word

2007-11-08T17:06:00.000Z

Many thanks to all who pointed out my glaring typo

'Bevity' is in fact not a word

Brevity is however a recognised word and it means (amongst other things) the quality of expressing much in few words

So in that vein ......

Ham cannay type, what a shocker,
Ye ken by now he's aff his rocker,
But gie the baldy man a break,
He wis sitting up awfy late

To write the shite ye get fer free,
Every week, or two, or three ....
So dinnay bump yer gums and moan,
Cos you're not sitting all alone

Scratching yer heid and sucking yer teeth,
Tae fill a page or two with keech,
I try my best, to make you smile,
Sometimes that can take a 'while'

But in the end the tortoise wins,
And you can chuck it in the bin!

Or the super-abridged version

'Get tae fuck I wis tired'

They like to promote 'honest dialogue' at my work, I'm 'embracing' these values and living the dream .....

Fondest regards

Ham

Ham Shanks Secret'ish Diary

2007-11-07T23:46:00.000Z

Hello shunned and patronised readers

Sorry for the lateness and bevity of this weeks effort but all will become apparent when you read on, assuming you do and this isnt auto-forwarded to a junk e-mail folder.

I mean I wouldnt blame you, honestly the service is awful and quite frankly Ham is a complete and utter ti......

Kindest Regards

yedeyahyah like we give a monkeys etc

Ham

The Gunpowder Blot

(or ‘Neds Christmas’)

Lying still beneath my bed,

With a towel wrapped around my head,

With earplugs buried in too deep,

My eyes closed tight, I dare not peep

I’ve been two hours underneath,

Trembling limbs and gritting teeth,

I really canna take nae mair,

As yet more shell bursts fill the air

For pities sake just pack it in,

It really is a fearful din,

It’s half past one on Wednesday night,

Awa tae bed ye dozy shites!

I can’t but help to wonder why,

We allow the Ned to fireworks buy,

Do they really understand the reason?

We celebrate the powder treason

To them Guy Fawkes is just an ancient git,

With floppy hat; a bearded tit,

A ragged doll atop the flaming tyres,

That constitutes today’s bonfires

Another salvo overhead,

As I cower and cringe beneath the bed,

The window pane it shakes and rattles,

Evoking thoughts of ancient battles

No wonder soldiers in the trenches,

Ran away and went demented,

The constant racket gets in yer heid,

And maks ye think yer better deid

But Jerry’s nae across the wire,

Am no really under heavy fire,

There’s no a bayonet fixed or soldiers ready,

Tae charge and shoot while I ‘hold steady’

Just fifteen Neds oot on the street,

Laughing loudly and stamping feet,

Lighting fireworks and drinking buckie,

Dodging coppers and staying lucky

But lady luck’s a fickle lass,

And sudden change can come to pass,

The Burberry boys will long lament,

The night that Ham, his patience went

From beneath the bed oor hero soars,

His eyes ablaze midst violent roars,

‘Gerroootyafuuuckers’ comes out the scream,

As Ham confronts the bawbag team

A kipper tie wrapped roond his napper,

Ham looks quite the snazzy urban rapper,

Shame aboot the stripy braces,

But worth it just tae see their faces

Bare chested bar the stripy sussies

Ham shouts ‘Come on ye fuuuucking lassies!’

Black paint daubed across his face,

His manboobs jiggle into place

Ah cannay think they felt too worried,

As Ham whirled and spun and nearly buried,

The frying pan against his nads,

Whilst fronting up against the lads

A whirling dervish, Ham roared and flew,

His arms held wide at ‘ten to two’,

Fine for driving, but nae much use,

Fer sconing Neds and letting loose

But Lady Luck was backing Shanks,

And two were felled like falling planks,

Inertia pulled our baldy friend,

Around to clatter three more men

The rest took fright and ran at once,

With fleeting blows across the bonce,

‘And don’t come back ye little shites!’

Bellows Ham into the night

The rabble crushed, Ham stumbles and falls,

He took a low one in the balls,

The adrenalin worked but now it’s gone,

He’s mumbles weakly ‘at least I won’

A half hour later he’s tucked up in bed,

Peaceful silence fills his head,

To sleep; perchance to dream that’s all,

Was worth a blooter in the baws

Ham Shanks Secret Dairy - The Reunion

2007-10-30T00:32:00.000Z

Only a day late folks

Which given the tardy service of late is practically on time!

Aye ok I'll shut up

Kind Regards

Ham

ps this one is all true

pps really

ppps really really

Ham Shanks Secret diary w/e 28^th Oct 2007 – ‘The Reunion’

‘Your friends make your world’ don’t you think. Family are also important, but you don’t choose them. Ye just get stuck wi a greeting faced twin brother and a neep fer an older brother through an accident of birth. You are tied to yer siblings through a combination of genetics and being forced to share a room with them through yer formative years. They are always there, no matter how many times ye move hoose without leaving a forwarding address. Your friends however are made through conscious choice.

This can stem from a shared fondness for the theatre perhaps? Or by supporting the same football team, enjoying the same type of music. Inevitably it is through some kind of collective experience or endeavour that friendships are forged. In the particular case of my two friends who visited this weekend it was not sport, the theatre or music that brought us together, it was a common love of beer. Not just beer you understand, sometimes spirits as well.

I don’t want you to think that we are alcoholics, heavens no! We met in our very early twenties when we were all working in a pub. But in case you get the wrong end of the stick during the course of this weeks diary I shall change their names to protect their identities. For the sake of anonymity I will simply refer to them as Bruce and Greig or Bruce Gavin and Greig Fraser to give them their full fake identities.

It’s been a while since we all saw each other but you can always tell who your real friends are because these are the ones where you just carry on where you left off, be it a day, a year, or ten years since you last met. There are no recriminations for not keeping in touch, just delight at meeting again and for the chance to catch up and enjoy each others company. In this instance it had been over two years since we’d met, I was really looking forward to the weekend as I stood on the platform waiting for their train to arrive.

The Aberdeen trains tends to quite busy and the Stirling platform isnay very big so I thought I better make one of those airport style greeting cards to help draw their attention to me as they alighted, I’d done it on bright orange card so it would really stand out. The train drew in then juddered to a halt with a final metallic squeal. A pneumatic hiss preceded the doors bursting open and I raised my ‘Stan & Ollie’ card aloft as passengers started pouring out on to the platform.

After three or four minutes of scanning faces as they streamed past me, I realised they were nowhere to be seen. My shoulders and arms were starting to ache as I held the card high; still no sign of the dynamic duo. Two more minutes and the platform was empty, the doors of the train had snapped shut again, and the diesel engine roared into life as it departed in a plume of black exhaust fumes. My hands were still aloft as I received a light tap on the shoulder and a voice piped up ‘alright fannybaws yer late!’

Turns out they had caught an earlier train and were sitting in the station bar all the time. Supping a cold beer, sniggering, digging each other in the ribs whilst pointing and laughing as I stood out on the platform like a spare dick at a wedding. With hindsight I should have been expecting it; a basic error on my part not to switch my brain to ‘8 year old schoolboy mode’ before they arrived.

Greig was still laughing like a drain as we walked to the car ‘ye can stop anytime ye like ye know’, ‘Ahaaaa haaaaaaaaaa’ his face was going purple as he spluttered and laughed. I looked at my watch ‘when’s your train back?’

My petted lip had all but gone by the time I’d opened my first beer ‘right boys fancy a spot of lunch?’ I enquired as we sat at the house, their bags safely stowed in the spare room. My evil twin had also joined us for the days revelry ‘yer nae cooking are ye?’ asked Bruce ‘no wur gawn oot!’ I replied hotly ‘aye ok then dinna wet yersel min’ he retorted whilst pulling a face. Quite an achievement considering his default expression is that of a professional girner. Shaking my head I glanced at the other two, looking for a response to my query? ‘aye’, ‘yup’ came the replies. Handing out another round of beers I went to order a taxi.

The journey into town only takes ten minutes but tempers were already getting frayed in that short time as Greig recounted a story from the train journey down for the umpteenth time ‘gie it a f*cking rest min, yiv din nothing but mump since we got here!’, ‘well if you hadn’t stabbed me in the back on the train I-’, ‘I didna stab ye in the back, all I did was offer the woman a seat’, ‘she wis a bible basher!’, ‘I didna ken that-‘, ‘she was carrying a bible, wearing a dog collar and asked if she could save our mortal souls!’. ‘Look I was just being a gentleman’ Greig nearly burst at this point ‘a fuuucking road runner couldn’t have caught you the speed ye legged it down the corridor ye prick’, ‘I was-‘, ‘WITH the fuuckingcarryout! Then ye left me to face the music yabaaaas!’

