The Claymore Legacy

[Twister_Ken]

Re: The Claymore Legacy (contd)

"Aye, mae John Logie, noo thair's a sad story" responded the weeyin. "Wheel yer honour, on mae way back tae yer magnificent's grand ol shat-oo, here in Glen Toenail, I fell in wi' a feller frae a travelling fair, name o' Big Willie O'Heck. Wee Jum, sez he, yer a fair faced wee divot o' ra human race, hoo d'ye fancy makking a few bob in ra fairground? Ye see, ma bairded lady has hied awa wi' ma coconut shy mon, on account o'his big nuts, and if ye can grow a set o'whiskies, ra jobs yours for a dab o'cosmetics an a purr o'melons up yer shirt. Hoo much, sez I? Mair pouns than ra welfare, fer sure, sez he. So ah grows mae baird, taks a week or twa, meanwhile I'm on ra coconut shy. Wunday, Big Willie reckons I'm hairy enuff, an gies me a dram that didnae taste a mickle like yer lairdship's finest 18 month old Glen Rothes as ye so generously keep fair Para, me and that scalper TCM. Next thung I ken's, I'm wakking oop, nae breeks, nae grundies, nae meat an nae two veg. Yer honour, sad tae say, I'm no the man I wunce was. When a lassie asks me if there's anything under mae kilt, all I can say is "buggerall".

"Jim," says the quick witted but randy old laird from his seat on the genuine porcelain thunderbox, once used by Princess Annie at the Loch Upyerdaughter's horse trials, "let me get Para to give ye a shave, then hoos ye fancy a night doon ra moving pitcher hoos, an mebbe a birra slap'n'tickle in ra back row?"

 

[claymore]

Re: The Claymore Legacy (contd)

And so it began - Para wi ra cut-throat fair slappin awa oan ra leather strop wi an action that could only have been perfected in a minor public school fer boys, not a million miles fae Nairn.

The laird marvelled at the speed o' his wrist and began tae understand hoo the whisky stocks got depleted sae quickly and why Para didnae seem tae bother wi wimmen.

At last - lathered up like a glass-blowers airse he saw Para advance wi a look o menace in his single rheumy auld eye..."es this a guid idea the Laird heard himself think...then all went black

 

[cliff]

In response to http://www.ybw.com/forums/showthread.php?t=213156 Aye, they dinnae write threads like this anymore - maybe that's a guid thing.

 

[bilbobaggins]

Ochone, ochone. It's a sair fecht, so it is.....

 

[Twister_Ken]

See what you've missed

Revived, for new readers.

 

[machurley22]

So, having failed to tempt anyone else, you just had to do it yourself.

 

[Twister_Ken]

I dug it out and read it through (saved some for the second night). Good job the missus is away, or she'd have wondered why I kept collapsing in giggles. Some very good stuff buried in there.

 

[saltwater_gypsy]

The story so far.......
" As the castle doors closed behind me, I was startled to hear a familiar voice, "Aye. Come awa' in there. Ye'll have had yer tea I suppose?
So it was true. Claysie really was now Lord Claymore. But he looked so distant, as though he had undergone some transformation..

"Ochone, ochone. It's a sair fecht, so it is....."

“But stay sir, have a wee dram, and tell us what this is all about.”

The story continues as follows................

 

[claymore]

The rising of the sap

The sunlight shone through the dusty window and onto a camel coloured mass. The noble Laird was sleeping, as usual under his old army greatcoat. A drip tumbled from the whiskery nose and down into the open mouth. The salty tasting droplet landed on the ageing tonsils of the venerable auld skinflint and woke him with a start. It had been a long winter and a cold one - the greatcoat had served him well over the many years since he had been a young Subaltern in the Queens Own Herbacious Borderers but now its moth-eaten, snot ridden fabric was but a shadow of its former glory. He contemplated it for a while until he felt strong enough to summon his ancient retainer..
"Para, ye lang streak O' mischief" his hoarse and hoary voice rattled through the upper floors of Claymore Towers and reached the ears of the aforementioned retainer who at the time, having had a severe disappointment the previous day on the 2:30 at Ayr followed by a calamitous experience in the 3 o'clock at Kempton, was without funds and eyeing the silver candelabra with a look that would please a pawnbroker.
"Och ferfecksake" he sniffed, dripping yet anither snotter intae his lairdship's porridge "Th'auld goat must be risin fer the spring"
"Coming yer Lairdship....."

