The Claymore Legacy

[saltwater_gypsy]

Ahhh.... Mhairi...Mhairi...Mhairi... the noble Laird intoned as his befuddled mind took him back over the years to the days gone by when he was a skinny pockmarked youth.
He remembered his fumbling advances on Mhairi in the gloom of the Heilan Man's Umbrella but the basic mismatch of his tall, lanky frame and her well rounded but very diminutive stature always made it difficult for the Laird to achieve any normal sexual congress.
In a rasping tone he began to hum....
"Step we gaily off we go
Heel for heel and toe for toe
Arm and arm and row on row,
Off to Mhairi's wedding"

..and with roar of despair which could only be matched by the beasts of darkest Africa he remembered that the love of his life had run off with a vertically challenged clown from Robert's Travelling Circus. He slumped back in his chair his wizened face contorted with grief. "Whitl I dae noo" he sobbed...........

 

[saltwater_gypsy]

Is Claymore deed, demised or otherwise departed this mortal coil???
If so, he will be sadly missed....but what aboot the legacy you may ask.

 

[Sgeir]

Lord Claymore settled back in his armchair, a present from Count von Eberspächer of the IKEA Foundation. Comfortable in his Gallagher and Lyle designer pullover, he still had some bits of Para Handy’s special recipe for Tyler Brûlé dessert stuck in his teeth, but it’d soon be washed down with a dram of well-deserved Auld Alliance.

Casting his vision across the Cuan Cash and Carry Award for Maritime Fiction that decorated his mantelpiece, His Lordship thought it really was about time to stop this insidious subliminal product placement. After all, despite all the promises of his faithless servant and gentleman’s gentleman, he’d never actually made a bean out of it. He’d challenged him about, but all Para Handy would say was “Aye, but its yer ain fault. It’s no very subliminal but. Need tae make it mair that way, ken, subliminal but.”

Ah! The passing of years, and the exchange of the briny for the sweet scent of Lakeland’s Windermere. His thoughts passed to those long gone endless summer days of his youth, the ice creams at each end of the Lake, and playing croquet on Great Aunt Chlamydia’s well manicured lawn.

“Ah”, he sighed again. “But there’s no point in dwelling in the past. Here”, he said, addressing Para Handy as he removed a 78 rpm shellac recording from its sleeve, “Let’s have some music. Let’s see now, Jimmy Shand and his Band playing ‘Mrs MacGillivery leaving Eriskay’ followed by ‘Morag, come awa’ ben the byre and fetch my crack pipe and the News of the World’. That’ll be grand.”

 

[Tidewaiter2]

Caaution and consuderation is the chief planks in the armour of the Brutish constabl

Little did Claymore suspect that the StrathClyde SB had inserted Erchie (...whiles I beadle) in a full body Para suit into the Castle, spiriting the real Peter MacFarlane away to their secret and deniable interrogation centre in Dunoon, sponsored by NOTW.
(Here he was subjected to ceaseless torture of a MacPhail zombie reading aloud 24/7/365 penny novels about Lady Aldenerney's Dilemma....)

Erchie stealthily swopped the Lairds request for a copy of " Donald, where are your trizers" played by K T Tunstall and the London Symphony Orchestra. 10 seconds of this, and the Lairds mental defences would crumble!

One way or another, the Polis were determined to get the goods on the Laird this time!
The burgeoning Haggis smuggling to the desperate but rich, haggis and black pudding deprived Saxons 'darn Sarf' was draining the strength of Scotlands yoof and Aberdeen Angus.

It must be stopped, eft soon and right speedily...........

 

[jimi]

Meanwhile at Claymore Towers, the moat bell clanged ,actually it clanked cos its resonance had been sold years ago to fund a packet of wine gums. The wine gums had been lost down the side of a cinema seat in a fumbled moment, but that was another story. The wrinkled retainer emerged from the studded entrance and gazed short sightedly at the fair vision before him. Just like a dream, peaches and cream, lips like strawberry wine, jings you could write a song about this lass. Spellbound the auld geyser, stood and eventually the young lady said, "Hey you, are you stupid or sumfink? Is this where the auld goat, Claymore, lives?" She paused, took something from her bag, had a quick swig and continued..."Me mam, Mhairi, says he's my real dad and ah want ma inheritance."

 

[sarabande]

Scrotum fumbled in the inner workings of his wainscott, sorry, waistcoat, and switched on his herring aid. A small red light showed that the battery was flat so, mindful of His Lairdship's gift of a windup torch which he had secreted in a back pocket just for such emergencies, he connected the torch to the auditory assistant, and commenced a discrete but vigorous rotary action under the flaps of his rubberised macintosh.