My running commentary on the sights of Stirling fell on deaf ears as they set about each other on the floor of the taxi ‘thieving..p.r.iick’, ‘mumping fanooomppff’, ‘and if you look across to your right you can see the Wallace monument’, ‘ah’ve never liked ye ya cu-ooomppff’, ‘Completed in 1869 it was built in the Victorian Gothic style-‘ Bruce’s efforts to twist off Greigs head were interrupted as we arrived at our destination. I let me evil twin pay the driver (perk of sitting in the front seat twinny) and we all stepped/fell out* (* delete as appropriate)

The prospects of a nice cold beer seemed to settle down the Chuckle brothers and we stepped inside for a pre-lunch aperitif. I hailed a waitress as we inserted ourselves in a booth beside the fire ‘Four pints of lager and four steak pies please’ turning to my friends enquiringly ‘you boys want anything?’

The grub was top notch and the freely flowing lager seemed to have cooled things down between Stan and Ollie. After a couple of hours we started to reminisce about the good old days, the average old days and the down right bloody awful days. Greig became particularly animated when we got onto the subject or referees. I’m not entirely certain how we actually got on to this subject but he had certainly saddled his high horse and was riding it big style when we did ‘Aye and the very desire to be a referee should ban you from ever being one’ he roared.

A sentiment to which we would all have agreed had he not accompanied the statement with a sweeping hand gesture that clipped the top of his pint tipping the whole lot in Bruces lap ……

You may have heard of the theory of parallel universes, it’s very popular in science fiction. Well I’m sure in one of those parallel universes Greig just missed the pint and the conversation continued with a chorus of ‘yeah, too right! Refs are b*stards’ from all around the table Or perhaps in another universe Bruce threw a pint over Greigs kecks and a big rammy ensued. However in this Universe something even scarier happened; Bruce said nothing.

He simply got up quietly and crabbed his way to the toilets, gingerly holding his sodden crotch away from his body. Fraz and I looked at each other in disbelief and then across at Greig who was still sitting with his arm extended and his lower jaw resting on the table ‘He took that rather well I thought?’, ‘rather too well?’ replied Fraz with a puzzled expression (or it could have been constipation? Hard to tell)

‘Greig?’ I waved my hand in front of his face ‘Greig?’, ‘Hello?’, ‘I think he’s in shock twinny, perhaps we should-‘ SLAP! ‘Oooyahfuuucker’ I stared at my brother who had just skelped an open hand across Greigs face ‘what the hell are ye doing?’, ‘ye have to; get’s them out of their shock’ SLAP! ‘Oyyaaa’, ‘Right right, he seems to be with us now so ye-‘ SLAP! ‘stop it STOOOOP’

I picked the dazed Greig off the floor, dusted him down and passed him another lager ‘Okay what’s the deal, why did he spare you?’, ‘he’s just had the snip’ he murmured under his breath, hands shaking as he nursed his beer ‘what?’, ‘he’s a jaffa now’ he continued in a hushed whisper ‘eh? I canna hear ye?’, ‘he had a fecking vasectomy last week!’ bellowed Greig at the top of his lungs ‘Ooooooh’ all the men in the bar adopted a natural protective position over their jewels and winced collectively while the girls just smirked.

‘Better go and see if he’s all right’ mumbled Greig before stumbling through to the toilets to find him ‘drying’ his trousers under the hand dryer. He was holding the front of the crotch between thumb and forefinger and as far away from his body as possible as the hot air blew over the wet denim ‘eeer am really sorry are ye ok?’, ‘fine’, ‘am really sorry’, ‘it’s ok’, ‘am really really sor-‘, ‘stop saying sorry, it’s ok’, ‘sorr- … eeer right well, I’ll just uum’ bowing and scraping backwards he scuttled back to our table.

Now whilst a hand dryer is dashed handy in the circumstances it’s not exactly a proper tumble dryer. Little opportunity to add a sheet of ‘bounce’ for mountain freshness or fabric softening. The harsh drying tends to add a certain rigidity to a fabric like denim. Not a good feature when you’ve been holding the seam six inches away from your body for half an hour. Let it go and, well, let’s just say it leaves a lasting impression.

It was only the one elderly lady at the bar that actually fainted but the latest style in denim did not go unnoticed by most patrons of the establishment ‘what?’ enquired Bruce as we all sat supping our pints with barely suppressed giggles ‘what’s wrong now?’ he continued, standing with his hands on his hips, a thin shadow casting a line over his pint. We were all snorting into our glasses as he just shook his head ‘f*cking bairns’ Noticing the barmaid reach for the phone and dial a three figure number I suggested we move on to another hostelry.

We secured a window seat at the next establishment, it had a fine view of the ‘performance area’ where we were to be treated to some ‘live’ music courtesy of a James Blunt look-alike with guitar (a student obviously) Now I will admit that I actually like James Blunt, nobody else seems to want to admit to buying his music despite the fact his first album went platinum six times? I guess his mum must have bought an awful lot of copies.

Anyway you can imagine my disappointment when the work-shy young student subjected to us to a medley of the most depressing and obscure songs you have ever heard. A very competent guitar player, I’ll give him that, shame I wanted to garrotte myself with his e-string half way through the first set. After some barracking from the crowd he did play a single Elvis song and had a stab at a couple of Status Quo numbers, but really his heart wasn’t in it.

‘Shall we just head up the road?’ I enquired as a couple of ‘regulars’ started hurling beer bottles at the guys head ‘I’ve got a case of beer and a bottle of malt at home’, ‘aye we might as well’ smash ‘this isn’t very good’ crash ‘Oh good shot sir’ I applauded loudly. The young man had managed to return a becks bottle to it’s owner with some interest ‘elbow nice and high, an excellent cover drive’, ‘what about a curry?’ suggested my evil twin tinkle ‘Aye I could go a ruby’ piped up Greig ‘fair enough, those steak pies were a long time ago’ I replied, ducking under another projectile, wallop! ‘C’mon then, afore the feds arrive’

Five minutes later we were at the door of the restaurant. We could hear the faint sounds of police brutality back up the street as we were escorted to our table ‘Four pints of lager please, oh and a pint of water’ I was feeling a tad parched despite the lager and thought some light rehydration might compliment the days efforts at dehydrating myself and alleviate the following days hangover ‘Oh I’ll have a water as well please’ shouted Greig as the waiter trotted off to get our order.

I’d recommended this particular establishment as it offered a ‘buffet’ meal; as much as you could eat for a tenner. It’s always so difficult to choose when you’ve had a gallon and a half of beer so it’s safest just to go down the Mr Creosote route and ‘av the lot’ It also avoids potential ‘food envy’. The waiter fired the starting pistol and we all sprinted for the big silver trough. I was first back the table having only taken a moderately huge plateful. The rest of the boys were fighting over the last two shovelfuls of chicken pakora as I tucked in my napkin and sipped my water.

In actual fact I’d drained the first pint in two seconds flat and was half way down the second when Greig returned to his seat with his towering plate ‘hey min stop drinking ma f*cking water!’, ‘sorry loon am awfy thirsty’ I replied before greedily guzzling the rest as quick as I could. He shook his head in disbelief before hailing the waiter ‘could I have another glass of water please?’ Bruce and Fraz had called a truce, returning to the table carrying the entire silver trough between them much to the dismay of the remaining patrons queued at the now dismembered buffet table.

‘Would you believe he drank my water’ exclaimed Greig ‘that you mumping again is it Fannibaws?’ retorted Bruce as the waiter returned with a pint of water ‘he had two fecking pints’ cried out Greig whilst waving a fork in my direction. Before he could reach out for the water Bruce snatched the pint and downed it in one ‘You fuuuucking bas!’, ‘what’s wrong mumpy? Are ye thirsty?’ replied Bruce with a smug grin. Greigs eyes narrowed as he hailed the waiter for a third time ‘could I have another glass of water please’

The poor man looked rather non-plusssed; he must have thought it was ground hog day. When he eventually returned with the fresh pint of water Greig was jabbing his fork at Bruce in a rather menacing manner ‘and you can keep yer fecking hands aff this one sunshine‘ Bruce had his hands held up on either side of his head ‘wouldna touch it if ye paid me mumpy’, ‘good cos I’m parched-‘ a loud clunk made him look round. Fraz was placing the empty glass back on the table ‘oh I needed that jings I was thirsty’

The look on Greigs face was priceless.