 

[LONG_KEELER]

The sunlight shone through the dusty window and onto a camel coloured mass. The noble Laird was sleeping, as usual under his old army greatcoat. A drip tumbled from the whiskery nose and down into the open mouth. The salty tasting droplet landed on the ageing tonsils of the venerable auld skinflint and woke him with a start. It had been a long winter and a cold one - the greatcoat had served him well over the many years since he had been a young Subaltern in the Queens Own Herbacious Borderers but now its moth-eaten, snot ridden fabric was but a shadow of its former glory. He contemplated it for a while until he felt strong enough to summon his ancient retainer..
"Para, ye lang streak O' mischief" his hoarse and hoary voice rattled through the upper floors of Claymore Towers and reached the ears of the aforementioned retainer who at the time, having had a severe disappointment the previous day on the 2:30 at Ayr followed by a calamitous experience in the 3 o'clock at Kempton, was without funds and eyeing the silver candelabra with a look that would please a pawnbroker.
"Och ferfecksake" he sniffed, dripping yet anither snotter intae his lairdship's porridge "Th'auld goat must be risin fer the spring"
"Coming yer Lairdship....."

Loved it !

More please.

 

[saltwater_gypsy]

You might be seeing from the PBO postings that Claymore has been taking an interest in traditional Scotttish music. In particular, he now has the words and music for the "Crinan Canal". This musical gift of Claymore's is quite unexpected and may well reveal another facet of his complex character.Maybe Para has the answer because in times long gone it was one of his favourite songs.Perhaps someone closer to the venerable old gentleman can tell us more?

 

[Twister_Ken]

No one is closer to him than Scrotum, his wrinkled old retainer.

 

[[32511]]

Claymore- get aff yer daft auld airse, and pick up yer ancient quill- we need mair o' yer lairdships finest scrivenings!

 

[claymore]

The Noble Laird was idling his time away in northern latitudes. A telegram had arrived at Claymore Towers inviting him to officiate at a gathering of the Danish sept of the Clan Gunn.

"Parahandy - ye feckless wastrel" shouted the Laird "Ah need a pair o clean unnerwear and a fresh singlet, ahm awa fer a week or two"

The ageing retainer raised his finger in acknowledgement, the pleasure on his grim whiskery features barely concealed "Sairtenly my Laird - ah'm oan wi it richt awa.
He rummaged around the bottom of the laundry basket and brought out a pair of rather worn cotton shorts with only the merest of skids showing and found a moth eaten vest further down with only the merest fragrance of the noble Lairds armpits still in evidence.

"Parahandy" the voice rasped along the dusty hall and stairway of the draughty Georgian Pile
"Do we still employ yon reckless wee beggar wha calls himself a driver?"
"Aye ma Lord" came the reply "Young Jamesie is actually cleaning out the car at this very moment"
A vague recollection of being caught short coming back from yesterday's meeting at Ayr crossed the ageing mind - "Its time yon beggars invented a pisspot fer the backs of cars" he mumbled. Para was sniggering in the scullery knowing that wee Jamesie had actually been up to his old tricks in the back of the Rover, with Effie McAllister fae the village shop.

"Tell the wee beggar we're awa fer a couple o' weeks an get yersel tae work oan ma finery."
"oh no" thought the uncivil retainer "not the full hielan dress again - an him wi his wee legs."

The garment of Parahandy's disdane had belonged to the Noble Lairds Grandfather - the Claymore. An imposing character of some 6ft 3 ins in stature. The current Laird, last in the line unless a miracle could be performed by an obliging woman of child bearing age and few scruples - stood a mere 5ft 6ins. This caused some distress to Parahandy who was required to follow his employer around holding the spare yards of heavy plaidie off the ground. At the Braemar games in 1963 this had led to a serious altercation when a few of the local boys - well bevvied, had taunted Parahandy "Wid ye cop fer the titties oan the Matron of Honour" was the one that seemed to upset him the most. Since that day he had dreaded any of his lordships intentions to wear his traditional costume.

 

[sarabande]

'twas indeed fine to see the Laird striding back into civilised company, his ghillie brogues leaving a finely defined trail of historic peat dribblings across the granite flagged floor. The miasma of Claymore Towers had long since evaporated in the back of the conveyance,and in the warmth of the reception room, lit only by the four-square oak fire in the nook, and occasional burning peasants in the sconces, the moths were swarming from Claymore's tam o'shanter like debt collectors on a Saturday evening in Sighthill.

