The Claymore Legacy

[ParaHandy]

Re: Lord Claymore has a new phone fitted

.. on the foredeck, the flash of of Fiona's white thigh as she retrieved the flare from her garter was clearly visible and the tea towel was now insufficient to cover the laird's rising excitement so the laird's spinnaker was hoisted to cover his indignity. To their horror, the laird had become entangled in the guy ropes and was carried aloft. Judging from the look of Fiona, it wasn't the Laird's leg that had become entangled. The wind dropped and his lordship splashed into the water only to be rogered by a passing whale. The Laird was hauled aboard with the help of the Oban lifeboat who had seen Fiona's flare. The Laird wus exhausted from his adventures and sorely missing the tenner he'd passed on to the coxswain of the lifeboat, then, his mobile rang. It was Dear Heart. Had he yet thought of a name for his granddaughter? Could his day get any worse?

 

[Sgeir]

Cherished memories of Lord Claymore\'s OU tie

Could his day get any worse? Probably not.

But for Fiona, this brief encounter brought back a flood of warm memories, from the day she first saw Claymore in his televisual capacity as the Sudoku Foundation lecturer in Craps and Shuff Ha'penny at the Open University.

Those far off days, that tie....

 

[claymore]

Re: Cherished memories of Lord Claymore\'s OU tie

Lying on the foredeck, his willie badly burned from the recent entanglement with the spinnaker sheets the noble laird thought to himself "Things just could not get any worse today"
Going below to hollow out a large cucumber for he had once been taught by Gurkha that they make a fine poultice his lairdship thought it time to make a log entry. The fuller realisation that things could and probably would get worse dawned upon him as his sharpened Romney 2b navigation pencil scrawled out the ominous words..."Friday 13th July....."

 

[jimi]

Re: Cherished memories of Lord Claymore\'s OU tie

Meanwhile over on the PS Waverley Fiona was beside herself with anguished concern as she watched the man she had worshipped from afar for so long crawl below in mortal agony. Hear mind raced as her heart thrashed in time with the Waaverleys massive paddles. What could she do to help hero , no doubt he was lying below at this moment bravely trying to apply a poultice or such like to the remants of his willie .. what could she do .. she could restrain herself no longer , running up to the bridge she pushed the driver out the way took the wheel rang for full steam ahead and headed straight towards Claymore which by this time was displaying two balls aloft ..

 

[Twister_Ken]

His Lairdship, the right honourable Claymore of Claymore, Lord of the Aisles, Defender of the Faith, President of the Gracie Fields Fan Club (Highland Division), Colonel in Chief of the 91st Pike and Musket Regiment, Procurator Fiscal at the Court of St Haggis and Keeper of Princess Anne's Garter wishes it to be known that:

In relation to the alleged incident of a severe mauling of the stern quarters of a 45 foot Binliner in the sea lock of the Crinan Canal, the eponymously-named yacht variously described as grey or green in colour was not involved, or if it was then he was not aboard, or if he was then he was not at the controls. His Grace is not available for comment, being in conference with Miss Norma Stitz, but speaking on his behalf his wrinkled auld retainer, one Mr Parahandy (who is believed to be no longer in his employ) said "Jings mon, tharra auld tub has nae gorra han'brek orra foo'brek. Hoo's a soul expected to stop ra bleeder, then, eh?"

Any questions regarding this statement should be directed to Messrs Toecap and Spleen, Insurance Adjusters, c/o The Warden, Barlinnie Gaol.

 

[claymore]

Furthermore, The Laird would also like to add that the aforementioned PHandy's attempts at ingratiation through the supply of software which mysteriously will not now open have been recognised by the good burghers of Whitehaven as a cheap ploy tae get hisself aff ra hook - a thing that the fishes of the oceans of the world seldom need to worry aboot as Phandy is the worlds worst fisherman ever born - and the Good Burghers are wondering when the Auld Scroat is actually going to turn up at the White Haven with a bit of Y10 and do the decent thing and remove the black stinkieboatrubbingstrake smear that currently adorns the otherwise unblemished hull of the Good Ship Claymore.
He would close this missive by adding that blaming the attractive wee floozie who was working the sluices is a bit of a liberty and a cheapshot and his lairdship - being a man of honour and feeling that the honour of the sluicefloozie has been besmirched - challenges the aforementioned lowlife - PHandy - to a duet.