However my joy was short-lived because just at that very moment somebody flicked a switch in my stomach. Spin cycle and hot wash were simultaneously selected. Not a pleasant combination and somewhat unexpected. There were no warning signs whatsoever. Although perhaps drinking heavily could be considered in mitigation. I would have tried a glass of water but I fear a fork up the nose may have been forthcoming from the agitated and dangerously dehydrated Mr Fraser. Instead I opted for the Titus Oates ‘I’m just going outside, I may be some time’ line as I sprinted towards the exit.

It was some time later that the boys piled out of the curry house, Greig was clutching several dozen bottles of water and snarling at the other two. I was hunched over a storm drain praying for an early death as the acid reflux went into overdrive. Sensing the night was over for me they hailed a taxi ‘time to go home Ham, yer nae looking weel son’, ‘gmmf’

The driver, taking note of my puce complexion had decided that speed was of the essence, clearly not wanting me to chunder in his cab. I didn’t disagree with that philosophy in principle; I just didn’t think a roller coaster ride at 70mph through the heart of the toon was likely to make me feel any better either. Thankfully I made it home without disgracing myself (anymore) and staggered in the front door.

Whilst the boys got wired into bottles of beer I grabbed a bottle of gaviscon and headed for the sanctuary of the bathroom. Draining the bottle I slumped onto the floor wrapped my arms round the toilet and waited. I’m not one of these people who can stick their fingers doon their throat and be sick. I’ll do anything to avoid it. I hugged the cool porcelain instead and prayed for death to come.

Four and a half hours I was clinging on to that pot and I’ll tell you something it reminded me why I only go out drinking with those bawbags every two years. Friends make your world? Do they f*ck! They taint and destroy it, they are evil. Don’t trust them! Stick to your relatives at least they are not trying to kill you.

ps it’s also worth noting that exceeding the recommended dosage of any product containing aluminium hydroxide can lead to confusion, drowsiness and loss of mental acuity. Although thankfully I remain unaffected.

Ham Shanks and the Deathly Hangover

2007-10-22T22:39:00.000+01:00

Hello readers

Despite the title of this weeks ramblings there is not a single Harry Potter reference so dont panic if ye havnay read the last book.

I had rather a lot to drink this weekend, hence the slight lateness of the diary. Dont worry though I'm never drinking again so it wont happen in future .....

Kindest Regards

Ham

Ham Shanks and the Deathly Hangover

You wake, it’s dark; darker than the inside of a Goths bedroom. In fact it’s darker than the inside of a Goths bedroom with your head buried under the duvet, a blindfold over your eyes, your eyelids stapled shut and this all after your eyes have been poked out with a pointy stick. So it’s safe to assume that it’s not very light.

A pungent acrid smell hangs in the air, not dissimilar to rotton eggs and brimstone, it pervades you’re nostrils as you lie listening to the incessant noise of a sledge hammer being smashed repeatedly against the inside of your skull. An impromptu burp evokes memories of last nights ‘wee dram’ that seemed such a good idea at three in the morning but is proving cause for regret. The hint of acidic bile warns of pleasures yet to come and an upcoming ride on the porcelain bus.

However you’ve no time to dwell on the sorrow of your impending chunder because the painfully swollen bladder that roused you from your slumber in the first place is now being rapidly, and I mean very rapidly, trumped by the turtles head emerging distressingly quickly into your boxers. The big fella seems keen for a bite of early morning lettuce and is making a determined bid for freedom. Alarm bells should now be ringing thoughout your body.

So it’s a shame that you pickled your brain in finest malt whisky last night, thereby destroying a large portion of its already dwindling supply of grey matter. A lot of razor quick fiery young neurons bustling about the mid and hindbrain keeping tabs on all those terribly inconvenient autonomic functions would be really handy just now. Instead all you’ve got left are the dodgy old pickled ones that have survived your repeated attempts to poison them. The three ‘wise’ neurons have been reduced to two after last nights little soiree. Now it’s just two old duffers sitting on rocking chairs on the veranda of your forebrain talking about the good old days.

A red faced young neuron has manfully fought his way up from the midbrain, the very last of the brave cells who survived last nights fifteenth glass of twelve year old sherry casked malt ‘message for you sah’ he whispers before collapsing at the feet of the nearest rocking chair. Old Abe picks the chitty out of the dying boys hand ‘Mmm something about the sphincter in trouble?’, ‘whassat? Eh?’ stutters young Mr Vern his aged sidekick ‘Sphingwhat?’, ‘Sphincter, keeps the mmm stuff mm in .. mm or out I can’t mmm remember’ brrinng brriiing ‘whoahwhsaat?’

An old bakelite telephone is jangling itself off the receiver as Abe scratches his head ‘sphincter? Sphincter? Now where’s that again’ Vern stumbles across to the telephone and picks it up hesitantly ‘Allo?’, The voice on the other end sound mighty relieved ‘Oh thank God, it’s the bladder here; we’re in real trouble, and I mean real-‘, ‘Speak up I cants hears ya’, ‘I SAID IT’S THE BLAD-‘ click He replaces the reciever ‘muss be a wrong number’ a nano second later it rings again brrinng brriiing brrinng brriiing ‘DEAR GOD HELP!’, ‘you’ll aves to speak up I aint ad my ears syringed since nineteen oatcake’, ‘WERE BURS-‘, ‘bloody cold callers’ mumbles Vern slamming down the receiver again.

Awoogah Awoogah Awoogah! A klaxon blares out as red and blue lights start flashing above the doddery old cells. Abe shuffles in front of a complicated looking control panel. There are an array of levers in different colours and shapes. Underneath a large red neon button is covered by Perspex safety glass ‘Mmm Now it the mmm blue mmm lever for legs and the yellow one for arms?’, ‘what’s that mmm red one for again?’

Brrinng brriiing, brrinng-fecking-brriiing ‘Allo’, ‘Stomach here sir, we need oesophagus and mouth open now! Get those stomach muscles engaged and get this area clear. It’s getting pretty rough down here, there doesn’t seem to be any space the other way and it’s backing up-‘, ‘Ow many times does I av’es to tells ya we don’t want any!’ Vern thrusts the receiver back in it’s cradle and piles a large amount of cushions on top ‘Oi told ya we shoulda gone ex-directory Abe’

Abe’s not listening, he’s trying to remember if the leg bone is connected to the knee bone or the ankle bone and what muscles actually make you stand up ‘Now mmm is it mmm biceps in the mmm leg? Oh no no no it’s pectorals isn’t it mmm’ The muffled sound of a telephone ringing can be faintly heard in the background. Vern has added an upturned sofa on top of the cushions and is hitting the whole lot with his stick ‘Gerrrout of it, oi’ll sets my dogs on ya’

A sound like a hunting horn makes Abe jump and his face is suddenly covered by a thin layer of white dust, he looks around in bewildered fashion ‘mmmm what the mmm I mmm?’ a muffled noise is emanating from a black pipe with a trumpet like mouthpiece at the near end. Tentatively he places it to his ear, frantic shouts can be heard ‘-ear god help us! She cannay take anymore, she gonna blow!’, ‘mmm I’m dreadfully sorry mmmm but we’re rather mmm busy just mmm now’, ‘could you perhaps call back in half an hour mmm?’, ‘half a fuuuckinghour! We don’t have thirty seconds pal, DO SOMETHING!’, ‘oh yes mmm right mmm well thank you for calling mmm’

‘Oh dear mmm it’s been awfully long mmmm’, ‘eany meany miney mo-‘

Pan back to the external view and witness a very sorry looking Ham trying to hobble and crab his way to the bathroom. Both hands over his mouth in an effort to keep last nights haggis supper from exiting northbound and his backside is clenched so tightly together that there is now no longer any blood reaching his legs. Pins and needles are beginning to set in as he tries to fumble his way to the bathroom in the pitch darkness. Normally he could find it in his sleep but all his senses are being drowned out by the pain in his nether regions

Back in the brain things are not going well. Vern has tied two loaves of bread over his ears and is back sitting on his rocking chair whilst the sofa rings angrily. Abe has given up with levers and is gingerly lifting the Perspex safety glass that covers the red neon button ‘mmm now mmm this ought to do the trick’ A shaky fingers stretches out….

Ham has managed to grab the cord for the bathroom light ‘click’ he can see the cludge; salvation and self respect are almost at hand when a loud hiss begins ‘FfffFfffff’ his eyes open wide. The sound develops into a long drawn out rasp, not unlike a muffled chainsaw. Swiftly followed by a violent clapping noise as if two sirloin steaks were being slapped together repeatedly and vigerously. One final heavy splat and then all is quiet.

Apart from the sound of a tear rolling gently down a cheek …..

