Ach, why nae?
I wis engrossed in the Channel 4 racin fae Newton Abbot yesterday, when morrice the butcher’s brither came into the Torry Bar, bocht us baith a pint and then splootered aboot half o’t on the sawdust and tabby-encrusted bar fleer as he burst intae an uncontrollable fit o gigglin.
“For fox ache, morrice the butcher’s brither min,” girned Jocky fae ahin the bar, “Mind far ye’re splooterin yer beer. I only swept that ****in fleer last week and I’m nae deein it again”.
I wis shocked as weel, for morrice the butcher’s brither is curmudgeonly by repute. He has studied at the feet o the greats – WC Fields (or Pish-Hoose Meadows as we used to ca him when we were loons), the mannie that used to work ahin the desk at The King’s Pavilion sweemin pool and his big TV hero, the Punch and Judy boy oot o Hi De Hi fa detested kids and wis the grumpiest aul cratur I can mind on.
Tae tell ye the truth, I wisna ower enamoured wi life masel, nae doot influenced by the behaviour and performance o some o the coal mannie’s cuddies reputed to be thoroughbred racehorses that had seen a considerable proportion o my hard-earned siller find its wye intae Bobby Morrison, the bookie’s hipper. I wis eence stoppit by a wifie wi a clipboard ootside Jimmy Wilson’s pub in Market Street, and she asked me, as part o her System Three-commissioned market (street) research fit my views on charitable donations were. mrs blin answered on my behalf afore I could comment, “He gies a lot o his siller tae seeck animals, except he disna ken they’re seeck until he sees the racin results in The Green Final”, An affa cynical woman whilies, is mrs blin.
Onywye, sic an outburst o overt joy fae morrice the butcher’s brither is an affa rarity. The last time I heard him laugh as heartily as that wis the day Hearts lost the League in 1986. He worships at the High Germanic Kirk o Schadenfreude dis morrice the butcher’s brither.
“Fit’s the joke then, morrice the butcher’s brither? Has Laidlaw’s been prosecuted for sellin underweight bags o carrots or Cain’s been lifted for pittin ower muckle preservative in their inferior mealy jimmies? It must be somethin big for you to laugh like that,“ I spiered o him.
My query merely set him aff again, and there were tears in his een which he wiped awa wi a snottery hanky when he eventually calmed doon,and revealed the reason behind his uncharacteristic mirth.
“I wis in the back shoppie afore dennertime. My brither, morrice the butcher, wis awa hame haein his potted heid and that impident young quine wis servin ahin the coonter. Jim the Jute wis in the shop and I overheard the conversation she had wi the boy.” And wi that he took a sip o his export and gave anither short giggle.
“Ye ken Jim the Jute. Moved up here fae Dundee and bocht a flat in Menzies Road when he got a job affshore wi Santa Fe. Regular customer o oors for years noo, except when the Dons have gien Dundee United anither mither and faither o a thrashin and we dinna see him for weeks.” I nodded my assent. I wis weel aware o Jim and his strange angle on life and fitba.
morrice the butcher’s brither went on, “Weel, the impident quine looked at a’thing Jim the Jute had ordered. There wis a single mealy jimmy. A single steak pie. Twa carrots. Ae bakin tattie. A quarter pun o beef mince and fower pork sassidges. She lookit at his meagre set o purchases and said, ‘Ye’re nae merried, are ye?’ ‘No, eh’m nae,’ he replied in that affa funny accent he’s aye got, ‘Whit wye dae ye ken?’ ‘Because you’re a richt ugly *******’, said the quine, nae blinkin an eyelid.
“Now, I’ve nivver been on a customer care course, but I ken fine that’s nae wye to treat a customer, and I came through and scolded her. ‘Quine,’ I said, ‘That’s nae wye tae address a customer. Ye should aye gie them their richtful status at the end o a butcherly transaction. Fae noo on, ye’ll hae to address customers as ‘min’ or ‘wifie’, so you should have said, ‘Because ye’re a richt ugly *******, min.’ Gie the quine her due, she realised her mistake and apologised to me, and said that she wid be affa grateful if I didna mention her retail politeness faux pas to my brither, morrice the butcher.
“Onywye, Jim the Jute seemed to be a bit doon in the moo, although if I supported a team wi Alex Smith as manager, I’d have thrown masel aff the Suspension Brig by noo, so I spiered him ben the back shoppie for a cup o tae and a syrup saftie.