 

[Twister_Ken]

"Ship aboard ma lugger", quoth parahandy, "and ra wee timorous beasties of ra deip will fling tha'selves on ma hook, and we shall eat like sassenach lairds all ra way tae ra land of Sarko."

Nary a fishy did the old goat catch, in two hundred miles of briny passage. I did, though, witness an epic struggle with several strands of bladder wrack, which had him puffin' and pantin' like a pensioner after a strenuous session of the hokey cokey. The great fisherman; pah!

By para's special request, Chris E is not to read this message.

 

[Sgeir]

Lord Claymore looked puzzled. "I've been looking through the estate accounts. I didn't realise that you had to employ so many of these temporary gardening sub-contractors. What do they do?"

Para Handy rocked uneasily in his Croc brogues and coughed. Removing a piece of stray catarrh from the front of Lord Claymore's cardigan, he replied, "Well, Yer Wonderfulness, ye see, although you're not always here, we need to make sure that a' thae plants and things in the greenhoose are properly looked efter in yer absence."

"Oh. And how come we're spending so much on subscriptions for the library?"

"Och, maist 'o that's stuff like maintenance manuals. And the subscription for Eberspächer Times and Conservatory Review disnae come cheap, ye ken." His red face darkened as he glanced through the clear plastic where the window pane used to be. "Anyway, forbye a' that, there's wee light blue Morris Minor wi' a blue licht on the tap o' the roof comin' up the drive."

"Not again", thought Lord Claymore.

_ _ _ _


"Allow me to introduce myself, I'm..." said the man in the brown gabardine coat.

"Oh, get on with it man!" Claymore interrupted, "We know damned fine who ye are."

"Ahem", said Inspector Hector McLector of Argyll's finest. "I thought I'd come and tell ye the good news. Ye'll be pleased tae hear that I've solved the Case of the Headless Man. It turns out that Mr Webfoot, a well known Seil businessman, was actually sailing round various overseas tax havens after selling a large stake in one of his many highly successful business ventures. He sailed up Seil Sound to the House of the Untrousered setting off flares all over the place. He also said he was fully dressed, which I thought was stating the obvious at the time. You boys fairly get up to some high jinx, eh?"

The clock ticked, and the a small drip formed on the end of McLector's nose. "Ach weel, I'll be be taking my leave of you, Your Lordship."

"Aye, chust so. It's been so nice to see you again", Lord Claymore lied.

"Oh, by the way, chust before I go, there was something else."

Something else, though Claymore, there's always another bloody something else.

"I don't suppose you've ever been the victim of blackmail, at all, at all?" asked McLector.

"Blackmail? Naw. I lead a perfect and blameless life", replied Lord Claymore.

"Oh, so you'll have seen the photographs then, I suppose?", McLector slyly insinuated. "The ones in West Coast Lady Boys, an American magazine I believe."

Claymore collapsed into his chair, breathless and stunned. He could just about hear Para Handy cough, clear his throat, and say "Ah'll, errmm, harrumph, better be showing ye tae the door then Inspector. He's been taken thae giddy turns again. It's been awfy nice havin' ye roon'."