Hams aff his heid

2007-10-18T22:24:00.000+01:00

Hello shunned readers

I'd like to apologise for the late delivery of ramblings this week. I took a birrova blow to the back of the heid on Monday night and I've not being feeling top notch ever since. Nothing too serious, just a volleyball skelped on to the back of ma coupon at a couple of hundred miles an hour. The main thing is I'm ok and there is no long term damage.

So I'd just like to apologise for the late delivery of this weeks diary, I received a blow to the back of the head on Thursday which was a tad nippy. Luckily I suffered no long term damage and I'm right as rain now

Anyway the main reason the diary is late is because I received a nasty thump on the back of the old noggin on Tuesday morning, nothing to worry about and thankfully no lasting damage to the the grey matter, but unsettling all the same

I can only apoilogise for the late delivery of the newspaper, took a crack on the skull, volleyball I think? Sunday evening? Anyway, no harm done but did give the pudding a wee bit of a shake inside the old basin, but right as rain now ....

So sorry about the diary, thing is got clattered on the head by ........

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 14^th October 2007

Jinx [jingks] – noun 1. a person, thing, or influence supposed to bring bad luck

Now you know me, I’m not superstitious. I don’t believe that walking under ladders will do you any harm per se; ok if there is somebody standing on the top rung of the ladder juggling flaming chainsaws, drinking neat whisky from a bottle and screaming ‘I cant take anymore, I just cant!’ then perhaps a wide berth is to be advised. But that’s hardly down to influences from the spiritual world. He’s up there because his wife has run off with the butcher; nothing unworldly about that.

You’ll also have guessed from previous rants that I’m not really a religious man. I’m not saying that there isn’t some kind of ‘higher presence’ out there. Something that we can’t yet explain, something that exerts an influence over us all. I’m simply saying we don’t know …… actually scratch that, I am saying that there’s nothing out there. It’s all complete b*llocks!

Although recent events have caused me to question that declared assumption (cue X-Files Music) Da da da Dadada da DADA! ‘I asked for X-Files music, not X-fecking factor ye eedjits! That’s the last thing I need, Simon Cowell moping about with petted lip and effeminate hand gestures. Get it fixed sound editors, what don’t I pay you a penny for? Distant crashes and grumblings are heard in the background followed by theatrical blowing of dust and the noisy insertion of a cassette into an ancient tape deck, one final loud clunk and we are in business… Doo de doo doo dooo ‘thaaaaat’s better I can almost see Mulder & Scully’.

So where was I? Oh yes, it was a dark and wet night…… well actually it was a bright and sunny afternoon but that’s hardly foreboding. Doesn’t even remotely bode does a sunny afternoon. Exact opposite of a flipping dark wet night. Sunshine fills you with joy and happiness, an almost uplifting and spiritual experience at this time of year. Not great for a sinister narrative though so we’ll settle for gloomy intervals with intermittent periods of foreboding darkness and a high risk of an overnight curse.

Anyway back to the story; I’m driving doon the road with my elder brother Neil. Were in my shiny new car, I say new when of course I just mean new to me. It’s not actually brand new; in fact it’s seven years old. Still a good deal younger than the faithful old Peugeot I just left up North though. So can’t complain.

It’s been quite an emotional day; saying goodbye to the car that’s kept me mobile these last two years. A lot of memories. I have to admit I shed a tear or two as I transferred the last of my gear out of the old car and into the new. Patting it gently on the roof like you would an old and faithful Labrador dog. Not wanting to be seen by my brother I whispered gently into the window ‘goodbye you old piece of sh*t’ a tear rolling down my cheek ‘you never f*cking started when I really needed ye to’ more tears started to flow as I kicked the tyres ‘WHY!’, ‘I put fuel in you!’ kick ‘I serviced you’ boot ‘WHY!!’ my brother pulled me away as I continued to lash out ‘yooobaaastard!’, ‘Leave it Ham, just leave it’

The scrap dealer was also rather non plussed as I sang ‘cheerio cheerio cheerio’ and skipped round his wagon while he winched the lifeless hulk onto the back of his yellow and red vehicle ‘you’re going home in a f*cking ambulance! La la la la laaa’ My brother just shook his head and gestured frantically ‘get in the car for pities sake you’re causing a scene’ Pausing to give my old car the vees three or four more times I finally got into the drivers seat of my new car ‘I looooove you’ I sighed, hugging the steering wheel as my brother rolled his eyes skyward.

Fast forward to the A90 just outside Dundee. It’s an hour and a half later ‘She just runs like a dream!’ I laugh enthusiastically ‘you said’ replies my brother wearily ‘many times’, ‘it’s just fantastic I mean she just runs like a dream’, my brother glances despairingly at his watch ‘uhuuu’, ‘I mean you just press the throttle peddle and vrooom she goes’, ‘fancy pressing it a bit harder so we get there quicker?’, ‘brakes are brilliant’ I continue paying no heed to his efforts to construct a noose out of his shoelaces.

He’s due to be playing volleyball in Dundee and I was supposed to be dropping him off on my way home as a favour for him finding me the great new car. We were a mile or two outside Dumpdee when I glanced at the fuel gauge ‘Oh no! Only three quarters of a tank left, better pull in for some fuel’ Neils eyes lit up as he removed his lace from the rear-view mirror. I flipped on the indicator and headed off the slip road. Before I even pulled to a stop he was scrabbling at the door ‘No no I’ll get this I insis-‘by the time I’d pulled on the handbrake the passenger door was wide open and my brother was a dust blurred dot on the horizon.

‘That must be his warm up’ I mumble whilst filling up the car with unleaded. Even my manic new car grin is unable to elicit a smile from the sour pussed gorgon on the till as she thrusts my change towards me and resumes licking her nettle. I return to the car and buckle up ‘only 60 miles to go and we’re home’ I whisper seductively, waggling my eyebrows at the dashboard. After several checks in the mirror I pull out of the station and onto the slip road, half way down said road the engine starts to splutter and the car begins to kangaroo … ‘what the f-‘ one last violent jolt and it coughs into silence.

Coasting to a stop ten metres from the end of the slip road. I turn the key and the starter motor whines but there is no sign of life from the engine. I try again and again; ten minutes later and the starter motor struggles to even turn as the battery bleeds dry. A forlorn woowoowoo noise peters out into silence and the battery is totally flat. There’s no doubt about it; the motoring Gods have forsaken me.

Dropping to my knees on the side of carriageway I throw my hands in the air, screaming to the sky ‘Whhhhhhhy! WHY ME! WHY!! Salty tears are rolling down my cheeks as I blubber uncontrollably. My arms are still raised aloft as a yellow and red wagon trundles into sight. My jaw drops as I watch the vehicle traverse slowly across my view from right to left. A reddish bronze coloured Peugeot sitting proudly on its back, with a large ‘Sold’ sticker emblazoned across the windscreen. The dealer gives a cheery wave as my head falls into my hands.

I am f*cking jinxed

Doo dee dooo dooo dooooo…..

Dear Points of View

2007-10-09T22:15:00.000+01:00

Hello Folks

Latest installment of ramblings and drivel.

Yes it's late, I know, I know. I could blame the Posties but that would be a fib and my mum told me not to tell fibs.

In a tragic turn for the worse my employer has insisted I actually do some work. This came as a complete shock. I did consult my union representative and he informed me that this is standard practice with most companies. As a result I am quite busy the noo.

To say I'm dissapointed would be an understatement ......

Hope ye enjoy this late submission anyway

Kindest Regards

Ham

Ham Shanks ‘Points of view’ w/e 7^th Oct 2007

I have received some ‘feedback’ about my last diary; a disgruntled reader took issue to my reference about the ‘real’ world cup being the Rugby world cup and not the football world cup. He took further umbrage at my intimation that oval was the correct shape for a ball. He was quite vociferous on the matter I have to say. Whilst I will concede that a football is obviously spherical in shape and would therefore be more closely associated with the dictionary definition of a ball he merely needs to have a rummage around inside his boxer shorts and decide if the contents of his happy sack are round or oval? Are they balls?

I have to say the recent events at Parkhead in Glasgow did nothing to change my previously voiced opinion of professional footballers and the round ball game. A boozed up ‘fan’ invades the pitch (yes he was a cretin wasn’t he) ‘taps’ the Milan goalie on the chest to congratulate him on his butter fingers which have just handed Celtic the game completely against the run of play. The invader then staggers off, taking another swig of buckie from his bottle. Our slippery handed hero sprints after the fan for half a dozen steps before thinking ‘hold the phone, I think I’ll play my joker card now’ crumples into a heap as if he’s been winged by a snipers bullet from the West Stand and pandemonium ensues.

