The Claymore Legacy

[sarabande]

Scarcely had he done so, than a taradiddle of knocking on the front door sent the Clan woodworms scurrying for cover, and an arm, clad in the Royal HiViz colours of Her Majesty's Mail thrust itself between the astragal and one of the jambs, before releasing a cream-coloured envelope towards the long-dead skin of a musk-ox which served as the castle's first line of defence against the relict glacial muds of the estate without.

Seizing a pair of fire tongs, the Laird advanced towards the letter, and noted the discreet purple embossed crest on the back of the envelope as he picked it up . He retreated to his high-backed chair in front of the festering fire glowing fitfully in the granite embrace of lintel and surround, and bending down reached his hand into his slippered pantaloon and extracted his sgian-dubh, a knife known affectionately by generations of the family as Stanley. With a precise and practised slice, he opened the envelope and pulled out the letter within.

"Ach, not another knighthood, please, Ah cannicht be bothered with mair crabbit conversations about corgis" he said as he read the opening paragraph. "Her Majesty's Private Secretary presents his compliments, and begs to ask the Laird to...."

 

[claymore]

His Grace the Noble Laird awoke feeling rather perky, - his lang time friend, the Queen's Daughter was at the anchorage at the foot of the hill leading up to Claymore Towers. Donning a clean shirt and plus fours he set off to the waters edge at a considerate hour - he'd been in the practice some years ago of entertaining her Grandmother and had once received a Royal Bollocking for being up and about too early. A Royal Pardon never followed and to this day he'd always minded the hour when it came to Royalty.

 

[sarabande]

Pausing only to wipe the verdigris off the clan sundial on the ha-ha, and wrench it round 15 degrees to account for Scottish Summer (Nominal) Time, he mooched gallantly towards the landing stage. As he drew nearer, he espied the the Royal Mast of the Royal Rustler rocking rhythmically to and fro in the mid-morning sun.

A scintilla of doubt passed through the Laird's mind. Where had he put that Book of Etiquette ? What was the proper and dignified way to make yourself known to someone who might be doing, what was it that young people did on board mid morning ? The Dashing White Chief Petty Officer or some other nautical reel ?

Behind him, a discreet cough, ingrained by years of tending some illicit still surrounded by fuming peat, alerted the Laird to the presence of a ghillie. "Would you be coming for a dram before lunch, Sair ?" Lost in the increasing whine of myriad midges, the Laird misheard the polite question and replied,...

 

[jimi]

"weel I hae tae return hersell's thong, its no fitting me noo Ah've slimmed doon a bit. So . aye, Ah'll gie her yin afore ma mackeral salad. Ye ken, thon MacKeral wiz an awfie funnie nag, shuftied aboot a wee bit funny. The Ghillie looked bemused. Och hersel will be delichted, she kent sumfink guid wid happen when the dochter lent her the bocht. Claysie scratched his nether regions, again, ...

 

[claymore]

The noble laird woke in a ponderous mood - his ponderings had increased over the years and this day looked like being another devoted to ruminations and wonderment. 'Earl o' Dunbarton indeed' he harrumphed as his morning tea dribbled down his hoary auld chin - 'Weel, at least the wee beggar hes red hair but tae be takin' oan a yankee wifie - an her a dusky maiden tae boot - jings - whitever next?'
'Para, Jamesie' he roared - 'whit properties are fer free doon in Dunbarton - Ah've land there an' need tae see if there's a wee rental opportunity.....'
His mind wandered again tae the ponderings and this time a vision - faded by time, wandered into view of a sultry night in the far east when he was serving as a young subaltern in the Gordons - whit a body an how dark her skin.....

 

[sarabande]

"Ah, fifty shades of brown ?" queried his retainer, "O sich thingies are memories made tae comfit His Lairdship through the cold wintry months of Floréal till Thermidor."

