calumannabel

The clamour for Angus John MacIver to lose the captaincy of Balanthrushal FC has heightened and the pressure on him has intensified with the news that the distraught soccer star’s wife has feld to the luxury sheiling in Dell Moor where her errant husband proposed to her in happier times. Before she left their luxury Skigersta ranch style house on her quad bike she had the locks changed and Angus John has been banished to the henhouse.

Donald Johm Maclennan the wronged star Lochs left back has been consulting the top legal practice The Citizens Advice Bureaux on Tarbert Pier, who have represented clients in all the top Hebridean divorces.

Fabio Capello missed the last Ullapool ferry so has not had an opportunity to speak to his captain yet. The church has weighed in with its tenpennorth with the Reverend Sinclair Morrison, ever the rebel saying

‘I’ve seen photos of this Angusina and I’d give her one too, God willing.’ His colleagues are sure totake a dim view of the cleric’s ouspoken view. Angus John has been excused from the important cup tie against Borussia Bosta to try and win back his distraught wife. This story will run and run

PS Not if I have my way it wont. Ed

The papers and rolling news programmes are full today of the antics of celebrity soocer star, Angus John MacIver, captain of Balanthrushal FC. It has emerged that Angus John has been playing away with the wife of Donald John MacClennan, Balanthrushal’s left back, who recently was transferred to Lochs for a three figure fee.  MacIver, it has emerged, began the affair while Donald John was away lobster fishing. This is when the feckless footie player moved in on Donald John’s, wife Angusina, who herself is a model and the current face of Lybro Dungarees.

Angus John has been arranging secret trystes with the model using the telephone box outside Cross Post Office so that his calls can’t be traced. However suspicious neighbours have seen the soccer star’s top of the range tractor parked behind Angusina’s barn for hours on end and the Fios photographer with his Box Brownie with the zoom lense took a photo of the couple taking their leave of one another some months ago. Angusina was photographed handing the shamed soccer star a half bottle of milk to take back to training.

This is not MacIver’s brush with scandal. Three years ago he was caught behind Eoropie bochan with Lewis supermodel, Chrissie Mary ‘The Body’ Morrison (Miss) who has gone on to carve a career for herself out of just being herself. She narrowly missed becoming the face of Iceland recently because she didn’t have a fridge in the blackhouse she shares with her brother, Donnie.

Angus John’s antics were revealed after he had obtained a super injunction from the Head of the Ness Grazing Committee but this was overturned by an appeal by the Pensioners’ Lucheon Club at Ness Hall on the basis of jealousy and that they had nothing else scheduled for their last meeting.

The ensuing tribunal decided that Angus John was only interested in preserving his sponsorship deals with emorioalanjohn and Lofty Peak Flour and not in his family’s right to privacy so the gagging order was lifted.

Donald John told the Fios reporter ‘I am in bits’. I had no idea any of this was going on behind my back although I’d noticed my wife spending heavily with the local Avon rep, Annie B Gillies. He added,’ I shall never play for a Lewis Select team with that man in the team.’ The reporter described it all as ‘a can of worms’. Donald John’s reply was ‘If it is a can of worms, I’ll have it. I’m away rock fishing tonight.’

Fabio Capello has not yet commented. He is away scouting but will be back on the late Ullapool ferry tonight.

I read an article in last week’s Stornoway Gazette under the heading, ‘Bernera Bell’. My first thought was that this was some kind of beauty competition and that Bernera was being more selective as to who could go to the next Fank - thank God cos some real genetic throwbacks came to the last one though the lads from Tolsta seemed to enjoy their company. One of the Bernera women thought Clarins was a top London hotel!

Anyway it turns out that there is to be a bell installed on the beach at Bosta, not to alert summer bathers to lepers, or tourists to the presence of Alistair Darling holidaying on the island - no this is just a bell that sounds at certain states of the tide. It is to be a six foot bell embedded in concrete by an installation artist from Brighton called Marcus Vergette.

Chrissie Mary MacDonald (Miss) competitive as ever, when she read this, decided straight away that something similar for Port of Ness is required. Donald is getting his soldering iron out along with a few of the lads from the bothan who are going to collect empty tins of Tennants. They are going to built a ten foot model of a Clansman as per Calmac logo. It will be loosely assembled to rattle in the wind and only local labour and cans consumed locally will be used. The finished installation will be positioned on the breakwater at Port of Ness and will bring much needed visitors to the village. We are getting Donald a peaked cap and he will give guided tours starting at the sculpture and ending at the lighthouse- reduced rates for parties.

If Bernera can do it we’re darn sure Ness can - ‘can’ geddit?