 

[claymore]

Meanwhilst, the good laird pondered on life's imponderables. How unchust - he thought in his finest Argyll thought dialect, wondering whether to put his imponderables between inverted commas, then thinking better of it as it had been the state of invertedness that had been the very cause of his current sorrow, grief and woe. If only he'd continued with his stated intent that fateful day and continued to polish his Purdeys instead of falling for the beguiling ways of yon big Stirling Galoot the McDonald. Him and his poetry, leading the innocent Claymore away from that straight and narrow wee path he always tried tae trod. And after all, ladyboys sounded very like Ladybower - the place where all those years ago he'd flown his Lancaster Bomber in preparation for that daring raid on the Morvern Dam.
The Laird shuddered silently and unseen at the thought of the handful of meat and veg he'd clutched in the dark back room of the Bon Accord Public House just off Campsie Road, and the nasty crack he'd given his elbow as he pulled back in horror - too close to the heavy woodwork of the vaults bar. Rubbing the once wounded limb gently he was woken from his tormenting dream by the dulcet tones of the aged retainer, Parahandy. "I see the elbow is bothering yerself Sir, will I administer the fiery-jack?" This particular service brought pleasure to Parahandy, who now well into the autumn of his years and enduring the many decrepitudes that such age brings, could still derive some sensation by repairing to the Water Closet and peeing, his lifeless limb enjoying for a brief time the warm glow brought about by resting within the palm of a hand covered in Fiery Jack. Sadly by the time he'd thought this through the laird had rested his whiskery chin upon his gravy encrusted Fair Isle cardigan and was wheezing his way towards his morning nap.

 

[Aja]

It took some time before His Lordship came to. His faithful servant Para had to resort to opening Claymore's secret bottle of Talisker which was alway kept hidden in the mouth of the mangy old tigerskin in the great hall.

"Dinna worry yersel' aboot all that nonsense my Lord, d'ye hear? It's bound tae be some mistake" Para had always wanted to utter the immortal line "Shurley shome mishtake" but felt that this was neither the time nor place.

At this moment the crafty Jimi eased out of the shadows in the great hall where he had been listening to the events as they unfolded. "Aye" he said, being the quiet type.

Para turned on him. "Whit ye up tae loon?" "Hiv ye nae respect for his Lordship? Look. He's cacked his breeks agin."

Jimi sniggered. "Aye nae the first time the day nae doubt" I've been havin a look on yon World Wide Web his Lordship has had installed. Aye. Very interestin' whit he's been up tae. I've a' the proof needed. It's nae the West Coast Lady Boys at a' he's been lookin' at......." "Remember when he took that trip through tae see his sister in Falkirk? He wiz awa' seein' mair than his sister so he wus.... Mair like the LADY BOYS OF BANKNOCK! ....

Claymore stood up, dumbfounded and confused. "But....but...." he stammered........

 

[Sgeir]

Lord Claymore recovered his composure; Para Handy had thoughtlessly left it lying amongst the pile of old oilskins that his Lordship kept for visiting friends.

After all, thought Claymore, relaxing, it doesn't really matter what wee Jamesie says or thinks about anything. The pair wee sowl had his brains melted when he was abducted by aliens in Banknock; one minute he was on the late night bus from Dunipace to Cumnock, next thing he was whisked up into the Ebersphere where strange beings carried out unusual experiments on his body. And, then, of course, there was the time Jimi had this out-of-body experience in Colonsay.

Ach aye , the fondest of memories ay begin with... Aw, <span style="color:black">fu</span>ck<span style="color:black">it! I've forgotten what I was thinking about.</span> Ah, yes, Vatersay... As the palm trees swayed in the gentlest of Hebridean breezes, Claysie in his grass skirt, and that damned fine looking piper with the big coconuts....

 

[ParaHandy]

His lairdship's slumbers wus interrupted by a passing goat chomping through his grass skirt. "Ah, Fiona, youse are jist sublime. yer touch is like velvet and the blow job ... ". With a whack, the Lairds manservant smote the goat's backside as its jaws clamped oan ra cucumber, bit deeply, and tore it off. "Hmmm ... whit are we tae dae, Donald," enquired Para "the goat's eaten it." "That's torn it" remarked Donald.