A distraught look passed briefly across his face as the energetic rotations reached a voltaic climax and the hearing aid sprang into life.

"Yer what ?," he said to the YL in front of him, "yer want his hairy stance , eh ?"

 

[SHUG]

"Inheritance ..... inheritance" he mumbled whilst still fiddling with his herring aid under his coat. He could scarcely believe that the dirty,disheveled and drunk creature before him could be the issue from that single and unorthodox encounter he had with Mhairi in the gloom of the Heilan Man's Umbrella.
He began to feel panic rise as he imagined how this awful tale of how the Noble Laird, sixty seventh in line for the throne of Scotland, had seduced the innocent and under- age Mhairi with unprotected sex in a public place in Glesga would appeal to readers of the News of the World.
Then he remembered, to his relief, that the News of the World was no more and with proud toss of his noble head he said..........

 

[Tidewaiter2]

And still the Red Topped Silver Darlins keep coming!

Then he remembered, to his relief, that the News of the World was no more and with proud toss of his noble head he said..........[/QUOTE]

'Och, Och, Ochona, there's still the 'Sun on Sunday' (tm) to worry about'.
"How much and When, me proud beauty",he cried
The first fruit of his loins puffed on her roll up and murmured;
"Well Guv, it's like this.....

 

[SHUG]

Then he remembered, to his relief, that the News of the World was no more and with proud toss of his noble head he said......... "There must be some confusion my dear lass, for I am not his Lordship but his faithful long-serving manservant Scrotum. Before his Lordship departed on his annual golf outing at Tobermory, his Lordship told me that if you were to call round to claim the inheritance, I should tell you to......."

 

[sarabande]

...add your name to this list I have to hand in my sporran. I am breaking no confidences if I tell you that genetically, the Laird is richly endowed with pluripotent DNA, dating back to the founding farters, sorry, fathers of human civilisation.


No less a body than the Nuffield Foundation has in fact awarded my Lord a Gold Medal, on a recent occasion when a DNA analysis showed that his lineage is present in at least 40% of the finest families in the land. The strength and vigour of his genes is why he is able to go three rounds a day with her Ladyship even at his present advanced years. Oh, are you feeling all right, young lady? You are looking a little pale.

Yes indeed, golf is wonderful game and the long long days and short nights of summer are a wonderful benison to the slow player. But, I am told that in deepest winter, the long long nights and short short days work to his Lordship's pleasure also. His macramé using redundant steel hawsers from the oil industry produces crayfish pots of exceptional quality and longevity.

I'm not boring you, am I, my dear ? Perhaps I may continue with the question of your putative genetic association. As I said, the list of claimants is here, and perhaps you would like to add your name to page seven, and ...

 

[[32511]]

..reaching into his sporran, he pulled out several sheets of tatty lined paper. Folding the last sheet over, he asked "if you would just be sae kind as to sign here, please"
Our wee lass was a tad canny, and unfolded the paper before signing. "Yer crafty auld bu99er", she muttered, "That's nae a list of yer offspring- it's a bloody IOU yer askin me tae sign!"
Pausing only to kick his shins, she...

 

[claymore]

The noble Laird scratched his ageing airse. A shard of shrapnel still bothered the venerable posterior - an occasional reminder of a disastrous attempt to flood Argyllshire with illicit booze which ended when the still exploded.

 

[Sgeir]

“Well, that’s me, I’m back”, shouted Lord Claymore’s personal manservant.
“You’re back! Where the hell have you been for the last few days? I thought you just nipped out for a packet of fags.”
“Well, you see”, replied Para Handy slyly, for it was he, “ While I was out, I had a wee call fae ma sister that lives doon in England, and, errm, she wuz sayin that her wee lassie wuz taken ill and wud I come doon and gie her a haun an stuff”.
“Oh, so you went to your sister’s? I hadn’t realised that you were close. I’m sorry I got angry there; you really have got a heart of gold. And how is your sister’s girl?”
“Och, she’s fine now, fair cheered her up seein’ me so it did”.
Lord Claymore reflected upon his companion’s character. “ Aye, he might be a bit of a rough diamond, but, deep down, he must be a warm and caring person”. He gazed upon his servant in the light of this new knowledge. But there was something odd looking about Para Handy, something that his Lordship couldn’t quite place. Rather than wearing His Lordship’s old pink sailing trousers and his discarded brogues, Para Handy now stood before him, dressed up in new sports gear. Claymore pondered this; after all the bronchial one was not known for his love of exercise.
“Aren’t these canvas and plastic shoes…”
Para Handy butted in “Ah think you mean top quality Adidas trainers”,.
“Aye, well, whatever” said Lord Claymore. “Aren’t these trainers a couple of sizes too big for you?”
Para shuffled slightly and looked away; “Aye, right, errmm, ah wuz in a bit of a hurry like, and I thought I might jist grow intae them……….”