The delicate cashmere and polyester leggings, in traditional grey-green plaid, and well saved since his youth, showed off his un-shrunk shank in manly style, especially when viewed in the darker corners of the Hall.

"Come now," said his hostess, having waylaid him after a chase lasting all of fiteen seconds "will you not partake of a small starter to go with your dram ? We have some local naan bread with a vegetarian stuffing which will take good account of your digestive troubles, known as you are for carrying a favourable wind wherever you sail."

Carefully and with skills tempered by years of practice in the Senior Common Room of his noble seat of learning (soon to be labelled in the Rough Guide to Caledonian Culture as the centre of transcendental plagiarism [3 stars and 2 bars], Claymore raised his sgian dubh, sighted along its obsidian and pearl handle , and lunged for the hors d'ouvres.

In the melee that followed, his faithful retainer (who with foresight had brought along several yards of finest Dundee jute) was to win the St Andrews Gold Award of the year for the fastest arm sling of the winter season, thus enabling the social intercourse to resume after a short interval of prayer for the ambulant wounded, led by the Sublime Prince of the Royal Secret, in the absence of the Archbishop of the Great Glen, and the Grand Mullah of the Western Isles.

Turning toward his host, Claymore said...

 

[saltwater_gypsy]

“..seldom have I had such fine food in such distinguished company in my entire life thus far on this good earth”. He carried a memoire of the fine repast in a varied melange of stains all down the front of his faded velvet waiscoat. The red tomato soup blended with great subtlety into the darker tinge of the fine claret and the earthy brown of the gravy stain was relieved by subtle orange from the baked beans. Every one of the fine dishes of his stupendous meal was represented in living colour and combined with earlier stains from a long history of fine dining. His hostess suddenly focussed on this technicolour extravaganza and said…….

 

[[32511]]

"Whull ye care tae partak o' a tablet or tae o' me speshull medissinal fudge? Verra guid fae spots, rashes, an' pimples on ya whullie"
Cramming two pieces into his mouth he sat and pondered, his pickled brain working at the speed of bacilli reproducing in a petri dish. After several seconds, a vision of his hostess, tied naked to a bed, slowly swam into view. Dismissing this, like a fart tossed into the breeze, he started speaking, projecting only a small avalanche of glutinous fudge particles in the direction of the hostess, saying "

 

[claymore]

"Yer fudge es a wee bit tairt lassie - ah reckon yer givin 'hon mustae withered when it came tae ra sugar."
Attempting to stand, the Noble Laird's ageing legs were a tad shakey so he sat back down and reached for the bellpull
For good measure he helped the message being toiled with a hoarse but surprisingly strong bellow
"Parahandy man - wid ye get yer yerself in here noo" and not feeling he'd given full vent to his feelings he muttered for a good 10 minutes afterwards on subjects ranging from the lack of dependability of servants through to the sorry state of the ancient moth-eaten tiger skin adorning the floor in front of the hearth - its right hand side a testament to the lack of wisdom of burning pine on an open fire.
Eventually the drink assisted redness of Parahandy's nose appeared around the living room door - followed eventually by the rest of him. "Did I hear you ring my lord?" in the most acerbic tone he could muster
"Ye Ken fine weel ah wiz ringing ye great idle lummox - ye'd here a sparrow fairt 3 Bens awa wi lugs like thon" "Onyways - I have a mind yer keen oan fudge - come here an try a wee bittie, ye'll like it..."

 

[jimi]

Aye , sir , aye. Ye ken yon Mhairi , fae Knockemdoon, she wiz askin efter ye. She's a grand auld age noo, an no a tooth in her heid. She wiz speilin' if ye wiz after a cougarin and a gummsie .. shall ah bing her in?

 

[claymore]

A look crossed the ageing face - a look which somehow combined panic and pleasure. Mhairi had been one of the noble Lairds earlier conquests, back in a long hot summer of the war years when he was home on leave, convalescing after the incident with the incendiary device where he singlehandedly had managed to instill more fear into the noble citizens of Glasgow for and hour than ever the Fuhrer had managed. Argyll Street still bears the scars.
Looking down at the tiger skin he wondered about this cougaring business and felt that Wee Jamesie needed to illuminate him more. The word illuminate brought back the whole sorry Argyll street business and he shuddered until the dew drop hanging on to his bushy nasal hairs fell and landed with a gentle plop in the dram he was holding.