Hall Of Fame
[continues...] “Fit happened tae him?” I offered, “Wis he kidnapped by some o the heathens that bide on that side o the toon? There wis some affa suspicious lookin specimens gaun aboot in BMWs and 4x4 motors. Surely Ernie wisna snatched by some hit squad bent on revenge for thon appalling ****in miss fae twa yards oot in the Summer Cup Final against Hibs in 1964? Galling though it wis, I widna like to think that some nouveau ile-rich right wing smug ****ers have **** it upon themsels to be anti-Rummeler vigilantes. Mind you, TWA YARDS OOT? Christ, he WIS useless.”
“A much simpler explanation,” wis morrice the butcher’s brither’s retort, "Although I am in full agreement wi yer political assessment and concur fully wi yer opinion o the big tadger's goal-poaching abilities. When we were flaggin doon that taxi, Ernie had nippit in ahin the dyke o Nellfield Cemetery to teem his export-swollen bladder. By the time he had wattered the holly wreaths and made dubs o the earth, the taxi had been and gone. Now, I canna say for certain fit Ernie’s words were on findin this oot, but he’s sic a student o the profane, that I can jist aboot imagine.”
I noddit in concurrence, for Ernie could eff and blind for Scotland, and has been the fool-mou’d scourge o veritable dizzens o under-achievin Dons’ players since 1962, as if HE wis ony example like, as weel as a hale generation o city centre traffic wardens and ithers in lofty positions o questionable authority.
“So, fit did he dee?” I interrogated.
“The feel aul gype lookit in his pooch and decided he didna hae enough money for a taxi hame on his ain, so he figured he wid walk hame, deducin that it’s nae far if ye tak the road hame through Ferryhill and ower the Suspension Brig,” continued morrice the butcher’s brither, giein the sheep’s heid in the big biler a prod or twa to see if it wis at the crucial stage o the potted heid manufacturin process.
“Aye, maks sense, I suppose,” I mused, “But sense isna something Ernie is ower weel-endowed wi.”
“Correct. And that wis his doonfa. In an alien bit o toon, in a sotter wi drink, ye’d think the optimum modus operandi wid be to find a road ye kent and stick til’t till ye get tae far ye wint to be, wid ye nae?” shouted morrice the butcher’s brither abeen the racket o the alarming-looking sassidge machine, a veritable HSE Inspector's dream, he’d jist started up.
“Dinna tell me,” I roared, “He got lost”.
“Only spectacularly so, blin, and dinna shout for ****’s sake, I’m nae deef. Ye widna believe this, but in a bit o Aiberdeen he’s nae been in since he wis a message loon for Willie Low’s, that he disna ken fae the four****th arondissement o Paris, he decided to tak a short cut through Nellfield Cemetery, in which he had recently been hosin the wa’s.
“Of course within twa minutes, through dodgin atween graves****s and stumblin ower ornamental shrubbery and ither sic flora, Ernie Winchester wis totally lost. Hidna a clue far he wis, but worse wis to come. He trippit on ane o thon ‘In Memoriam’ vases, stumbled tryin to keep his balance, and in the dark, tippit heid first doon a grave, dug for some peer hoor’s funeral next day.
“Luckily, in his advanced state o inebriation, he didna hurt himsel, but he wis stuck.”
morrice the butcher’s brither brocht the sassidge machine to a halt, to the relief o my lugs and took a large draught o his coffee and Watsons. Wipin his lips on the sleeve o his blue and white strippit butcher’s coat, he continued,
“At first he couldna jalouse fit had happened tae him ava. Syne, as his een got used to the licht, he realised fit had happened, and he made his escape attempt. Nae chunce. The grave sides were sheer. Spiderman wid have struggled. It had been that caul that the dubs had frostit and there wis nae purchase tae be had ava. Neither were there ony obvious fitholds. In short, blin, Ernie wis stuck doon a grave in Nellfield Cemetery in the pitch black.
“Now as ye ken, Ernie disna let sic minor inconveniences as a sheer-wa’d six fit hole pit him aff. The shock had cleared his heid a bittie, and he began to think. Fit he began to think wis,’I’m stuck. It’s efter midnicht. I’m tired. I’ll lie doon and hae a think aboot a plan o action.’”
