Chippy Scots/ a load of bollo….

Why oh why are so many Scots so chippy? Why do they sing that dreadful durge ‘Flower of Scotland’? I love a lot of Scots I have had many Scottish friends but I have also met a load of others who need to have a chat with them selves. Take that dreadful leader of the SNP in Westminster. His CV is full of ‘exaggerations’ for a start. Who does the fool think he is kidding.? I nearly punched him once when we worked for the same firm. I wish I had I might have spared us all his desperate rantings.

Any way enough of that. My first experience when it ‘all slipped out’, so to speak, was at The Stock Exchange Sports. For some reason our Team Captain, my ‘walking second’ and former school mate, CD Jones had put me in the high hurdles. I protested but he was having none of it. ‘There is no-one else’ he said ‘remember what Birrell told you.’ !

At school I had ‘supposedly’ been taught chemistry by a man called Bob Birrell. He came sixth in the final of the high hurdles in the Tokyo Olympic games in 1960. I am told the man had wonderful personal qualities but he hated me and I him. ‘I wake up in the middle of the night’ he would say and ‘it is like wallowing in a great big barrel of treacle and all I can see is Green (a good friend of mine) and Elliott laughing”. “They will laugh their way to a grade ‘F’ F for fool”. His grade prediction at least was reliable I am forced to admit.

Of course most of the school idolised him and he would pass on his knowledge to all who were forced to listen. Leading leg trailing leg -yawn! Any way CD Jones put me in the hurdles.

As I approached the final flight the tightness of my now undersized school athletic shorts proved an issue. I was not winning but well placed and I made a final effort. Unfortunately I sort of snagged the final flight of hurdles catching my shorts. Something ‘popped out’ which was unfortunate as Lady ‘Whatshername’ who was there to award the prizes was at the finishing line. My failure to successfully return ‘the goods’ to their rightful place attracted her attention to my plight. I decided not to apologise to her directly as it might have made a difficult situation worse.

Our wonderful semi detached house in High Barnet had magnificent views but it also had a leaking roof. Two gulleys to the rear of the property had been badly repaired in the past. My trusty ‘Readers Digest’ manual suggested pouring tar down the length of the failed structure. Having received a number of ‘stupid estimates’ from professionals I decided to DIY or DIM in this case. One hot summer day I managed to get on to the rear roof of the house via a balcony. I will always remember what I wore. A pair of New Balance running shoes maroon in colour with very worn soles. They had carried me many miles including The London Marathon but now they were work shoes. I had a pair of those shiny running shorts on too. Brief, as was the fashion, two sort of slits up the side, Crucially the material was satin like, some new man made material-they were as I was to find out very slippery.

The view from the back roof was spectacular. I could see all the way to central London. I climbed on to the ridge of the house to se the view from the front. I hoped I might be able to see over the houses opposite (the rear view was uninterrupted). The roof surface was polished slate, we had cast iron gutters that were painted dark green. I sat on the ridge looking out. I was a bit uncomfortable with the height but I scanned the horizon looking out-not much to see in fact. I must have sort of raised myself up because slowly ever so slowly I started to slide down the roof. I felt panic rising. I pushed my smooth soled trainers down but no good. I squeezed my buttocks but this seemed to speed things up. No friction you see. I attempted to turn and catch the ridge but this made me jerk down faster. At what was probably a snails pace I approached the gutter. Would it hold my weight. I pressed down with everything my shorts rode up and ‘Things’ popped out. It was most undignified especially as my rear with its now thong like apparel was feeling the heat from the roof tiles. At the edge of the roof my feet hit the gutter and thankfully it held but I was stuck there and given my predicament returning my ‘goods’ was not an option. A woman passing by shouted up. ‘I am at 24 could you give me an estimate for some roof work I need doing’ she said. I gained comfort from this as I assumed my ‘dilemma’ was not apparent from below. My father was staying at the time helping me decorate. Thank fully he came out. He asked me what i was doing up there which prompted a sarcastic response. He got a ladder and I returned to earth safely.