 

[ParaHandy]

Ahem, coughed his faithful long term and unpaid servant, PH, “that’ll be green. Thus hish a grey-free zone and if ah may say so, yer lairdship, the wee place ye hud at Dumbarton, youse put it oan Airbnb. Whit wid you have me do? And putting yer boat oan as a floating home with 6 beds all ensweet tae ra same kaazzy has not gone doon well.”
The rheumy auld retainer shuffled forward and handed over an empty wee glass jar. “A flunkie frae ra palace came roond asking if youse haud any more apricot jam like yon ye were given by masel’ and promptly offered as a prezzie tae ra ginger one. Stingey auld goat.?” he muttered.

 

[claymore]

The new year dawned on January 26th in Claymore Towers.
The ageing heed that graced the shoulders of the Noble Laird seemed to be on the road to recovery after the excesses of Hogmany so shifting the heavy covers from the bed upon which he lay, the Great Man risked dislocation of the hips and swung in a careful and mildy geriatric manner, through enough degrees to have his feet in a reasonable position to effect a landing on the bedchamber floor. As he slid gently towards his intended destination, the flannel nightshirt rode up over his once active but long unemployed willie. This distracted himself and prevented him from viewing the brimming pisspot into which his right foot slowly went.
Being a man of advanced years and having suffered much in the way of trials and tribulations - whereas a lesser man might have ranted and cursed, the noble Head of Clan Claymore nodded sagely as a well pickled turd slid through the gap between his big toe and its neighbour and reflected that things could only improve....

 

[WoodyP]

But twas not to be. As he slipped full length and the brown stain extended from airras to elbow there came a knock at the door. The aged retainer enquired if the laird had made a request for new shreds or merely expectorated.

 

[sarabande]

"All is not lost." cried the Chieftain, as schoolboy memories of Rural Economics in the Middle Ages came flooding back.

"Take this" (he indicated the container to the retainer) " Take this down that new lass in the village, that wee Fiona McGillicuddy-Patel who runs the craft shop and Sporran Maker By Appointment to that Rothesay fellow. She reminded me the other night, oops I mean day, that her vat of tanning material is depleted, and she surely will welcome noble material to replenish it. Aye, and remind her that she' is to start work soon on that walrus hide we brought back on the last nautical expedition to see the magnetic pole was going to return home before March the 29th."

The edict having been delivered, the Laird sank back into the clutches of his four poster, kicked a brace of Great Danes off the bed, telling them to fetch some coffee and lightly burnt toast, and switched on his hereditary cat's whisker radio, to hear the seductive and soothing voice of Jim Nochty start to say...

 

[Fr J Hackett]

But the noble lairds listening was rudely interrupted by the incessant ring of the telephone newly installed at his bedside. His gnarled paws reached out, one grasping the main part and the other pressing the trumpet like earpiece to the side of his head. Thinking it might be a summons from HRH the princess in need of assistance or even word from the palace of the long awaited knighthood he waited. then came the dulcet tones of an Indian lady enquiring about the virus currently infecting his computer. The vein in his temple swelled to alarming proportions and throbbed such that it was fit to burst. Flinging the instrument at the door in the vain hope that Jamsie would open it at the time of impact for it was he that had induced his lordship to have the infernal contraption at his bedside in the hope of reducing the number of times he would be forced to answer it. However the unsolicited calls had begun to irritate the laird to a point that he dreaded the shrill bell that heralded another outburst. However those dulcet Indian tones had struck a chord and the laird collapsed back into his pillows his mind drifting back to the days as a young subaltern in the Kings kilted Indian Highland Dragoons when defending the outermost limits of the empire and the Khyber pass when his bed was warmed by a dusky village girl, what was her name he struggled to bring it to mind as he drifted off with a strange smile twisting normally dour and haggard features. Such was the scene as Jamsie entered the bedchamber.

 

[claymore]

"Ah've bin lisnin tae ra wireless yer lairdship" sniffled wee Jamesie " they English hev fekked up wi ra health service an let a laid o' dusease intae ra country - we'ragannintaebelockeddoon an ahm no stayin tae be locked doon wi you ye muserable auld fekker"
The door slammed behind the worthless wee hanger-on and the Noble Laird was left disconsolate and morning tealess, wondering whether it was something he'd said.