“He lay doon in a grave, in the middle o winter? It’s a winder he didna dee o hypothermia. Especially efter the skinfae he’d consumed, for as you ken Morrice the butcher’s brither min, notwithstandin this fine alcohol-enhanced brew that I am currently takin aboard, alcohol lowers yer body temperature and can hasten death in sic perilous sub-zero ootdoor conditions,” wis my incredulous response as I swallied the last o the Watsons, which I swear wis meant to hae some coffee in’t but it wis the maist nectar-like Nescafe I’d ivver enjoyed.
“Nae Ernie, though,” he went on, “For he is affa caul-blooded. Na na, he wis happy to lie doon, and apply a bit o logical thocht to the sotter he wis in. Of course, Ernie bein Ernie, he fell asleep. Ye ken fit he’s like. Mind a thon cup finals in the 80s far it took five oors tae get hame fae Hampden afore they built the dual carriageway? Ernie wid be sleepin afore we left the Hampden car park and wid only waken up when he smelt the chips and beer at Perth. Nae surprise then that six fit doon in a freezin grave, he fell asleep.”
I shook ma heid. “He’s a’richt though, is he?” I spiered, hopin that nae ill had befallen wir pal.
“Nothing’s come ower him,” explained morrice the butcher’s brither. “In fact, he wis sayin that he’d nae a bad nicht’s sleep considerin, and it wis ten to eight in the mornin afore he woke up, stiff fae lyin on tap o a clay bed a’ nicht, but feelin the caul something terrible. It wis then he thocht he’d better dee something aboot his predicament. He surmised that the cemetery micht be a short cut for fowk atween Great Western Road and Holburn Street, and that wi it bein mornin that there micht be somebody gaun aboot, so he started to shout: ‘Help, help, go on somebody, gie’s a haun oot. Go on ye ****in radge min.’
“Twa three times he roared oot o him, and by a stroke o luck, a boy heidin hame fae the nicht shift at The Claremont Laundry heard his plaintive cry. By follyin the direction o Ernie’s voice, he came upon Ernie afore lang, and lookit doon at him.
“‘Are ye a’richt, min?’ spiered Ernie’s saviour.
“‘Aye I’m OK, but I’m maist hoorin caul,’ responded wir pal.
“‘Nae winder ye’re caul,’ the good samaritan said, ‘Ye’ve kickit a’ the yird aff yersel.’”
Aye, that wid be Ernie, richt enough.
Hall Of Fame
Oooh, so many nearly freezing to death stories from my youth.
I woke stuck to a field once.
I’m not saying I couldn’t free myself but there was a definite ripping noise as I broke the seal the frost had made.
I knew someone who went to sleep in the westburn.
Yes, in the park but with all that grass around ( and in winter) the burn itself seemed more attractive.
I don’t think kids drink enough these days
Hall Of Fame
I think hypothermia's something that's only been invented in the past 30 years, since my experiences are similar to yours min, and I'm nae deid.
Hall Of Fame
Lang lang afore the twa universities in toon decided to hae a race doon the Dee, the Torry Community Council Gala Week Sub-Committee (Regatta) met in The Anchorage to discuss that year's events.
Decidin on the list o events wisna a problem. Findin sponsors wisna bad either. The morrice the butcher's cup and a month's supply o frilly tripe for the dual sculls winners and the McRuvie Shield for the solo kayak. Aitkens Bakery (RIP) put up a hunner quid and a cup for the winner o the novelty raft race and the Coapy offered a "twa minutes in the Viccy Road shoppie wi a trolley and ye get a' ye can pit in it, but the fags and booze coonters are aff limits ye fuuckin radges div ye think we're feel a'thegither like?" supermarket sweep prize for the canoe slalom event.
The main event, of course, wis aye the big boat race atween two evenly matched teams fae Torry and The Place On The Ither Side O That Fuuckin Brig They Should Never Hae Built To Keep The Toonser Feckers Oot or, as they were mair usually referred in the local media, "Aberdeen City".
This event wis the Victor Ludorum, the apex, the pinnacle, the very jube-jube on the Aitken's (RIP) empire biscuit. Again, the trophy wis nae problem. An impressive hoor o a silver shield wis keenly competed for year on year, it havin been donated by an altruistic Torry exile fae the Cleveland area some years afore in some sort of tax-dodge to defray the hillock o siller made fae his seminal tome "Fit Like New York" afore the Inland Revenue swicked it aff him.
