When morrice the butchers’s brither wis a young loon, money wis ticht. Even though aul morrice, morrice the butcher’s brither’s mither’s man had a half share in the shoppie that today proudly bears the coat of arms of the Sultan of Schwiiing abeen the door for its ability to supply that gadgie’s court wi mealy jimmies, there wis nae siller for luxuries.
Ae lang nivver-endin barefit scorchin het summer holidays, morrice the butcher’s brither, and his aul mucker Ernie Winchester were desperate to lay their hands on a bit o cash. They funcied some new dazzies, some lucky tatties and a howk aroon the toy shoppie at the fit o the big steppies on Bridge Street.
A o this cost money, nae to mention the tanners they’d to gie ower tae Fool Annie, then in the very prime of her blushing youth, for a look o her knickers when she climbed the ladder to the mannie Sinclair’s doo loft far she entertained the aulder Torry loons.
They’d considered a’thing. Runnin messages for wifies in the big hooses at the tap o Vicky Road wis a good idea, but the first hoose they tried, they were chased awa by the wifie’s dog, her shouts of, “Bugger off oota here young Winchester, an tak that monkey wi ye, last time ye went messages for me ye played fitba wi the cabbage and bools wi the eggs” ringin in their lugs.
Then morrice the butcher’s brither hit on an idea.
“Ernie, min,” said morrice the butcher’s brither, as the two lazed by the Dee like a latter-day North Eastern Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, “Div ye ken fit day it is the morn?”
Ernie Winchester pondered for a minute. The thocht processes kicked in, and his cerebral organ was put to use for the first time since the fateful day back in class where the infamous “contagious” incident took place.
“Now let’s see”, thocht the as-yet-undiscovered rummel-em-up cairthorse o the mid 60s Pittodrie forward line, “Yesterday wis tattie soup at dennertime and morrice the butcher’s brither’s mither’s man’s beef sassidges at suppertime, so that means it wis Thursday. The day at dennertime, we hid fromage de tete, although it tasted affa like morrice the butcher’s brither’s mither’s man’s potted heid, and I saw my mither makin doughballs so it must be mince fae morrice the butcher’s brither’s mither’s man’s shoppie, wi tatties and a delicious morrice the butcher’s brither’s mither’s man’s mealy jimmy for wir supper the nicht. That maks it erm…er..let me see…er…..oh aye Friday, so the morn wid be ..um..och erm eeeeehhhh…Setterday!!”
“Is it Setterday, morrice the butcher’s brither,? he asked.
“It nearly IS phuckin Setterday the time it’s **** ye tae answer. But it’s nae jist ony Setterday, it’s the first Setterday o the fitba season and the Dons are at hame to Queen Of The Sooth in the League Cup Sectional Tie,” responded morrice the butcher’s brither, somewhat tetchily.
“But we canna afford the ninepence to get in,” said Ernie Winchester, “Much as I wid like to see the swashbuckling forward play of the bandy-leggit front man Paddy Buckley and the dashing wing skills of Graham Leggat, it’s nae an option for us ye daft humpy-backit divvil”
“Na na, Ernie,” replied morrice the butcher’s brither, showing remarkable tolerance of his friend’s inability to grasp the situation, “There’s an opportunity there for us tae mak money.”
“Ye mean sellin the Official Programme, price thruppence, outside the hallowed Theatre of Dreams by the sea? Div ye think they’ll gie twa loons like us a job as responsible as that?” speired Ernie Winchester, missing wi a HUGE stane a duck swimming in the Dee only two feet from him, in a sadly-prescient rehearsal for that phuckin sitter he missed against Hibs in 1965.
“Na na Ernie min, my plan is much mair cunnin than that”.
Next day, around 1.30, the twa lads jined the throng of bunnets and demob suits heading north along King Street towards Pittodrie, and almost certain glory. Each was, curiously, armed with a carpenter’s boring brace, a large butcher’s knife and a galvanised bucket of the kind Oor Wullie parks his erse on.
As the throng crowded the turnstiles at the King Street End, the heroes of our tale dodged towards the gasworks and sneaked in under a gap in the wire mesh fence.
“Now, Ernie,” said morrice the butcher’s brither, stopping by the wooden fence that at that time ran the hale length o Pittodrie ahin the Sooth Terrace, “drill a hole in the fence aboot here, at aboot the height o a mannie’s waist. They’ve a been in the Cragshannoch and The Lang Bar afore the game drinkin Mackeson black and tans, and they’ll a be dyin for a p1sh weel afore half time. They’ll come doon to the fence, pit their cox through the holes we’ve drilled in order to relieve the copious volumes of urine in their incapable bladders. As soon as a foreskin appears through the hole, grab it and shout “Gie’s half a croon or I’ll cut yer kok aff”. The half croons will be fleein ower the fence, you may be sure. We’ll seen fill these pails wi money min and we can hae a the sweeties and toys ye could wish for. You bide here and I’ll ging further doon a bit, to maximise our revenue-gathering potential”.
Both drilled holes in the fence and set about their entrepreneurial endeavours.
Aboot half an oor later, a bobby appeared.
“Aye aye, fit’s a this?” he enquired o morrice the butcher’s brither. “Fit are you twa young scamps up till?”
morrice the butcher’s brither explained, “The mannies at the Fitba hiv a been in the pub and will be burstin for a p1sh. They’ll come doon to hae a p1sh against the fence, see the holes me and Ernie hiv drilled, pit their kox through the holes, and then we grab them and threaten to cut their kox off unless they throw half a croon ower the fence till’s. The proceeds are gathered in this very receptacle that my mither usually uses on nichts when it’s ower weet or caul to ging to the dry lavvie at the fit o wir gairden”.
“Very enterprising,” said the bobby, “and how are ye getting on?”
“I’m daein a’richt,” grinned morrice the butcher;s brither, “I’ve made 17/6”.
“And fit aboot you, loon?” the tarryhat enquired o young Ernie Winchester concentrating hard waiting for the next piece of pink flesh to protrude through the orifice, “How weel are you deein?”
“Nae sae weel as morrice the butcher’s brither”, responded young Ernie, “I’ve only made five bob. But what a pailfae o kox I’ve got”.