The Claymore Legacy

[sarabande]

Night fell, and the crash awoke the Laird who, making his way on deck and thence into the greenhouse, raised a fevered hand to his fevered brow. "Those lichts,"he demanded resolutely, "those lichts ?" Far ahead into the gathering gloom a row of ochrous globes, diminishing as Piers Pectiv, the famous Transylvanian Arch-architect had ordained that they should, stretched towards the horizon.

From the forecastle, a quavering voice, full of indignation and issuing from a sorrowful countenance, said, "Bugger, there goes my pension; those 'king windmills are all on fire."

And, indeed, as the Commode of the Albigensian Cruising Club steered a slalom course between the incandescent towers toward a safe haven, the Prospect of a Warm Bath drew alongside and from her cavernous EU-controlled holds, a hand rose bearing a box of frozen cod roe. "You'll be needing some, presently," claimed the deckie, "tea is not the same without some Rowan Toast".

 

[Twister_Ken]

Grasping his mighty weapon in both hands, the raging, ageing Laird Claymore staggered off in search of the Alex Salmond Memorial Meatorlogical Office.

Quoth he " Youse wait till I get ma haunds on ra boogers an' their fekkin series of Aunty Cyclones. I'm on ma fifth set of mooring lines an' ma last wee fender an' I'm having tae sell a bothy tae a fekkin Sassenach tae pay ma chandler's bill."

 

[Tidewaiter2]

Grasping his mighty weapon in both hands, the raging, ageing Laird Claymore staggered off in search of the Alex Salmond Memorial Meatorlogical Office.

Quoth he " Youse wait till I get ma haunds on ra boogers an' their fekkin series of Aunty Cyclones. I'm on ma fifth set of mooring lines an' ma last wee fender an' I'm having tae sell a bothy tae a fekkin Sassenach tae pay ma chandler's bill."

Should have gon' tae GaelForce, Aye Mon, yon Fishy'll see yez richt.
Nae connexion ye ken, jest a guid customer, (sez 'us a wee deel on yon Guy Cotten smock, Fishy, there's a dram in it fer ye )

 

[Tidewaiter2]

It worked, but Oh Woe and Thrice Woe, wot it cost in Korskonkova

....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!

Yes, Yes, Yes, it worked,
An 2013 April and May of cold, wet hard winds, and an August and September ditto. A Yulefest too.
Our Swedish Female Family and Friends were safe from Big C & his ECR.
It cost an artic full of Wodka, but well worth it. No wonder the Big C wants to surround himself, inside and out with Rowan tree products, soveriegn against against Witches ( By Royal Appointment tae King Jamie his'elf, nay less)

 

[FishyInverness]

Should have gon' tae GaelForce, Aye Mon, yon Fishy'll see yez richt.
Nae connexion ye ken, jest a guid customer, (sez 'us a wee deel on yon Guy Cotten smock, Fishy, there's a dram in it fer ye )

I'm actually English, I didnae unnerstand a word ye sed..

 

[Tidewaiter2]

I'm actually English, I didnae unnerstand a word ye sed..

Tewwebly Sowwy, Ould Chap, hope your supplies of Light & Bittah, deep fwied battewed quails eggs, fwesh aspawagus and caviah are holding up.
The Welief Column is on it's way, ould Chep, we still have the Maxim gurls and they do not

 

[FishyInverness]

Tewwebly Sowwy, Ould Chap, hope your supplies of Light & Bittah, deep fwied battewed quails eggs, fwesh aspawagus and caviah are holding up.
The Welief Column is on it's way, ould Chep, we still have the Maxim gurls and they do not

 

[jimi]

After pausing awhile to wait for the tide, they continued on their lonely trudge to seek solace in the the Arms of the King. "Dougie, my man", gasped the Laird, "can I hae a wee carry." Whit dae ye want a carryoot fur?" growled Dougie. "Ye hae enuff problems getting it in nevermind carrying it oot!"