‘Real’ footballers must shake their heads in disbelief. Because for all I have a pop at participants of the beautiful game; it is a hard game, it can be very physical. Let’s face it you don’t get a puss like Alex McLeish or Steve Bruce by wincing out of a challenge. It’s a shame the ponces up front (and in goal now) let the side down. Clearly Dida needs an anatomy lesson as well. When you’ve been tickled on your right pectoral/deltoid muscle there is little point in holding an ice pack to your left cheek? Similarly even a severe injury to your cheek tends not to affect your legs. Stretchered off? You’re having a giraffe!

Slight discrepancy with say Terry Butcher against Poland where half his brain was hanging oot the side of his head and he was still biting the opponents ankles ‘come back you cowards it’s only a flesh wound’ he screamed as the physio dragged him off for urgent cranial surgery. Okay so the authorities would never allow a player to continue in that condition nowadays and his white shirt may have made things look a tad more dramatic than they actually were but you still have to say ‘nails’

Nails are probably being looked out for Robert McHendry, the Celtic fan who prompted Didas award winning performance. He handed himself into a local police station. What they failed to mention on the six o’clock news was that he didn’t do it out of remorse for his drunken act or for the sake of Celtic football club. He was going to get his knackers nailed to a post if the real fans caught him first. It was protective custody! I believe he’s thinking of moving abroad? Sensible idea; perhaps invest in some plastic surgery as well?

I reckon there are about 80,000 hoops fans willing to carry out the procedure for free, although they will be using a broken bottle rather than the traditional scalpel.

However this minor excitement was detracting me from the real action. Scotland versus Argentina in the quarter final of the Rugby World Cup. Frank Haddens strategy of playing the under 13’s against the All Blacks had paid off handsomely. We cruised* past Italy (* for a given value of cruise) and now it was all to play for. Just three wins away from claiming that Web Ellis trophy ….

I’d travelled to my brothers’ house to watch the quarter final. I was concerned he might still be a little upset over last weekends broken nose ‘incident’ and I knocked on the door with some trepidation. When he answered he was clutching a can of beer and wearing a full hockey goal tenders outfit; not a good sign. ‘Alright bruv?’ I enquired, holding out the massive carry out I had taken by way of a peace offering ‘oh great, doo made it’ he mumbled before gesturing me inside.

‘How’s the … eeer uuum’, ‘de broken doze?’ he interjected ‘yes’ I finished lamely ‘still broken’, ‘right, er, that’s um … good then’ I mumbled whilst avoiding his withering glare and scuttling off to a far away seat. It was in fact the only other available seat in the living room. I couldn’t help but notice it was angled in such a way that I could only see a thin sliver of television. Standing up I grasped both arms of the chair ‘what are oo dooing?’, ‘moving the-‘, ‘cant move it or doo’ll mark de floor’ I glance down at the pock parked carpet, it looked like small wars had already been fought and lost on it, ‘oookay can you turn the telly round then so I can-‘, ‘nope’, ‘but I cant s-‘, ‘nae luck’

This would appear to be part of his revenge. Burmese police and dictators of the world take note; don’t waste your time with traditional ‘stress’ positions simply get your prisoner in a room with something they would desperately like to see on telly and they will actively torture themselves. By half time I couldn’t move my neck. It was locked in a half cocked position. Filled with beer I hobbled to the toilet, hitting the doorframe on the way due to my changed visual perspective. My brother laughed so hard beer came out of his nose.

Feeling aggrieved I decided to repay my brothers raucous laughter by being somewhat casual with my ‘aim’ when I did finally pinball my way to the toilet ‘Ooops silly me’ I sniggered as I started sprinkling the toilet seat and carpet with recycled beer ‘how careless of me’ I continued; clenching my buttocks and working my core stability muscles in an effort to reach the medicine cabinet above the sink. I was concentrating hard ‘WHAT DE FUUUCK ARE OO DOOIN?’ and not heard the footsteps behind.

With hindsight, spinning quickly round was not the best idea. Think garden sprinkler, only warmer and yellower. And I was aiming high; head height really …..

But every cloud has a silver lining. The big right hook cricked my neck straight back into place so I’ve saved a visit to the chiropractor. However the same could not be said for the kicks to my gonads; unless their place is supposed to be next to your tonsils? They are out with the remit of chiropractic care but I have to confess this was not foremost in my mind as I folded up onto the bathroom floor with the strangest feeling of déjà vu?

So could the very last match of the world cup be a repeat of the first? France against Argentina? You would have got wild odds for that four weeks ago. Who knows, but one things for sure, I shant be watching it with my brother.

Au revoir mes ami; Alles les Bleus!

Ham Shanks World Cup

2007-10-01T23:23:00.000+01:00

Hello Folks

Apologies for yet another late late diary but IT'S THE WORLD CUP!!!

Rugby on council telly! WOO HOO!!

Aye ok ok ok - here ye go

Kind Regards

Ham

Ham Shanks World Cup

Patriotism [pa-tree-uh-tiz-uhm] – Noun : Devoted love, support, and defence of one’s country; national loyalty Or ‘Bloody Hard Work’ if yer a Scotland supporter. Having said that I’m sure the Welsh or the Irish would swap places with us now.

Yes it’s the Rugby World Cup, that’s why old Ham has been so quiet. Glued to the box watching sport. This is the ‘real’ world cup where they play with a proper shaped ball. Not the one where a strangely spherical object is kicked by mincing over paid primadonas nancying about in their hair nets. Apparently that’s every four years as well; probably takes them that long to get ready in the changing room ‘Does this shirt clash with my eyeliner?’, ‘Oooh stop darling you look simply divine’ – Nuff said

Saturday night was a bit of a nail biter in the Shanks household. My evil twin and I had settled down in front of the telly to watch the drama unfold. In a break with tradition he had actually brought the beers and the snacks rather than raiding my house and leaving it looking like a plague of alcoholic locusts had flown through. Suitably impressed with this display of uncharacteristic thoughtfulness I fished a can of beer out of the cool box he had so kindly placed very carefully by my seat.

My delight was short lived. The can I had retrieved was completely white with the words ‘Spar lager’ scribbled in pencil on the outside; it was also warm. I cracked it open; the sound it made was not dissimilar to the last croak of a dying invertebrate. The fetid chemical aroma which accompanied said opening made me check for the poor animal inside. There are over twenty muscles in your face; it’s not pleasant when they all try to contract at once. The corrosive fumes boring into my sinuses ensured my face was a picture; but not a very pretty one.

I took time out from my enforced girning to glance across at my twin brother as he dipped a hand into his cool box and fished out a bottle of blizzardly cold Stella Artois. Pulling out a gold plated bottle opener from his top pocket he cracked it open with delicate care; ‘pssssst’ it even sounded reassuringly expensive and a waft of quality Belgian lager drifted across the room. At least I assume it did, the aroma of my toad beer was still making my eyes water.

My petted lip nearly reaching the ground he must have sensed the anguish with his special ‘twinny’ powers because he turned to enquire ‘is there a problem?’ I stared in disbelief, my eyes flicking back and forth between his bottle of expensive branded lager and the generic can of p*ss I was clutching in my own. This subtle gesture seemed to go unnoticed so I accentuated the movement by swinging my entire head back and forth rather theatrically ‘is there a problem?’ I gasped incredulously ‘is there a problem!’ I continued whilst bobbing my head furiously from side to side ‘well ye look like ye’ve got a dodgy neck?’ replied my brother quizzically.

‘It’s my beer’ I replied whilst making sarcastic air quotes around the word beer ‘what’s wrong with it?’ I thrust the hand written can in his face, stammering in disbelief ‘w.w.w.what’s wrong!’, ‘what’s fecking wrong!’ a light coating of spittle settled on the can as I spluttered with rage. He pushed the container away from his face with a derisory swat of the hand ‘I wish you’d stop repeating everything I say’ Oh dear, that was the straw that broke the camels back….. WALLOP!

‘Fer fuuucdcksake!’, ‘whad do oo aat foor?’, ‘Eeer uuum sorry … I slipped?’, ‘Ooo punchded me inaa ucking dose ye prick!’ my rage having now dissipated I was feeling quite guilty about skelping my brother. I’d completely forgotten all the rules of anger management: Counting to 10 before you act, listening respectfully to others, looking for alternatives to conflict or perhaps using a little humour to diffuse the situation. I’d gone straight for the smack the smug git in the face approach. Although in my defence I have to say my anger was now completely gone so perhaps I was right?

Anyway watching my brother hold the ice pack I’d hastily retrieved from the freezer to his fractured hooter I was filled with remorse and decided to stick with the betta buy lager and just let it lie. The frosty silence was eventually broken by the teams coming on to the pitch ‘C’mon Scotland’, ‘dumon dotlaaand!’ we cheered in unison as the boys in blue raced on.