Some time ago Chrissie Mary Morrison (Miss) won the ‘Key in the Box’ thing at Ness Social Club and decided she fancied a holiday. She invited Donald and myself as chaperones (drinking buddies) and we agreed to travel on the basis that since it was a Hebridean cruise we would never be far from a Jobcentre , DWP Office or a reliable supplier of Glen’s Vodka - not we believe on offer on the said ship. We have been saving our benefits and doing the odd bit of under the counter work - collecting glasses at the Borve Hotel - taking lemonade bottles back to emporioalanjohn’s and a few other scams we won’t go into.

Imagine our horror when we got our cheques back from the cruise company. Donald thought there’s been a huge mix up with his giro - he’s never had that much in his Post Office account. No none of this - the wretched Windsors had gazumped us and we and countless others had been denied our guga salads on top table with the captain.

Chrissie Mary immediately sent a letter to the Queen using the notepaper she got for Christmas from a secret admirer. She knows who you are by the way - she recognised that particular brand of sheepdip you use Ian Gordon. Some lady in waiting replied saying she had passed her thoughts on and Her Majesty wished to say ‘Hard Cheddar’. We got a signed photo of the Duke of Edinburgh thumbing his nose which Chrissie Mary has hung in the hen house.

All I can say the sooner we become a Republic the better. I don’t think Saddam Hussein would have booked on the Hebridean Princess and scuppered our holiday plans or Louis x1v in his day although as the Sun King a cruise of the islands in Summer would hardly have fitted the bill.

So this summer it’s a hire van from Mackinnons two kegs of Tennants and a case of Glen’s and we’ll see where our noses take us. I am going to start writing to the papers on issues concerning the monarchy as disgusted from Balanthrushal - we’ll see whata mess The Guardian makes of spelling that.

Onward and Upward

Calum

That lap dancing comes to Ness Football Social Club on a Saturday to replace the Bingo.

That we get a national hunt racecourse at Barvas - Barvas Park does have the sound of a racecourse about it.

That the final of next years X factor is held in the Clan Macquarrie Hall at Shader and that the MacDonald Sisters reform and win it outright.

The A857 becomes a dual carriageway and a 24 hour service area is built in Balanthrushal.

That emporioalanjohn’s in Lionel gets a royal warrant. 

That blackhouses are deemed politically incorrect and a new name is found for them.

That the Callanish Stones are found to have been built without planning permission and permission is refused retrospectively.

That the street names of Stornoway are engraves in braille on the paving slabs so that drunks on their hands and knees will be able to tell where they are.

Anyone else got a wish list?

Sorry for the absence from blogging - food poisoning from a guga panini in late September from emporio alanjohn. That  man doesn’t know the meaning of sell by dates! Just catching up with some of the blogs while my Xmas Day carageen trifle sets. Ba humbug and greetings to one and all

Calum

For the first time ever I am travelling on the Ullapool ferry as a foot passenger which might mean for the first time ver I get a decent seat in the observation lounge. If any other bloggers are travelling say hello and I’ll buy you a coffee.

Calum

Thanks for the crits on my typos - more haste less speed - please persevere - on a good day my grammar and speling is as good as the neckst man….

‘Hello’ squeeked a reedy voice from up above. This was Casper. ‘It’s quite a climb but worth it for the view from the top.’

The prospect of a bit of climbing thrilled me even though it had been a tiring day.

‘Just one question before I join Casper for the night. How come there are so many of you here who’ve obvioulsy been here a long time - why haven’t you been snapped up by customers? After all you seem a cheery hospitable bunch.

‘That’s an easy one to answer,’ Bartholmew replied. ‘We all made our minds up ages ago that we would stick together so we have a cunning plan that works every time a customer comes near. Old Mr MacDoanald that owns the place isn’t blessed with the best of sight so he never notices it when we alter our price tickets every morning. Customers soon put me down when they see I cost a hundred and four pounds. In fact I don’t think there’s abear in here under eighty five pounds during trading hours.

As if to confirm this he shouted out, ‘Is anyone priced at less than eighty five pounds?

Is eighty five more than ninety pounds?’ one bear shouted.

‘Go to sleep Vorderman,’ you thicko,’ the Prof shouted. ‘Ninety is well more than eighty five.’

‘Im impressed with your scheme,’ I told him.’

‘Right young Suez person, get some shuteye and we’ll sort out a price tag for you in the morning, saif the Prof.’

‘Sounds splendid. Now where’s Casper?’

I climbed up to bed, haversack on me back. I established a temporary base camp on a box of crisps then took a direct route up a magazine rack to the counter. I traversed my way over the slippery glacier like surface of the glossy magazines the climbed the wooden shelves. There were handholds on the cigarete and cigar shelves, then I climbed up a funnel of confetti boxes and cake decorations until I reached the top shelf on which a few boxes of jigsaws mad for a screen for me to undress and sleep behind. I unpacked my sleeping bag and bedded down opposite Little Casper. He was pleased to get some comapny and admitted to being a bit afraid of the dark. The air around me hummed from the noise of an electric clock called Craven A. Craven A told me it was ten o’clock.