 

[claymore]

Disconsolate, the Ageing Laird reflected on his lot and how time and change had not improved it. He should have seen that yon scurrilous wee poggin Jamesie wid be a handful, an a ne'er day weel but the soft spot the Laird now had fer the lads Mither served as a reminder of the reasons why he'd taen him on. Happy days when the world was much younger an hard spots were easier tae find than soft wans...
A dewdrop fell laconically fae the whiskery auld probiscus, missed the clan tie by the closest of margins and landed in his dram. 'Feck' murmured the noble one - 'as if there isnae enough watter in my whisky fae the hon' oh yon swindling 'beggar o' a handyman wioot me addin' mair....'

 

[jimi]

Time staggered oan, as did the Laird. "There's a wee breeze aboot and its nae sae fair" cried Dougie. OCh aye smuttered himsel tae himsel. Dougie awa and dae some voting or sumfink .. Whit moaned Dougie, ah did some last year hae ah goat tae dae sum agen? Haud yer wheest gruttered the Laird, Ah've sumfing oan ma mind .. if ah kood only mind ra gaelic furrit we'd be cooking oan gas!

 

[claymore]

The laird lowered his shiny-troosered airse into his equally shiny auld leather chair an called fer his mannie. "Jamesie" he gruffed as the wee malingerer slunk into view, wiping the last crumbs of his lairdships stolen Battenberg from his downturned mouth - "Jamesie - work yon plonker an get ra tv goin, then get me yon Alba channel - Ah need tae find a waird o ra gallic, d'ye see?"
Jamesie rolled his eyes - 'Oh no - anither month o' "Ish Misha ra Laird" coming up.' Fortunately the Noble Laird spotted a programme about the Vatersay Boys and forgot his linguistic ambition as his auld foot began to tap and a fleeting vision o' young Hazel McIlwaine passed fleetingly through his mind. An eyebrow raised itself voluntarily and unbidden as something stirred slightly, deep in his yellowing underpants, at a 60 year old memory......

 

[wully1]

But thoughts o' lassies never lasted long in the lairds whisky sodden brain, no when the memory of his fyne shups close escape Frae them wee scallies at Lerigoligan was still fresh in his mind.
Tae think they could entice a man of his (still) standing tae consort wi' the likes o' thame in their wee puddle-jumpers? Mind you, it wiz a lot less a stagger hame efter a do in the hall than the lagoon and as thone poor excuse for a chauffeure was getting worse by they day...
But och no, it Widd niffer do - standards must be maintained.

Pushing thoughts of his close escape to one side he forced his mind back to thoughts of Young Hazel..." Now, what was all that about" he thought hazily " something to do with underpants , wasn't it" ....

 

[Shuggy]

Ach - it wiz McTavish, the nae-sae-sleekit castle tortoise. 'Jeez', muttered his lairdship, 'wherevyabeen, you auld bugger? Ah thoucht you'd been transfairmed into an ashtray, ye reptilian beast. 60 years 'n' yae've been lurking in ma breeks!' Feck. An auld tortoise had snatched defeat frae the jaws y victory for the auld bugger's libido.

 

[claymore]

Whilst ye'd be hard pressed tae describe it as a Spring, there was something in the Step of the ageing Laird this fine October morning. Parahandy - his scurrilous, bone-idle retainer looked at the upturned newspaper that had fallen off the coffee table onto the threadbare carpeted parquet floor in the study.'England Out of Rugby World Cup' screamed the headline - Parahandy shook his balding pate, "Ah'll vouch it'll be a different story come Calcutta Cup time" The ageing Laird, being selectively deaf, rounded on the retainer - "Ye blaspemous rechabite auld Scunner" he yelled " D'ye no feel the dawning of a new age fer Murrayfield?"
Parahandy was not a man given to feelings - not since Aggie McGlumper caught him in the potting shed with Winnie Og, the gardeners comely daughter. Since that fateful day, when a well aimed brogue hit him fair in the nuts, he'd had not another single thought - other than tae plot another skive