The Braemar games is a well known Scottish annual event. Th Royals attend and have their own special pavilion along with 15000 plus cheering visitors/specators. I was on a golf tour with three mates. I have forgotten who the 4th one was but Bill Smith, A Yorkshire man, and Sambo Lewis, a very handsome Texan, who were work colleagues, were on the trip. We had played some of the great Scottish courses, badly! Bill had introduced me and others to ‘Fell racing’, earlier on in the year. I will report on that event later but suffice it to say we had not ‘learned our lesson’. Later in the year we three and others had signed up to run The New York marathon so the announcement by Bill that he had entered us all in The Braemar Games Fell Race was somehow approved.

We arrived at the arena. The mass band of Scottish pipers and drummers entered the auditorium. The Drum Major (from one who knows these things) looked absolutely magnificent. Six foot plus tall himself on his head he wore a huge busby. The pipes wailed the drums beat. Just awesome. Don’t be chippy Scots be proud of all the magnificent things you have and have achieved.

We went to the appropriate tent to enter. Around twenty prospective runners were in a line including one woman, who had magnificent huge thighs. She got to the front of the queue but was refused entrance to the race. ‘You can’t enter this race’ the organiser said. A pompous man with an Edinburgh accent. ‘This is not a race for the ladies’ he said. She was outraged. ‘I am a shepherdess’ she said, ‘I make a living herding sheep in the Yorkshire Dales I insist on running’ Other took interest. Sambo was furious and being a tall self confident man he joined in on the dispute his Texan drawl giving him credibility it seemed. ‘This is a joke” he said ‘ ‘give us all (cleverly calling in supporters I reflected) one good reason why this woman cannot run.” The response was shocking if on reflection very amusing its effect was to almost start a revolution. ” she cant run in the race’ he said ‘ because she has no bollocks’!!!

Outcry. Sambo by this time was speaking for everyone. Or so he made out. ‘If this woman does not run none of us do’ he asserted and moved along side the shepherdess in a show of unity. The organisers formed a gaggle, much discussion, a decision. The woman will be ‘unofficial’ he said ‘she will have no number’ he said ‘but she will run’. Sambo saw it as a complete victory and was triumphant and instantly bet me £50 she would beat me-I took the bet.

On my wrist I had a running watch connected to an early heart monitor. I had set an alarm that I hoped would help me balance my efforts as the going got steeper. The start and finish line was about 25 yards from the Royal pavilion in which was seated The Queen, Charles and some others. One lap of the 440 yards (old money) track up and back down the hill then a final lap of flat running. The field of runners was read out via the tannoy. I lived at the time outside Harpenden in a place called Mackerye End. Mackerye was pronounced Mackeree. The announcer, thinking I was Scottish I presume, decide Mac=ire was the correct pronunciation and dropped the ‘End’. The last runner was referred to as ‘unattached’ no details no number.

Bang went the gun we were off. We had been drinking a few beers in the previous days and as we got about half way round the circuit the speed I was struggling to match set my heart alarm off. Beep beep beep it went. We left the arena and up we went. the shepherdess was just behind me then just in front, we were both to the rear of the field. As we turned the cairn at the top I was perhaps 10 yards in front i was hopeful. Down we came and I was a surprised to hear my uphill efforts, as demonstrated by my heart monitor, had not lessened. Beep beep beep it went. Just out side the arena a final elevated car park was crossed. The shepherdess moved easily by me and entered the cheering arena ahead of me. The ‘unattached runner, has entered the ring the announcer said and now the man for Macire. I tried desperately to catch her but no good. In a sea of lactic acid I crossed the finishing line. Sambo was supporting the shepherdess which attracted my attention equally with that of the incongruous sight of Her Majesty applauding my efforts not 25 yards away. I clearly did not look my best as Sambo abandoned the shepherdess and nearly picked me up. He carried/dragged me off as clearly my facial parlour had indicated what was about to happen. I was violently sick.

I payed up my 50. The woman should have got medal, Sambo tried to find her because he thought she might ‘like a pint’ but he could not. this was in fact my last Fell race and best of all I did not have to apologise for offending Her majesty by being sick in front of her.