It was always going to be a tense affair with a place in quarter final at stake. For the first time in a long time Scotland have a great place kicker and Chris Patterson was slotting the penalties. We were 6:0 up and I was pleased the way the scoreboard was ticking over. Then the Italians heaved a big up-and-under on to our full back and one of the Bergamasco brothers came motoring in to win the ball. From the resulting ruck the Italians scored a try ‘NOOOOOO!’, ‘DOOOYAAHHUUCKER’

In my despair I’d jumped from my chair and ‘bumped’ into my twinnys elbow with my knee. This would be the elbow attached to the hand that was clutching the icepack against his nose. It’s simple physics really. In physics, a lever (from French lever, "to raise", c.f. a levant) is a rigid object that is used with an appropriate fulcrum or pivot point to multiply the mechanical force that can be applied to another object. This is also termed mechanical advantage, and is one example of the principle of moments.

Now I don’t want to baffle you with science for two reasons a) it’s boring and b) I don’t know what the feck I’m talking about. However lets just say if I’d kicked him in the face then danced a light fandango on his nostrils it probably wouldn’t have been as sore as that wee ‘nudge’ I gave him as I leapt out of my seat.

When he came round I almost managed to blag my way out of it ‘Bruv bruv are you alright?’ I enquired with mock distress ‘aye eer w.w.what dappened?’, ‘aw man ye must have blacked out with the cold from that icepack’ He eyed me suspiciously as I lifted him back on to his seat. Just then Patterson slotted another penalty to put us back in front ‘FUUCKINGYEESS! I bellowed dropping him back to the floor ‘ooomppfff’

Unfortunately for me the penny dropped for him as well and his left leg rose swiftly to connect with my jewels and I crumpled to the floor. He managed to jab in another three blows to my spuds as he pushed his way back up, I’m sure I heard cracking ‘we’ll call dat quits den will we?’ he enquired whilst reapplying the icepack to his swollen nose. Neglecting to reply I took the time to savour what it must feel like to be Italian as the final whistle went and Scotland scraped through to the quarter finals.

So the Argies next, then the Boks and finally the All Blacks again in the final. We could do it you know, we really could! Scotland are going to be World Champions! …… although that might be the morphine talking

Ham of the dead

2007-09-20T22:44:00.001+01:00

Hey hey hey folks

Hams nae deid after all! Hooray!

I do have to humbly apologise for the dreadful service of late. I could make some elaborate excuse about being very busy at work and also having completed a gym instructors course to help me escape the dreary dreadfullness of my job. This coupled with the world cup being on telly would certainly explain my lack of writing.

However the truth is I was having gender reassignment surgery and now you'll have to call me 'Hamella' or 'Susan'

I realise this is a shock - No one is more suprised than me

Anyway hope you enjoy this weeks offering - A change from the normal format

Regards

Ham

eh I mean Susan

ps aye ok so I've just been busy - Sorry

Ham O’Shanter

A Tale. Of lies and nonsense full is this.

When big issue sellers leave the street,

And thirsty students students meet,

As five o’clock is growing near,

Office workers shout and cheer,

While Ham sits boozing, drinking heavy,

Life seems good; let’s get bevvied

The night draws on but Hams nae worried,

His poor auld brain cells dead and buried,

It’s closing time and Hams kicked oot,

The taxis gone; it’s hame on foot,

A might unsteady he totters aff,

Twa blonde students point and laugh,

Fer poor auld Ham is roaring pished,

Twa big steps; the pavements missed.

The gutters hard, its nae the place,

To rest yer weary drunken face,

C’mon noo Ham; pick up yer feet,

Nae time tae sit, and bawl, and greet,

Fer buses run all through the night,

So dry yer eyes; scrape aff the shite.

Hud doon the station and hail a bus,

But mind and clean yer bleeding puss.

Oor bold bald hero sets off at pace,

Whilst dabbing at his bleeding face,

A mumbling, swearing, ranting manny,

He really is a total fanny,

But hud the phone, the stations lit,

life’s looking up; a little bit,

He micht nae hae tae walk all night,

Through iffy schemes wi dodgy lights,

Where Burberry caps are worn with pride,

And auld age pensioners quake inside,

Boarded windows all covered in muck,

Cut through there? Away tae fuck!

Ham risks a grin as a bus draws oot,

Until he twigs he’s spent his loot,

He’s drunk it all; it’s pished away,

A hunner notes in one long day,

Of boozing, eating, living merry;

The fucking eedjits no got a penny.

He shakes his heid in disbelief,

Nae chance salvation or quick relief,

Just aching feet and thumping heid,

He mumbles softy ‘ah wish ah wis deid’

‘But dinna fash ma baldy friend’,

‘It’ll all come good before the end’

‘Oh that’s jist grand, jist fit I need’

‘A cheery voice inside ma heid’

‘Go on! Fuck off, I’ve had enough’

‘I’m jumping underneath this bus’

‘Hold strong! Resist ye baldy tit’,

this is your brain ye drunken git!

‘Am here to help, so shut yer noise

While I work this oot with guile and poise.

But bevy fuels Hams beast within,

He cannay take it; he’s filled wi Gin,

‘Ma pooch is empty!’ He wails and greets,

‘Am doomed forever tae walk the streets!’

‘Yer dreaming brain; it’s far too late’

‘Am on my own I’ll trust tae fate!’

‘Noo Compose yourself; don’t fret and fash’

‘I’ve got the answer, am all the bash’,

‘Yer such a numpty, to wail and greet,

When the answer lies beneath yer feet’

Ham moves his foot and jumps with glee,

‘Fuck me ye dancer; it’s 50p!’

The bus door opens and Ham alights,

The driver stares, he’s stunned wi fright,

A half tae Shtirling’ Ham slobbers and drools

The man recoils at the dribbling fool,

He holds up a hand and gestures away,

‘I’m not in the mood for this today’

‘I’ve got shome money’ Ham slurs again,

‘it’s not yer money; let me explain’,

‘Yer covered wi chunder and coated in shite’,

‘It’s half past one this Friday night’,

‘Am off at two and one things clear’,

‘You’ve got nae business being here’,

‘Noo fuck aff hame, get aff ma bus’,

‘Afore ah skelp ye in the puss’,

A squeal of tyres, a puff of smoke,

Hams on his airse, he’s still flat broke.

Ham struggles tae his feet again,

Cursing, mumbling, racked wi pain,

The fifty’s gone, lost in the night,

His breeks are caked wi drying shite,

Let’s be honest he’s had nae luck,

He keeps being told tae get tae fuck,

A night like that could get ye doon,

But oor thick skinned hero’s quite the loon,

Staggering blindly he sets aff right,

Tae stumble hame will take all night.

Ham plods on hame as rain pours doon,

Thick black clouds obscure the moon,

Ham pulls his jaicket close and tight,

It’s getting cauld this winters night,

It’s awfy dark his legs are weary,

The bevys gone, the eyes are bleary,

A wail, a scream! Oor Hams awake

He burbles weakly ‘Oh fucks sake’

From through the gloom come oot three neds,

Laughing loudly ‘we’ve lost the feds’,

The spy oor hero, all battered and wet,

And spread oot wide tae cast their net,

‘Noo look at this lads, here’s a thing’

‘this boys alone! Let’s get stuck in’

But Hams alert and thinking fast,

He screams ‘behind ye!’ and sprints right past,

The chase is on, Hams fleet of foot,

He’s long forgot his aching foot,

Fuelled by Gin and fear and pain,

He pulls away and kicks again,

‘Dear god he thinks, they’re really thick,

I’m running fast, at twice the lick,

But pride oft comes before a fall,

And poor auld Ham he hears the call,

‘Ah’ve got a bike, climb on lads’,

well catch this prick and hoof his nads’

Ham kicks again, he hits the gas,

The fear and terror push him fast,

‘C’mon shuggie gie it laldy’,

‘well soon catch up this wheezing baldy’

But Hams been training long of late,

He’s got more wind and hit’s the straight,

He kicks again, they fall from sight,

‘Ye’ll no catch me ye three wee shites’

Hams feeling smug, they’re gone all right,

This running larks nae so shite,

Twenty miles he pounds each week,

And now at last he’s reached his peak,

‘Fight or Flight’ is nae hard choice,

Ham runs like wind and fechts like mice.

The coast is clear, Ham rounds the bend,

The front door beckons, a welcome friend,

Slowing doon, he cuts the pace,

A smile cracks across his bloodied face,

His watch is glinting in the night,

It’s fluorescent hands shining bright,

‘Well look at that – Fuck me!’

‘Seven minutes, a new PB!