‘Wow what a view!’ My eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom. The the fridge door closed and the place went black. I fumbled into my jim jams which smelt of noodle sanwiches and fell into a dreamy sleep where I imagined sausages wearing academic gowns searching my luggage at Tilbury Docks. You get these sorts of dreams if you eat too much black pudding.

I woke with a stat in the middle of the night. Craven A said it was four o’clock. I heard the distinctive click of a van door and froze.

‘The Nutter. He’s tracked me down and he’s here to get me. He seemed to be throwing bundles of papers into the shop doorway.

‘The blighter’s going to burn me out.’ I waited for the sound of petrol being poured onto paper but it never came. Instead I heard the van pulling away. What was going on?

Papers have arrived everyone,’ shouted Bartholemew. The shelves began to come to life as bears roused themselves from their slumbers and waited patiently outside the bathroom each clutching a toilet bag.

I felt such a fool for having panicked.

I too went the toilet and warned the rest of the queue not to go in for a few minutes - ‘Black pudding everyone - apologies - never had it before - will never have it again.’ Then I resumed my well earned kip behind the jigsaw boxes until I had so much dust in my nose that i lket out a sneeze that would have done a gun in Hyde Park proud. Mr MacDonald was a few inches away but didn’t flinch as his hearing aids were turned down but every bear in the shop and a couple of customers shouted ‘Bless you.’

The same van that had disturbed my slumbers so early in the morning arrived with more papers about two o’clock and I realised how stupis I’d been jumping to conclusions. The driver seemed pleasnat and was on first name terms with Mr MacDonald. How nice it must be, I mused, to be on first or even second name terms with someone. I wondered if I’d ever have a name to be on terms with anyone as Adrian, the driver said cheerio to Jmaes, the newsagent.

Cleckheaton Street had probably been very posh in its day and all the houses had steps leading up to grand front doors. Now they were all split into apartments with rows of buzzers at eevry entrance. Many of the houses had cellars with open curtains whcih looked so warm and cosy particularly to a homeless bear with stomache ache from eating too much black pudding.

Some three hundred of Spotty’s paces down the road, or to put it another way, thirty metres, there was a break in the railings outside these houses and the pavement widened in front of a double fronted shop which was in semi darkness. At first it appeared to Spot that the shop was called Cadbury’s as this was painted in large swirly golden letters where the proprietor’s name would normally be. But in smaller letters at the side of the Cadbury’s bit, it said James MacDonald Newsagent Established 1937. ‘A newsagent’s, maybe I’m home at last,’ thought Not Spot to himself.

He takes up the account in his own words again.

‘The front door of the shop was recessed and both this area and the bits under each window were beautifully tiled and really old by the look of them. Some piles of magazines tied with rough string were piled in the doorway and I remember thinking that if the worst happened I could always wrap myself in the newsapapers for warmth and sleep the night in the doorway. But something in my stuffing encouraged me to press on.

A massive letterbox was set low in the shop door. I tested it and found to my relief that it was not too strongly sprung. The shop itself was as quiet as the Benefits Office in Mayfair. I pushed gently on the flap of the letterbox and it moved. I pushed some more and to my releif no alarm sounded. I lifted my leading leg and swing it through the flap. As always happens the reast of me followed because the rest of me is stitched to this leading leg. My rucksack followed on last until, there I was, standing inside this shop dusting myself down. It was a good deal warmer than it had been outside.

I sniffed the air. What a mixture. I could smell pipe tobacco, licorice, newsprint and wax polish among other smells which hung around the shop counter. I waitede while my eyes grew accustomed to the light then cleared my throat and asked in my most polite voice that I save for occasions like this.

Good evening. Anyone at shop?’

I heard a stirring in the shadows and a syruppy rather educated voice replied, ‘That rahter depends on who’s doing the asking. Come over here so I can have a better look at you in the light.’

‘What light?’ I asked squinting into the gloom. 

A tall refrigerator door opened and a triangular shaft of light shone on me like a spotlight. Myeyes adjusted to this new level of light and I beagn to make out the outline of my interrogator and my word what an imposing figure he cut. First of all this teddy bear whoever he was towered above me even in his monogrammed maroon carpet slippers. He wore a brown waistcoat with a contrasting yellow check in the pattern which really went with his grey velvet trousers. Across his chest he wore a gold pocket watch and chain and he wore a pair of gold framed readig glasses that perched on the end of his nose. He looked me up and down which admittedly doesn’t take long and offered a paw.