 

[jimi]

... he paused and turned, hey dae ye want yin o' yon Ipads, ah've goat (sic) a couple .. still a bit hot in mair ways than yin , but ye can hae yin afore ah pit the rest oan EBay ..

 

[claymore]

Puzzled by this talk of Ipads and Ebay the noble laird did what he always did in times of stress and scratched his vein lined nose with a horny arthritic hand.
As usual it had llttle effect other than to deepen the purple hue of the ageing probiscis - he wondered for a while whether there had been a misprint and the T was missing.....
Tebay was one of the Lairds favourite peestops on his occasional sorties along the M6. Parahandy - the worst chauffeur a man could employ - was becoming similarly challenged in the area of water retention and the noble laird had found it rather un-nerving to be standing alongside his employee enjoying the relief as a bladder-full gushed its yellowy spume into Armitage Shanks finest.

Ipads were another matter entirely - then a thought - only the 3rd that week, wandered its way into the ageing head. That fine wee optometrist wid be bound tae know aboot Ipads - the prospect of an appointment and the opportunity tae gaze into that wonderfully full and firm bosom filled his Lairdship with what once would have passed for sexual desire and several more thoughts, impure tae the core, flooded the ageing mind. This talk of flooding brought about more feelings and in the very nick of time the his Nobleness had deftly gripped the porcelain pisspot and managed tae empty most of his contents into it. The clammy dampness of his ancient drawers clung to him as he rang for morning coffee.

 

[Aja]

Jamsie hurried as fast as his tired arthritic feet could manage to the sound of his masters bell. Entering the room he immediately noticed the faint smell of piss. "God no!" he thinks to himself "the dirty auld goat has wet himself again, and he'll expect me to change him."

His Lairdship clears his throat, just missing Jamsie, and ask for his morning coffee, in a rather distracted way. The thought of now, what was it ... aye a Pad, aye I'm sure that was what he said should prove useful in some way. If only he could figure it out.... thoughts drifted yet again to the local Specsavers...

 

[claymore]

"Whit a fekkin Christmas" the ageing Laird mumbled tae himself as a dewdrop watered down his already diluted Glen Ord. That beggar of a retainer had been helpin himself again. If it hadnae been for the fond memories o' the scurrilous mannies dear mither, the Laird wid hae dispensed wi his grabbin, idle ways years ago.
His latest lie a bed tactic was just another reason why the big daft galoot hed tae go.
"Noo Maister" the big effeminate poltroon hed lisped "Ah've been thinkin of your Christmas present and have come up with something special that I think you will be ever so suited by - its a teas maid, not just any teas maid but a goblin wan, - whit a way tae be woken each morn!"
The Noble one felt the first stirrings of interest and mumbled of the acceptability of the gift, "will she no be expensive Jamesie?
" Now dont you worry yersel aboot the expence, yer Nobleness" whispered the wee 4 eyed bandy legged deceitfu' scaldie. "ah hev Para handy installin her in yer chamber as we speak"...

 

[Tidewaiter2]

Oh my gawd....

....He is STILL alive!!!!!

Thomas,there's a good chap, connect me to the Finnwitches at once,
by this internet thingy,

I must have more NordZee and Baltic gales- two bags full at least- Claymore must be swept from the seas of the North, before I '..and many restless men row Northwards' and the Dear Lady Wife, of course.

Blow winds, howl gales, lightning, St Elmo's fire, SMOG;
Let the Danmark be blown flat, let the Schleswig-Holstein Question be resolved finally, let all be made ready for my stately progression NE wards in the Spring to the multi-cultural capital of the Baltic and it's Irish Bars and pizza resturants!

Claymore and all his Evil, Cretinous Retinue must erased before they reach the innocent semi-virgins of Sweden!

 

[jimi]

Stumbling wearily against the wind the auld wrinkled retainer blanched in the wake of his master. "Aye, Aye" rumbled Claysie , curse it ah've forgot ra way agin. Whit windmill sae we turn richt at noo?

 

[Tidewaiter2]

Stumbling wearily against the wind the auld wrinkled retainer blanched in the wake of his master. "Aye, Aye" rumbled Claysie , curse it ah've forgot ra way agin. Whit windmill sae we turn richt at noo?

Third windmill on the right, and straight on until Cuxhaven, then left until you smell the whiskey fumes. My Guid Mon, it b@£&$y sel' evident