Now wha this tale of fibs may read,

Ilka man and mithers son, take heed,

Whenever ye fancy a right big drink,

Think of Ham, so near the brink,

Of one big kicking to beat them aw,

Twa black eyes and twa big baws!

(Apologies to all poetry lovers out there)

Ham Shanks Secret Dairy - Part 135

2007-09-02T23:14:00.000+01:00

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 2^nd September 2007

Do you remember when summer holidays seemed to last forever? Six lazy weeks of playing outside with your pals. That’s right outdoors! Although it was only outside for two reasons a) because you would drive your mum absolutely spare by lunchtime on the first day of your school holidays so she would kick you out of the house with a flea in your ear and b) Playstations, X-Box’s and Wii’s hadn’t been invented yet!

All those smug gits who proudly proclaim that ‘we were the healthy generation’ and tut nosily when they see kids glued to their gameboys or texting away on mobile phones. Lets not kid ourselves here; we are jealous. If we had been given the choice of playing outside on a p*ssing wet day or staying inside and slaughtering electronic Germans as we rampaged our way across mainland Europe saving the world from Adolfs evil henchmen; then I doubt you would have found very many of us outside.

‘Medal of honour allied assault’ is infinitely more appealing than ‘poke the used rubber Johnny with the pointy stick’ which was the only available entertainment as you sheltered under the railway bridge from the lashing rain. That’s right, despite the rose tinted memories of school holidays being filled with baking sunshine and halcyon days of football in the park, jumpers for goalposts and warm fanta at half time. We all know deep in our hearts that that was just b*llocks! It hosed with rain in the black and white days as well. You’ve just suppressed those memories and hang grimly on to the three decent days out of forty two we actually got. Replaying them over and over again in your addled brain till they string together into a false memory.

‘Why are you ruining my childhood Ham?’ I hear you mumble as warm salty tears pour down your glistening cheeks ‘Why are you stealing my youth’ you plead through red rimmed eyes, snatching a ragged breath between the mounting sobs. ‘Ach stop your blubbering and get a fecking grip’, ‘w.w.wwhat do you mean? You heartless bastard!’ Actually I’m not a heartless bastard, possibly a git, but that’s not important just now. What I’m trying to do is introduce some perspective about how we view the past. The reason for potentially destroying any vestiges of happiness from your formative years is because I’m getting rather fed up with the way the media portrays kids these days. After all I have a vested interest; I am an ex-child myself.

My gripe is particularly in reference to the annual debate that surrounds the A-level and Higher results. ‘Record Pass rates’ claims one headline with a sub text of ‘are exams getting easier?’ Hello! Talk about p*ssing on their parade. I thought the whole fecking point of the education system was to improve standards? To raise the bar and ensure that the next generation is always better educated that it’s predecessor? We berate kids for their behaviour at school, their lack of respect for elders and betters, their perceived indolence. Yet when they actually do pull out their fingers out of their backsides, when they actually buckle down and put in some hard graft to achieve a measurable result, how do we react? We pull the rug out from under their feet.

‘But the pass rates keep increasing, they must be getting easier’ comes the stock answer. Ok let’s think about a couple of things. Firstly for arguments sake let’s assume that the exam hasn’t changed but the methods of teaching have. Not only have they changed, they have improved! Pupils, sorry I mean students, also have access to external resources to aid their revision; the World Wide Web springs to mind. Parents are willing to pay for extra tuition or are simply taking a more active interest in their Childs education because they know without a decent bit of paper to wave as they leave high school then wee Jimmy is destined for a job in the chicken mincing factory. Might these factors not increase the pass rate?

Now if we also take into account that there is a little bit of ‘filtering’ carried out long before exam day to separate the high achievers from the footballers and ensure that only those with a reasonable chance of achieving a pass are actually allowed to sit the paper then we start to get a clearer picture ‘That’s outrageous Ham!’ I hear you cry ‘that would never happen in our free and fair country’, ‘Oh really?’ …..

Imagine the scene; you’re the headmaster of a state comprehensive school, the dinner ladies are on strike because some famous chef is forcing them to peel spuds rather than open packets of smash. You’re getting major grief over the schools performance in the latest league tables and the pressure is on to ‘raise the bar’ and ‘push the envelope’ before the governments minders come round and break your legs in three places for not submitting the raft of paperwork now required in triplicate should you want to wipe your own arse.

‘Little Tommy’ shuffles into your office, his hairy knuckles scraping noisily across the lacquered floor. He comes to a halt at the front of your desk and declares that his career aspirations are geared towards becoming an astronaut, at least you think that’s what he means as he points a fat digit to the sky and mouths the word ‘space’ through the fish bowl nestling over his head. You are in a dilemma, on one hand you are a teacher, you came into this job with noble intentions. You wanted to make the world a better place, you wanted to share your knowledge and inspire the next generation…..

On the other hand you know he’s thick as pig shit. He’s been held back for several years now due to an absence of any discernable brain cells and his fondness for pulling the legs off the school pets. You know in your heart of hearts he’s not even going to find the examination room without external help. Little Tommy’s not going to be living the dream; he’s off to the Chicken factory where at least pulling legs off things is actually a paid job. So let’s not kid ourselves; the exams aren’t any easier. The difference is they only let the kids who are actually going to pass them sit them in the fecking first place!

So credit where credit’s due. Let’s have a big hand for all those kids out there who got good Higher and A-level results; well done you guys. And for all you kids who didn’t quite make it ‘where the fuck are my fries?’ and ‘no I don’t want to go large for an extra 30 pence I want you to get my order right the first time you spotty fucking imbecile!’, ‘You might be able to hear me if you took the fish bowl off’, ‘Christ on a bike, kids these days, I don’t know…..’

Any complaints please address them to Gordon Brown and mark ‘Education, Education, Education’ (I told you everything was in triplicate didn’t I)

Ham Shanks Secret Diary - The one with the birthday lunch

2007-08-28T22:22:00.000+01:00

Yes I know it was a long holiday - I was kidnapped by aliens and probed ....... I didnt say it wasnt enjoyable! That's why this diary is so late .........

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 26^th August 2007

It’s your mums’ birthday, you want to take her out for a nice meal; cos she’s your mum and you love her. You don’t mind splashing some cash; cos she’s always been there for you since you were a little boy and it’s the very least you can do. This year is not going to be a repeat of last years KFC special, certainly not after the unbecoming scenes in the drive thru. No, this year we will be eating out, and eating somewhere that uses table clothes no less.

After exhaustive telephone and internet research a country inn with a highly recommended Michelin ‘Gastopub’ restaurant is reserved for the meal. All the bruvs and their better halves are instructed to scrub themselves up nice and bonny, put on their very best glad rags and to make an extra special effort for mothers’ big day out. A lot of repair work needs to be done after last years bargain bucket went so Pete Tong; as a result no stone is being left unturned.

My older bruv is going thru the checklist as mum puts on the last of her slap indoors. The twins are stood to attention at the side of the car ‘Restaurant booked – check’, ‘brothers suitably attired’ he glances up at us and our glaicket faces beam back at him, he sighs, ‘check and check’, ‘car valet’ he takes a quick stroll round the gleaming vehicle, running a white gloved finger over the paintwork he examines the cottoned digit closely before returning to his clipboard ‘check’, ‘okay Gentleman we are good to go’, ‘lets execute phase one of Operation Dessert Storm’ ……

We stare at him blankly ‘whut?’, ‘we ran over this three times yesterday in the pre-dinner briefing’ he exclaims, rolling his eyes in disbelief. My twin and I glance at each other and then at the sky ‘I cannay see a storm, can you?’ I whisper in my bruvs ear ‘I think that shirt collar is cutting aff the blood tae his brain’ mumbles Fraz in return. Neil throws his arms in the air ‘just get everybody in the f*cking car’ he shouts wearily.

Having arrived at our destination we escort the birthday girl inside. We are directed to ‘The snug’ where our order will be taken. It’s very posh. There are no end of dead animals adorning the walls and a fair selection of pots, pans, tennis rackets and typewriters ‘they could do with a closet’ I mumble to Fraz who elbows me into silence as we both wither under the ferocity of our elder brothers glare. A waitress appears with some menus and takes a drink order while we soak up the ambience ‘better than Macky Dee’s int it’ I murmur quietly. Unfortunately Neilly’s bionic ear has picked up unauthorised conversation and I am glowered into silence.

Orders taken we are ushered through into the conservatory where we will be enjoying our meal. Mootha is well made up, it’s amazing how much more enjoyable it is ‘living the dream’ compared to bellowing your order into a plastic bespectacled geriatric. Looks like Neil is well on his way to achieving the much coveted ‘Golden Boy’ status for organising this one.