 

[pagoda]

Whilst ye'd be hard pressed tae describe it as a Spring, there was something in the Step of the ageing Laird this fine October morning. Parahandy - his scurrilous, bone-idle retainer looked at the upturned newspaper that had fallen off the coffee table onto the threadbare carpeted parquet floor in the study.'England Out of Rugby World Cup' screamed the headline - Parahandy shook his balding pate, "Ah'll vouch it'll be a different story come Calcutta Cup time" The ageing Laird, being selectively deaf, rounded on the retainer - "Ye blaspemous rechabite auld Scunner" he yelled " D'ye no feel the dawning of a new age fer Murrayfield?"
Parahandy was not a man given to feelings - not since Aggie McGlumper caught him in the potting shed with Winnie Og, the gardeners comely daughter. Since that fateful day, when a well aimed brogue hit him fair in the nuts, he'd had not another single thought - other than tae plot another skive

Aye weel..... whisky sodden brains come to mind.

A dram's a dram far a that .. we got lucky with the 1st draw, lets see how things go before we get carried awa.

 

[awol]

"Ye blaspemous rechabite auld Scunner" he yelled

I cannae imagine Parahandy as an abstaining rechabite - are you sure you didnae mean "recidivist"?

 

[Twister_Ken]

Ra Sassenach cooch iss saying that Wee Jum doped Chris Rabshaw an' hiss lads, by filling ra watter flaskies wi' a 30 year auld Glen Deary.

 

[claymore]

The auld laird woke up - not for the first time that day and pondered upon his lot. Looking down, he saw that his flies were undone, so he decided tae ponder his little. He was missing his auld pals - mony of them awa tae become the Angels Share, even the scurrilous wee Jimi seemed tae have deserted him and noo they Nationalists were at it again....

 

[wully1]

Wiping the dribble off his chin he reached for the bottle of Glen Dreary before realising it was empty, as was the cellar,of anything remotely alcoholic..
As the reality of the situation sunk in seemingly with a life of their own his wrinkled, liver spotted arthritic claws fumbled for the phone - surely if he could persuade his heavily alcoholic regular 'crew' that a wee jaunt in the boat would be a fyne start the the season they'd bring a bottle or two of something nippy with them?
Even as he dialled the first number the thoughts of the farm yard smells and noises that would be generated in the confines of his fyne ship by his chosen companions was fighting a loosing battle with the promise, however tenuous, of a free supply of hard liquor for a few days.

 

[claymore]

A woman's voice - wi mair than a hint o' Morningside aboot it, answered on the third ring - it could have been the fourth but it was nae mair. 'Niven household - who is calling?' The Noble wan wasn't really expecting such a prompt response and so, in fairness, it took him slightly by surprise. This came across as a sort of cross between a gasp, an exclamation and a rather throaty grockle - however it sounded, it was instantly recognised and his Lairdship noted the disapproval in the tone of the command he heard barked at the other end of the telephone - 'Douglas hither - your Brother'
The relationship with his Sister-in-Law had never exactly flourished - some say she should have known better than to refuse the Laird 'first dibs' on her wedding night - others considered it an outdated custom. Considering the Noble Laird's life was made up entirely of outdated customs, it felt a little harsh to be castigated by one who was clearly a chancer attempting to finger the family purse.
'Good afternoon Gunn' came the not unfriendly voice 'I'm glad you've phoned - I've been meaning to get in touch for a day or two'
He may have been mildly incontinent, plagued with the reflux, a stranger to rational thought for hours on end but the Clan Chief recognised immediately when his younger brother's wife was pressing for an increase in the allowance that had sadly been irrevocably arranged by the Grandfather - the knuckles whitened on the black telephone receiver as the Bold Claymore of that ilk summoned every bit of wit he still posessed ' Harrumph' he muttered 'Wrang number' and hung up.