[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.