“Ben he came and he perked up a bittie, for such is the therapeutic effect o an Aitken’s saftie liberally spread wi finest Tate and Lyle’s. And afore lang, he telt me why he wis sae depressed, apart fae his regret that he chose his fitba team lang ago athoot walkin the full length o the coonter.
“Blin, min, it seems the boy has had affa trouble doon below”. morrice the butcher’s brither broke off for a moment to affirm to the barman that he wid hae anither pint and that I wid pit up the siller for it, then he continued, “Jim the Jute went to the doctor efter he came back onshore last week, so worried wis he aboot the condition o his meagre genitalia.
“He sat doon in the surgery, and efter a conversation wi the doctor aboot the absolute necessity o haein a higher rate o taxation to fund a free at the pint o delivery NHS, includin prescriptions, the doctor spiered, ‘Well, Mr Jute, I’m sure you’re not here merely to debate the fragile state of our underfunded welfare state, and alternative means of providing the real resources required to bring it back to tolerable standards, how may I be of assistance?’
“Jim the Jute wis fair embarrassed. Near as embarrassed as he wis when the Dons humpit Dundee United fower nothing this season, ye mind the nicht that we endit up break-duncin on the tables in The Cragshannoch? So he said to the doctor, ‘Eh’d better show ye doctor’ and he took his tadger oot, or raither took doon his dra’ers and let it hing since takin it oot wid have been difficult sic a wee sharger o an apology o a pogerin stick it wis. Apparently blin, it wis as orange as Davie Narey’s sark. Wi the bit hair roon aboot it, and fae the right angle it looked like Johnny Neeskens in the Dutch team in the 1974 World Cup.
“The doctor wis puzzled and, jist in case, pulled on an extra pair o latex gloves, but still widna touch it. He rolled it ower een o thon lolly stick things he uses on yer tongue when he looks at yer throat, and I hope that he uses a new een next time I’ve got a sair throat”. morrice the butcher’s brither looked alarmed for a minute at the thought, but continued, “The doctor then started to whittle doon the reasons for the odd hue o Jim the Jute’s tangerine-tainted tadger.
“He spiered, ‘ Have you changed your diet recently, Mr Jute?’ Jim the Jute replied in the negative, explainin that he wis weel-nourished on a diet o Aitkens’ fine bakery products, and morrice the butcher’s potted heid, sassidges, frilly tripe and diploma-winnin mealy jimmies, as weel as the royal repasts he enjoyed affshore. ‘Have you suffered any other symptoms, then? Any change in your urinary habits?’ Jim the Jute explained that the only time his pishin habits changed wis when he wis in the boozer wi us lads and had sunk mair than fower pints and his desire to ging to the lavvie increased exponentially.
“The doctor then tried anither tack, ‘Er, what about ***, Mr Jute? Have you had casual intercourse with any man or woman recently, whose ***ual history you may not be aware of and who may have passed on some exotic uro-genitary lurgy to you?’ Jim the Jute explained that although he wis nivver sure far Forfar Meg had been, she aye had a wash afore he ivver did the business wi her, but in fact that his last such dalliance had been ower a year ago, since she’d gone upmarket and wis now a table duncer at The Broadsword Gentlemen’s Club in Tillydrone.
“The doctor wis getting mair and mair puzzled. ‘How about hobbies, Mr Jute? Do you have any hobbies which may cause your hands to impart some chemical to your genitatlia when you urinate? I have seen examples of men who pick up undetectable dye from, say, golf balls which have rolled along a weedkiller-treated fairway, and have had an effect on more sensitive parts of the body. Do you think that’s a possibility?’
“Jim the Jute replied that he didna hae ony hobbies, and that he wis affa worried aboot the state o his tackle, and that he wis hopin that the doctor wid be able to help him, but it lookit like it wis a waste o baith their time. ‘No hobbies at all Mr Jute?’ enquired the doctor, ‘So what do you do with all your spare time?’
“Jim the Jute looked up and telt the doctor, ‘When eh come hame fae meh job affshore, eh sleep for twa or three days to re-acclimatise efter the North Sea shift pattern, then I get so bored that I spend maist o my time watchin the **** channel on Sky and eatin cheesy Wotsits’. “
And wi that, morrice the butcher’s brither went intae anither uncharacteristic spasm o laughter. Until I reminded him it wis his roon. Only then did he return to the grumpiness we’re mair accustomed till.