‘A very good evening young amn. My name is Bartholemew and your name is…?’

‘Blowing around the Suex Canal somewhere.’ I stammered.

‘Well they’re giving out some stupid names these days but that takes the biscuit.’

‘No No, @ I protested. ‘ I don’t know whay my name is I lost it somewhere arounf the Suez Canal. It was tied to my wrist but somehow it came undone. So I’m stuck for a name.’

‘Somerset House,’ shouted a disembodied voice from the shadows.

‘Sorry, ‘ I said. ‘Didn’t quite catch that.’

Somerset House. That’s the place to go for names. It’s choc a bloc with every name you’ve  ever heard of and plenty you haven’t. They’ve got names leaking out their leterbox.’

‘Now now, dont exagerrate,’ warned Bartholemew as a dark figure emerged to examine me. ‘This is The Professor,’ Bartholemew told me. A black gown opened and a paw came out. He was wearing a T shirt that said OXFORD UNIVERSITY along with denim jeans stained with his most recent meals and a pair of suede desert boots. With his mortar board he seemed every inch the academic and I was impressed.

‘The Prof’s corect about Somerset House as it happens,’ Barholemew conceded. ‘But then the Prof’s right about most things aren’t you old fellow?’

‘Abslotely Barty old thing. One of my first degrees was in Always Being Right. Got a first in it as a matter of fact. Seem to remember I had to write a long story and do a three hour exam for it. Revise all night the night before and kept going onMars Bars and Prop Plus. Ah happy days.’

‘Yes yes, you’ve told us all before a thousand times,’ Batholemew stopped him in his tracks and anotehr voice shouted ffrom the gloom ‘For goodness sake don’t get him started or we’ll all be up all night.’

‘I suppose you’re looking for somewhere to sleep are you. You’re in luck there’s space up on the tiop shelves with Casper.’ I could have hugged Bartholemew there and then but I don’t think he’d have thanked me.

Refreshed after doses of Calmac Chicken Curry and ready for the fray again….

First. it was importnat to plot my escape on a full stomach. I beagn with a big juicy tomato that dribbled down my furry chin. I folloed this with slices of something called turkey roll and fancied a dessert to finish with. I spied a box marked ‘Black Pudding’. I wondered if it would be anything like Black Forest Gateau but I found it neither fruity nor creamy. I cannot recommend it as a dessert. I dont think it would even be freshened if covered by custard.

Anyway back to the van and my predicament. We stoppeed with a sqeal of breaks every time we came to a red light and we seemed to be in more of a built up area. Every time we pulled away the Nutter crunched his way through the gears. Then almost without warning and not at  a red light, the van stopped and the Nutter jumped out of the driver’s seat. The interior lights came on and some yellow lights flashed as if to warn others to avoid him. Was this my chance I wondered.

I noticed a window on the passenger side was open enough for me and my rucksack to probably squeeze through but I knew I was racing against the clock. I tied a link of sausages to the spare wheel and threw the other end out the window down to the pavement. I can safely tell you that abseilling down a link of sausages is a liberating experience I would recommend to anyone.

I landed on the pavement with my gangly paws braced like the little commando I am and did a roll as if I’d completed a parchute jump. Well three and a half feet is a parachute jump for a bear my size. The stuffing in my knees ached a bit while my heart pumped away in virtually the same part of my body as the black pudding had settled. I raced across the thankfully deserted pavement and hid behind a wheelie bin. I  heard the Nutter’s footsteps as he came out of a shop and heard his angry reaction.

‘Smeone’s ‘avin a larf,’ he cursed looking up and down th street for the culprit. I forced myselkf as far into the shadows as was bearly possible. He picked up the sting of sausages, wiped them on his warehouse coat and threw the into the back of the van. And then was off with a cruching of gears and a plume of blue smoke from the exhaust. That was the last I saw of him. What a relief!

My original plan had been to sleep in the van for the night but the Nutter had put paid to that notion. So my most pressing need was to find a bed for the night. I had a quick look in the shop where the Nutter had been but it seemed very bright and busy. No chance of a kip there.

I wandered along the city streets looking for accommodation as millions must have done bvefore me. I the back of my miond was a snippet of information I’d picked up from a bear on the boat. No matter where you are you’ll always find accommodation advertised in a newsagent’s, he’d told me. What I failed to realise was that he meant I’d find it advertised in a newsagent’s. I’d  taken it more literally and assumed newsagents would offer accommodation probably on their upper floors.

I paased restaurants, cafes, dry cleaning shops, off licenses and even something called a massage parlour but not a newsagent in sight. I came to a T junction where the main road seemd to be to the right. I looked up at the sign to the left. Cleckheaton Street it said. Surely it had to be an omen after I’d come half way round the world on the Pride of Cleckheaton’?