Other Writing

 

 

A Wee Bit Of Bother

 

It all started as a nice day out in the country. Then the cry went out with the urgency of an air raid siren warning the unsuspecting populus of impending disaster. "Danny McGonigle's shat himsel'! " And so he had. There he was, poor wee Danny, looking like when his granny caught him playing with himself, desperately racking his 11-year-old brain for a satisfactory explanation for this unfortunate state of affairs.

But he quickly came to the conclusion that, just as he'd been unable to convince the septuagenarian in question that he was just attending to a wee itchy bite (never a truer word was said, said she), there was no way to explain this sudden involuntary evacuation other than the simple truth of the matter.

"Aye, so ah huv."

So there he was, Daniel Alexander McGonigle, hopeless at football, couldn't spell and irritatingly desperate to impress, treading water and time in a frigid mountain pool that could no longer be described in all good faith as sparkling and clear.

And as his pals headed for the banks as a single corporeal entity in one fluid motion remarkable for its apparition-like viscosity, Danny was clearly wondering what his next move might be.

Should he shuffle out of the water trying not to move his legs and with his drawers hanging about his knees like grandad's week-old Y-fronts, or should he just slip them off right there and then in the chilly mountain water and march right out as if nothing had happened?

The problem for Danny was that with the former approach, once he got to the bank he
was buggered. Standing there, sodden and encumbered, what could he do? Confess to a sudden desire for a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit? Accuse someone else of making a deposit in his undergarments when he wasn't looking?

"It wisnae me, honest. It wis a wee boy wi' glasses and a gammy leg."

The latter approach had the advantage that he would emerge from the murky depths without the evidence of his misdemeanor but also without the pelvic protection afforded by his smalls in that they shielded his 11-year-old manhood from the unforgiving eyes and merciless wit of his better-endowed, razor-tongued, 12-year-old chums.

"Hey Danny. There's a right terrible lookin' wee boil at the top of yer legs there son. Ye'd better get it looked at right away."

To be fair, it wasn't all Danny's fault. He was dealing with the unexpected, an experience well outside the daily routine of your average lad from the housing estates in the east end of Glasgow. Fresh air for a start. Mountain water. A warm summer's day. Short trousers and plastic sandals. An exuberance not brought on by vast quantities of McEwan's Export Lager.

Summer was usually spent playing football in the swing park at the end of the road. We'd start early and finish late. Our street would play the no-good cheating bastards from the next street. The fact that they nearly always won was evidence of their deviousness. They were also Protestants.

Not that that had anything to do with the regular victories.

It was like a scene from the D-Day landings as maniacal football players, toddling devotees of the roundabout and thrillseeking aficionados of the swings engaged in a fevered battle for space, goals and religious primacy.

If only Bonnie Prince Charlie had had this lot of dervish-like pre-teens at the battle of Culloden in 1746, the result would have been vastly different and the English national dish would now be a dirty big steaming haggis. With chips. And a fried egg.

But occasionally, on a particularly fine Glasgow summer's day, our band of football fanatics and religious crusaders would dig out their creaky and soot-covered bicycles from the coal bunker, make up a bag load of jam sandwiches, steal a few apples from the fruit shop and cycle to the Campsie hills, a two-hour ride past loch and country lane from the doom and drink-laden estates on the outskirts of town.

So there we were - me, the aforementioned Danny McGonigle, Jimmy Armstrong, the most feared 12-year-old in Glasgow ("See you, ah hate you, and ah hate yer family as well") and Andrew Brown (Drew Broon to his pals and known for his reluctance to eat anything other than cheese and onion crisps and fizzy sherbet bombs).

There was also Frankie "Who told you?" Cameron (who responded to any statement made by anyone anywhere east of the Clyde with the inquiry "Who told you?") and a gaggle of younger brothers and sisters who had been placed under the safe keeping of their elder siblings while their parents were at work or at the pub.

That's how Danny McGonigle came to be up to his belly button in misfortune in a ball-shrinking, chilly mountain stream on a hot summer's day in August 1968. He went for a ride on his bike.

And what a lovely ride it was, no doubt about that, although Jimmy Armstrong found the going a bit tough on the hills, with his smoker's cough and all.

Riding happily along, our thoughts temporarily distracted from brawling parents, gang warfare and the prospect of yet another plate of mince for dinner, we all got pink in the face and ate jam sandwiches and sang a few songs like they do on the telly. The Famous Five and all that. The Secret Seven. Enid bloody Blyton.

Row, Row, Row Yer Boat and Over the Sea to Skye segued into Yuumy Yummy Yummy (I've got love in my tummy), I'm Nobody's Child and our all-time favorite drinking song :

Diz yer maw drink gin

Diz she drink it oot a tin

Diz she get a funny feelin'

when her tits hit the ceilin'?

So there we were singing our lungs out, riding the last few hilly miles to the Campsies. Through the wee towns, stopping for a drink of orangeade, the young ones lagging behind and bawling as their older brothers yelled at them to bugger off home.

Jimmy Armstrong's eight-year-old brother Malky gladly accepted five Capstan full strengths to abscond from his older sibling's reluctant guardianship. Well pleased, he pedalled off into the distance singing away to himself: "Young girl get outta my mind, this kind of love is way outta line ..."

So after two sun-soaked hours, a bit more singing, some fags, and a stomach full of bread and jam, we finally got to the Campsies and the unsuspecting pond that nestled innocently at the bottom of a gently cascading waterfall.

We were all as hot as Frankie Cameron's mother (known as Sexy Sophia to all the pre-teens, she had legs that didn't quit and a fag-induced husky voice that after a few vodka-and-oranges could be heard teasing her son's tremulous chums, "C'mere son and show us yer willie" before cackling away up the road) so we decided to strip off down to our undies and have a dip in the pool that promised instant relief from the summer swelter.

The problem with water, is that unless it is frozen solid or a steaming geyser, it's almost impossible to tell how hot or cold it actually is. So most of us took a few ginger steps into the pool and gradually acclimatised, half-an-inch at a time.

And this is where Danny made his big mistake. Always eager to impress, he decided to just leap into the water. Danny the big man. McGonigle the mighty. And for a minute there we were persuaded of his greatness. But only for a minute.

It was the shock that did it. He leapt into the freezing water and didn't know what the hell had hit him. As his face froze into a mask of surprise and terror, he seemed to slide in slow motion into the depths of the pond. By the time he surfaced it was all over .

We thought about being sympathetic but decided against it.

We hit the banks of the pool fast and turned to watch Danny, now waist deep in the frosty pool, his brain visibly turning over like a lonely clock on the mantelpiece, as he decided what his next move would be. The seconds took minutes to tick by. Would he dash for the banks and face the music or shed his sodden clobber right there and brazen it out?

Danny leaned forward. We leaned forward. He slumped back. We slumped back. He hesitated and was lost. It was all too much. He let out a sporran-shattering scream. "Mammy! Ma-a-mmm-yyy. I want my mammy!!"

Summer's like that. Things sometimes don't turn out the way you expect them to. It must be the heat. Aye, it's the heat right enough.

© Graham Reilly