The waitress comes to clear away the starters and asks if we want more drinks. What the heck, lets have some wine. She leaves us the wine list and departs to get our main courses. We peruse the list and plump for a fruity Australian red ‘you cant go wrong with New World wines’ I venture warily ‘you never get a bad year’ I continue with reckless abandon. Glancing across at ‘control’ I wait for the mesma stare. However the thought police deem this to be acceptable conversation and I bask in a glow of self satisfaction as we wait patiently for the waitress to return.

It’s dark now and still the waitress is missing in action. We’ve given up on the wine, presumably they had to get the bottle from Australia and that’s why it’s taking so long. Perhaps they should have stipulated the six weeks delivery time on the menu? Now we are just holding out for the main course. The nutritional sustenance gleaned from my wild salmon in dill mayonnaise has long since passed and my stomach is grumbling as I swallow another piece of table cloth. It would be nice to have something to wash it down with. Neil has gone in search of the staff; he’s not happy.

After a frank and honest exchange of views with the waiting staff our main course finally arrives. I don’t know if it was as a result of the complaint but the culinary standards seem to be slipping. Michelin rated gastopub my @rse! But it’s mums day out so we button our lips.

The final fly on the turd came with the desserts. Neil is a major dessert fan; he would forgo the first two courses if he had too. He likes his pudding. After another lengthy wait, presumably while they went out to milk the cow for his fresh cream, the desserts arrived. Neil had ordered a mango, kiwi fruit and fresh cream ‘twin tower’ supported with a network of shortbread ‘supports’ It looked majestic as they carted it out of the kitchen. If his grin had been any wider the top of his head would have fallen off.

Ironic as he was indeed about to lose his head….. One spoonful and the wide grin was swiftly replaced by a narrow pursing of the lips and grimacing of the cheeks. Rarely an indicator of complete satisfaction ‘gnnffforfuuucksakke’ The offending mouthful was sprayed out at high velocity; coating mother in a creamy pebbledash which I would have to concede took some of the shine off the day for her ‘this tastes of fecking onion’ he exclaimed in disbelief ‘GET THE MANAGER!’ he bellowed at the cowering waitress ‘NOW!!’

Mr Fawlty duly arrived and was at pains to assure Neil that in no way could the fresh cream have been stored near onions ‘if you don’t believe me taste it’ retorted my brother. So here’s an interesting strategy for customer service, rather than just apologising and taking the dish back he replied ‘I’ll just get a fresh spoon sir’ Fraz and I donned our tin hats and ran for cover.

Talk about painting yourself into a corner. His options now are a) confirm that he thinks you’re a liar or b) confirm that he’s a complete idiot. After taking a mouthful of the sullied dessert and screwing his face up with disgust he had to agree that it ‘wasn’t right’ So the correct answer was b) he’s a complete f*cking idiot.

We declined his kind offer of a replacement as the average life expectancy of a human in the UK is only three score year and ten; we’d be dead before it arrived.

Pizza Hut next year then?

Ham is on holiday

2007-08-05T19:16:00.000+01:00

Ham is on his holibags so nae diaries fer a couple of weeks (is that a 'Hurrah' I heard?)

It was going to be a walking holiday but given the weather it may be a diving holiday instead!

See ye in a couple of weeks

Kindest Regards

Ham

Ham Shanks secret Diary - The one where .......

2007-07-29T22:18:00.000+01:00

Ham Shanks secret diary w/e 29^th July 2007

I’ve received a lot of feedback after last weeks ramblings, mainly death threats from the evangelical brigade it has to be said, but also concerns from other quarters that I was going to reveal the plot of the last Harry Potter book. Gies a break! Some things in life are sacred after all. The conclusion of such a fine piece of literary work is not to be trifled with and I would never reveal the ending because that would be exceptionally cruel and petty. So despite the fact I have finished the book, I’m keeping shtum. Read it though – it’s bloody great!

Amongst the e-mails threatening me with living evisceration and flaming hot pokers up my jacksee were some slightly less violently expressed concerns. Apparently it was the three wise men that followed a celestial object to baby J’s cot. Not ‘Ma and Pa’ Nazareth looking for a B&B after all. As this correction was passed on without the threat of an accompanying painful and lingering death I feel it only fair to put my hand up and say ‘I’m sorry; I was wrong’

I also think that perhaps I need to explain why I have these chips on both shoulders about religion. I don’t hate religious people - gracious no! Some of my best friends are Christians! (is that tumbleweed I see blowing in front of me?) Don’t you just love it when a phrase like that is used? Usually by a heavily perspiring individual who made an offhand comment to a regional news reporter and is now being interrogated on national television by Jeremy Paxman ‘I’m not a *^{insert description of discrimination}’, ‘Some of my best friends are *^{insert description of the discriminated}’ they plead indignantly as Paxman melts them with his withering glare.

‘Some of my best friends’ is never a winning phrase because it makes you sound like those friends you covet so much are pets or possessions. So you’ll either look like a seedy white slave trader who inhabits the murky world of human trafficking or a thick necked member of the landed gentry. Ironically enough neither of these individuals would ever use the ‘some of my friends’ phrase because they couldn’t give a flying f*ck what anybody else thinks. It’s only the middle class, stuck betwixt and between, that mumble and mutters red faced apologies and justifications.

So I’m going to break the middle class mould and say ‘Some of my best friends are religious but I don’t give a f*ck; I don’t like religion’ And now I shall tell you why.

I haven’t even read the bible! Daaah dum dum dum duuuuum (that was sinister music by the way) I have to confess I skipped straight to the end to see who did it ‘Judas?’, ‘didn’t see that one coming’ I mumbled before tossing it into my bag. I’d possibly have been slightly more interested in reading it, or even receptive to the underlying message, if we hadn’t been forced to accept a copy in our first year at secondary school. Yes that’s right forced; against our will! Daaaah dum dum dummm duuuuum! (that was the music again – keep up)

They were divvyed out at assembly by the headmaster, who I can only guess was a birrova god squander or under the Imperius curse. Anyway we were each handed a small bright red copy of the Bible courtesy of The Gideons; and then warned that if we could not produce this gift on any subsequent request by a teacher we would be belted. Very fair policy for a state comprehensive I think you’ll agree.

There were quite a number of rosy red hands to match the cover when a few heretics attempted to refuse their copy on that happy day. Likewise the following week when we were all asked to produce our copies again. For those unfortunates unable to produce the word of God© a prolonged cavity search by the bible Gestapo and then six of the best was the order of the day. It occurred to me even at that young age that there seemed to be very little carrot but a sh*t load of stick involved in the religion business.

I managed to avoid these obvious punishments by keeping my copy close to me at all times; after all you never knew when you might need a sheet of toilet paper or a hanky. I’d also recommend the pages for emergency rollups. No gum sadly but you could generally hold the thing together long enough for that sweet hit of nicotine before your fingers got burnt. Thankfully the Gideon Dementors wernay very bright, as long as they saw that bright red cover in your trembling hand you were ok. They never seemed to notice the ever thinning nature of mine. Perhaps they thought I was wearing out the pages because I was reading it so much?

I did however quite enjoy religious education. Another compulsory class that we all had to attend in school. At least in this one they weren’t peddling one particular flavour of worship. Instead they gave you a selection box of beliefs and you were invited to discuss. The dementors didn’t like it though; they would prowl around the corridor outside, flashes of red clutched in their grey bony hands.

The thing about R.E. was it just made me even more sceptical ‘So hold on, what your saying is the Protestants and the Catholics believe in the same god?’, ‘yes’, ‘and they both believe in Jesus?’, ‘yes’, ‘and they both follow the teachings in the bible’, ‘yes’, but they have been knocking lumps out of each other for hundreds and hundreds of years haven’t they?’, ‘yes’ …… ‘but that’s just fucking mental?’

So from religious education. I learnt two important lessons; 1. Religion is much more complicated than it looks at first glance and 2. Swearing in class gets you six of the best and an awful lot of detention even if the teacher is a smelly corduroy clad hippy. Another happy religious based school memory to taint me for later life and turn me into the twisted bitter man you see before you now.

So to all those holy people out there I may have offended; my mum always told me not to lie so I have to say I’m not really sorry. It’s called freedom of speech and just as you are entitled to your opinion which you have expressed in the best selling book of all time (does it count if The Gideons are the ones who bought them all?) I am entitled to express my opinions in this tiny critique. Let’s just agree to disagree and stop all the arguing and death threats.

However I shall refrain from having (too many) future digs as I have now divulged the reasons for my heresy; and let’s face it if you’re right I’ll burn in hell anyway which would definitely give you the last laugh

Doei