Originally Posted by
blinlemon
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".