The gelded Laird, still mumbling aboot Fiona, was blissfully unaware orra hus predicament. As luck wid hae it, ra goat wus the mascot orra the massed pipe band orra Dagenham girls and with a skirl the band hove into view. Para snipped aff the pipe major's best glen garry chanter and stuffed what was left of the Laird's willie as far as upper C.

Later, Para wus ankshushly awaiting the return of the Laird frae his ablueshuns. the usual din orra laird's snorting airse wus hidden ahent ra sound orra pee-broch. Wud the Laird hae notished?

 

[jimi]

Some time later, the Laird in a moment of quiet reflection, passed a chip shop. Though to be more accurate he stopped and failed to pass it, this was an unusual occurence cos these days he very rarely knowingly passed anything whilst the opposite was oft the case, hence the reason for the kilt. Anyroads, he pondered, white or black pudding, then a grimace passed his fine features as he recalled the day he went to see Falkirk in the cup final and the subsequent rumours that had followed him since .. "I never should have supported a team called 'The Braw lads' he mused". Then he brightened, the operation had gone well and things were looking up. "Para .... " he yelled ."Single Fish, please!"

 

[Twister_Ken]

"If it's fish you'll be wanting, yer worshipfulness, it could be taking a fair few weeks to get one on the end a'ma tackle," ra wrinkeld old retainer retorted. He felt the cold shivers of bladder wrack begin to wrack his bladder as the memories, like the incontinence, came flooding back.

 

[Sgeir]

The Ship\'s Log as a work of fiction

The clock seemed to tick very slowly on the marble mantelpiece. Outside, the low clouds scudded across the Argyll hills. But at least it was warm in the snugness of His Lordship's study. He threw another yotblog on to the fire.

"In the name of God, when's he going to stop burbling on?" Lord Claymore wondered.

Opposite him, his sailing companion and literary agent LongJohn Sadler was in discourse about the role of the the ship's log as a narrative device in literature.

"Using the ship's log is well established in fiction", intoned LongJohn. "The best known example must surely be that of the Starship Enterprise, but of course it regularly features in the modern novel, Joseph O'Connor's Star of the Sea being a case in point. In the case of the Star, Terry Eagleton pointed out that 'the ship is a microcosm of Irish society, the place where a number of different narratives converge, as they do in a piece of fiction".

"However, I think it was your good self who drew the Scuttlebutt literary forum's attention to Pierre Berthiaume's comment that using the ship's log as a metaphor can also reveal the ship itself as the very instrument of discovery. As he put it so well, 'Mais reprenons les choses au début, par l'étude du compte rendu manuscrit d'exploration, qui paraît d'autant plus en continuité avec le journal de navigation que l'instrument de la découverte est fréquemment le navire.'"

"Can you think of other examples of the ship's log as a work of fiction?"

"That's it!" Claymore said. "I've had just about as much of this as I can take...." he roared, as he stamped out of his study, his dander right up, as they say.

Shaken by this sudden turn of events, LongJohn reflected on the conversation, and wondered what could possibly have caused so much offence......

 

[jimi]

Re: The Ship\'s Log as a work of fiction

Suddenly the music on radio stopped and the sombre tones of a presenter filled the study.

"we have a special announcement to make. Please do not panic.
TRIBUTES are being paid to Scotland this morning after the entire country laughed itself to death.
The alarm was first raised at around 10pm last night as thousands of phone calls and text messages went unanswered.
Small groups of volunteers from Berwick-Upon-Tweed and Carlisle ventured north just after midnight only to find houses full of dead people gathered around still blaring television sets.
By dawn, as RAF helicopters flew over deserted city streets, it was clear that the whole country had suffered a catastrophic abdominal rupture.
Stugeron Steve, a special constable from Nottingham, said: "We went into one house in Dunbar and found three men sitting on the sofa with huge smiles on their faces, still holding cans of 70 shilling. They seemed to be at peace."
He added: "In a boat near Melfort we found a man face down on the fornicatorium floor with his trousers and pants round his knees.