 

[jimi]

As I wandered aimlessly along the shores of Loch Doon seeking purpose in this shallow shiftless life after being cast out by the snotty nosed bilious arsed baron in a fit of pique over whose turn it wiz to use the lazy Susan , I melancholy mused on how I, a descendant of both the Black Douglas and The Bruce himsel, came tae be in sic a pickel, sae i looked it up and a pickel is a drunk cucumber. This confused me even more sae I resorted to song.

Ye banks and braes in effin lockdoon,
How can ye stay sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary fu' o' care?
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons thro' the flowering thorn:
Thou minds me o' departed joys,
Departed, never to return.

Now close to tears over my estrangement from the dear Laird , I had a thocht ...

 

[claymore]

Many parts of the auld laird's anatomy were failing - a testament to old age and a lifetime of self abuse - but his hearing was absolutely average thanks tae that lovely wee lassie in the Opticians shop in Oban - Carol Lekalake , he remembered fondly - amazed that he went in without being able to read the paper and came out gifted with improved sight and a couple of devices tae plug intae his whiskery auld ears which enable him to hear a mouse fart 3 rooms away as well as being able to eavesdrop on his 2 scallywag employees.
A thin nasal reedy warbling pervaded which he instantly recognised as wee jamesie's attempts at singing. It was a melancholy sound, haunting and rare - and the auld laird, saddened by his recent exchange with his young retainer - and anxious to know that his incontinence pad wid be changed before it got any heavier - opened the window and in a moment of true affection, called out to the owner of the voice " James - get yer weary fekkin airse in here noo and pour me a dram, man!"
The tears coursing down wee Jamesies trooser legs dried, his broken nosed, pock-marked features almost cracked a smile and dutifully he entered the Big Hoos, mumbling but not unkindly " Fekkin auld goat"

 

[claymore]

The Noble Laird was ruminating over how quickly one call fall from Grace. This expression had more than one meaning for his Lairdship as there was once a scullery maid of the name of Grace and well he remembered one athletic morning when they fell together off the slate slabs in the Cheese room - but that isn't the meaning he was bothering about, this day.
No - the object of his somewhat dismal thoughts was a programme aired on mainstream television - his lairdship hadnae the time nor the patience with all this modern streaming - "The 7 loves of the Queens daughter" or some such title.
Convinced he'd be up there wi mentions in despatches - after all - had he not slipped his knarly mits over her rather fine withers in those very stables aroon the back of Claymore Towers?
Nary a mention - Meade, Parkyer Balls and that wee shirtlifter, the ageing banker and the chinless fekker she first married were all in there as well as the present invader o' the royal drawers - but not a scorrach o' a mention of himself.
"Jamesie" he bellowed - as well as a man wi his ailments could " Ah've decided we can manage wi'oot this blasted television, come an shift it"

 

[Twister_Ken]

Right glad it is I am to find your fettle is still fine on ra bonnie bonnie banks of Dunramblinonanon.

 

[claymore]

Right glad it is I am to find your fettle is still fine on ra bonnie bonnie banks of Dunramblinonanon.

Kenny - ma braw wee skinnymalinky - great tae hear from your good self. How is the belly for spots?
?????

 

[Twister_Ken]

Spotless - unlike yer airse. An' hoos ra world bin treating youse?

 

[claymore]

Spotless - unlike yer airse. An' hoos ra world bin treating youse?

No sae weel of late - I've had tae dispense wi the services o' they two indolent wee beggars. Jimi and Para. Mair Life in a tramps vest in the wan and mair go in a sick note in t'other. Whit aboot yersel'? Did the 'old problem' get sorted - Ah dinnae like discussin' sec private issues in this forum but hoo is yer willie nowadays? It was the incident wi a hoover if ah remember correctly, was it not?