The problem arose this year because they were lackin a local celebrity to dee the presentations.
June Imray wis suggested, but her busy modelling schedule for the Greenham Tools catalogue precluded her appearance.
Ernie Winchester, Torry born and bred, bustling rummel-em-up but entirely useless striker fae the mid-60s was in the frame, but he wis naewhere to be found, believed still to be in hiding fae the King Street End vigilante patrol efter THAT miss in the 1964 Summer Cup Final, the useless useless useless bast@rd. morrice the butcher's brither and Bobby Bland have long memories. Twa fuuckin yards oot??????
Wi Torry's proud, pre-ile piscatorial heritage, it wis mooted that Ken Watmough, oddly-bearded and straw-boatered fish-mannie might be interested, but when sounded out, he sent a letter declining politely, containing the passage, "....and if ye think I'm shuttin ma shop on the busiest efterneen o the year, wi a consignment o A grade raans comin in and comin ower to Torry, far the wheels o ma car widna be safe fae the hallyrackit radges that roam the avenues and alleyways of Aiberdeen's fair southern neighbour, ye must think I came up the Don in a fuuckin banana boat. It is with regret etc...."
So, they were stumped. Geordie Gusset, ever mindful of carnal opportunity thought that a letter to Linda Lusardi or Jordan might generate their interest, but that wis seen as a non-starter. The name of Gordon Ramsay also cropped up, his culinary skills with the fruits of the deep being a possible link, but morrice the butcher's brither sprayed three quarters o a pint o Mackeson black and tan a' ower the formica and vinyl furniture of The Anchorage as he maniacally pinted oot the clause in the Standing Orders of the constitution of the Torry Community Council Gala Week Sub-Committee (Regatta). There, for all to see was the paragraph "Nae fuuckin huns, right?". The fact that it appeared to have been rudely scrawled in biro, in a hand not dissimilar to the humpy-backit sassidge seller's sibling, was not commented upon. Nae huns was the accepted rule.
Further and further into the nicht they deliberated. Twa forty ouncers o Watsons were exhausted. The Fowlers Wee Heavy supply ran oot, and it wis only efter last orders had been shouted, that Snottery Ivan had an idea.
"I ken," he offered, nasally, "I ken exactly fa wid fit the bill. A local, fae Girdleness. Kent a' ower the North East, an altruistic benefactor who has devoted an entire career to the service and pleasure of the men o wir community and its agricultural hint...hent...hunt...hinter...hanter…hunter, ach ye ken, thon teuchter cuunts an a'. I dinna ken why we didna think o her afore."
"Fa? Fa? Fa?" chorused the entire quorum of the Torry Community Council Gala Week Sub-Committee (Regatta) desperate to conclude the evening's agenda and heid awa for a kebab and a cairry-oot.
"My sister, Snuffy Ivy. A'body kens her. Especially the men", at which point several committee members reddened in the face and suddenly found their shoes of great interest. "She'll dee it. If there's a quine that wid dee her bit for her hame toon, it's Ivy. Fit div ye think loons?"
"Snottery Ivan", said morrice the butcher's brither clapping him manfully on the shooder, "That's a fuuckin ace idea. I've nae doot that she'll be a credit tae us and to wir proud community. I dinna ken why we didna bring her to mind afore. Fit made you think o her in this context ma loon?"
"I jist thocht," said Snottery Ivan adenoidally, "The quine's made for the job. Wi her experience, the presentation o the prizes wid be richt up her street. Especially if she has to kiss the winning team's cox".
Hall Of Fame
TBF sir, I’ve f ucking liked, nah, more importantly been affa weel entertained/educated reading thon exploits.....a richt wry smile was commented on by Mrs JJ as I sipped my 82 Malbec after watching Big Red’s team do the business earlier and hopefully more to follow on/off the pitch.Originally Posted by blinlemon
SF
Hall Of Fame
JJ, have you checked out the compendium of tales published a few years back? I have a couple of copies....... signed.
Aye, by Neil Simpson nae the author (a man whose judgement is oft clouded by strong drink, but, to missquote Mr Bowie, boy can he play bass guitar).
Anyways, should you happen upon Sneckie snr he has a copy in his possession and may be prepared to lend it.
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