"It seems he may have been showing his bare buttocks to the television when he keeled over."

TCM, a uncivil engineer from Bratfort, said: "I got a call from my friend Sgeir in Stirling at about 9.50pm.
"He was already laughing when I answered the phone, but after about 25 minutes of the most vigorous and uncontrollable hilarity, everything suddenly went very quiet."

Moving tributes are already being placed along the Scotland-England border with many mourners opting to leave a simple bag of chips or a deep fried bunch of flowers.

 

[Twister_Ken]

Re: The Ship\'s Log as a work of fiction

As he reflected on his lamentable lack of restraint, the aging, raging Laird cooled. How could his guest, named after his eponymous nether garments, have known that, writing under the nom-de-plume Randy Kiltlifter, the noble lord had been mortified to have his own, well-crafted novel "The Log of the Blue Doublet", recounting the wave-borne trysts of a handsome, broad-chested, sandy haired, dark-eyed, well hung Scottish noble, and a dashing young princess, known in the equestrian world for the excellence of her seat, rejected by no less a publishing house than Bills and Moon. The humiliation still rankled, especially when he recalled how his wrinkled old retainer, Parahandy, now departed to run a tackle shop in Milngavie-next-the-Sea, had borne him the rejection slip, quoting "They'll nae be wanting yon pile o' yer wetdreams about wee Annie, the noo."

He resolved to fetch a bottle of the 1896 Lochpikker malt, and return with two glasses to his guest, comforting himself that the amber anesthetic would dull the pain that lingered in his heart.

 

[ParaHandy]

Re: The Ship\'s Log as a work of fiction

His Lordship, once again, viewed his manly self in the mirror. "Ah hev tae look ma best fer tae receive ma presentation frae Mandy". He flicked a few crumbs off his tux which his faithful manservant, Para, had just ironed on the Laird's ebespacher exhaust. The tux had a fine iron-shaped patch in it. "Youse blithering eejit. Ye've scalded ma ootfit. Whit wull Mandy be saying when ah receive the cup?" "Ah gan boil yer heid" responded his faithful servant "gie'ing youse a prize fer yon witterings which are'nae eggshactly shakespeer and its a' aboot yer lusting efter yon hussy. Ah hud a keek at it and eets ah aboot her fine body". Para eyed the hole in the Laird's tux. "A sporran wud hide yon verra wull. Thon gleswegians wud nivver ken the difference."

The Laird and LongJohnSaddler looked perplexed. Glasgow was not known to prize literary works about an auld goat trundling the western isles with his tackle stuffed in a dagenham girls pipe band chanter. The Laird pulled the invitation out of his pocket along with several camphor balls and a flock of moths. "Jings, the man's richt. Ah've tae get tae glesgae on the nicht ... "

 

[ParaHandy]

Re: The Ship\'s Log as a work of fiction

the Laird turned to his companions and roared "youse promised me the Booker prize fer dietary merit". The Laid wiped the tears of rage and frustation aff his face. "Ma Omega 5 recipes fer cauliflower are mair valuable than Bonny Prince Charlies recipe fer that cough mixture ..

 

[jimi]

Re: The Ship\'s Log as a work of fiction

... the Laird grimaced, acshully he smiled but it would never be mistaken for that by an independent 3rd party, he'd remembered that the time was fast approaching for his rendezvous at the Hoose 'o the Bernekkedarse wi' a figure o' some conseequence, who he thought, wid solve some o' his recent woes. He gathered his plaid aroon his broad shoulders and yelled 'Para, saddle me my goat!" Para shuffled in, his red rheumy eyes watering and a nasal periodic drip evident. "C##tface, hae ye been smoking agen?" roared his Lordship "Goat .. now!" Para turned and shuufled back with a steaing pot .. "What the frig is that?" queried Claymore mildly? "Minted goat chops." responded the faithful retainer. "And how the 'eck am I going to get to the pub now?" enquired Claymore softly ... Para scratched his nuts ...