Here is another classic from Mr Campbell's twisted mind (how he remembers this stuff is beyond me). Again I can testify that this one is also true not because I was there, because I was lucky enough to miss out on Mad Dug's revenge this time, because I had to field calls from his distraught wife all night.
A Mad Dug comes to visit.
My story is a simple one, but still provides a stark warning about
innocently giving your address to folks who may, one day, actually take
you up on the offer of "popping round", and the ensuing nightmare which
might, just might, one dark and stormy night, happen to you.
We begin in Townhead, Glasgow, late November 2001, where yours truly had
just finished another marvelous game of 5-a-sides soccer on the
hallowed plastic turf and sand dunes of park number whatever.
Well, I say 5-a-sides, but it was actually "4-and-a-half-a-sides", due
to the earlier mysterious disappearance of that elusive will-o-the-wisp,
the ginger stubbly leprechaun, Andrew McQuillan.
Now Andrew, it has to be said, is a true pal, and is not entirely
unfamiliar with the dramatics of selecting the 10 for the regular Friday
night battles. He used to organise it himself you know. I have seen
the man ripping out the last 3 strands of ginger stubble from his head
trying to find the at-times-impossible "tenth man", whilst shuffling
about the office floors asking random folk, who can't even make it to
the fax machine without oxygen, if they "fancy a gemme, mate". This
was before, and it baffles me to this day, he "handed the reins" over to
me, or in truth gave me the ginger bottle which is the pish-filled
poisoned chalice. It was I then who subsequently suffered near-mental
breakdowns, grey hair, and sleepless nights whilst trying to combine a
full-time job with insurance claims handling.
As a rule amongst the fellowship, dropping out of the 5's after saying
you were "in" is an absolute no-no, the line you do not cross, the
forbidden fruit, the yellow section of the neopolatan ice-cream, the
morning-after kebab with fatty blobs in it. You just don't do it. Andrew
proclaimed this himself, stating that castration should be the only way
to deal with these dissenting rebels.
We all agreed that perpetrators therefore should understand dropping
out of the fives is, and should be, a hanging offense at least. Quite
apart from the fact it leaves the rest of us pure-fizzin with rage, and
generally ruins the game we've been looking forward to all week.
Strange then, that this gifted but erratic journeyman should himself
choose to drop out on a regular basis, his favourite time to let us
know, 4.30 on a Friday evening, one hour prior to kick off. Cue
meltdown of phonelines as the chosen two, Morris & Campbell, frantically
phone everyone they know, knew, and might get to know if only they were
given a chance. Lolly-pop sucking junkies, big issue sellers, 1-legged
Jews, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers have all played for us,
everyone except Elvis, it seems, who would no doubt come on singing
"don't step on my blue suede sambas".
This occasion, the initial call was made to my works phone on Friday
afternoon, around 2.37pm. Quite early for Andrew, I thought. The sound
of clicking pool-balls, gentle murmuring of old folk, with the
occasional chink of glasses, and a jukebox blasting out "Bat Out of
Hell", suggested he was in a pub. The sound of a fire extinguisher
being let off, and blaring ambulance sirens, told me the pub was in
Clydebank.
(ACTUAL TRANSCRIPT)
"Andrew are you in a pub?" I enquired, knowing fine well he was.
"Chris, mate, I canne talk just now".
"But Andrew, you phoned me. Are you dropping out of the 5's tonight?"
"Yes, Chris, but I really can't speak to you, by the way, what's your
address?"
"20 ****** Road, Flat 2/1, but why..............BEEP BEEP BEEP"
At this point, I believe, his money ran out, and thought nothing more of
it. We were down to nine men, and frankly I didn't give a damn about
McQuillan and his petty excuses. "Damn him to hell", I muttered to
myself.
It never crossed my mind, not for some 6 hours later, when after
enjoying a suitable refreshment or two in an undisclosed venue in
Glasgow city centre, I took my normal route of travelling via subway,
cut through the magnificent Elder Park, illuminated by neds with dagger
shaped glo-sticks, and then home. Govan is the side of Glasgow you never
see in the postcards - look carefully above the once-majestic Lyceum
Theatre (now a weather-battered blue-rinse bingo hall) and you'll see a
faded poster which reads "CONGRATULATIONS TO GLASGOW FOR IT'S GARDEN
FESTIVAL 1988". The streets are paved with dog-sh*t, and the alleys are
deserted, save the occasional one-armed tramp wailing "Scotland the
Brave", whilst clutching onto his can of Tennents Super like it was a
baby.
Wearily, I plonked my heavy bag onto the kitchen floor, and began to
raid the cupboards for whatever humble scraps were there. "Lasagne
would be nice for a change" I thought.
It was at that moment my intercom buzzer sounded off, piercing the
silence with a dull whine which shook me to the core.
"Hells teeth" I thought, exasperated, "those f*cking neds are at it
again!", thinking that the young ruffians from the next street had been
pressing buzzers randomly again, with no intention of entering the
property whatsoever. Little gits.
I was going to choose to ignore this disruption in my hunt for the great
lasagne, but somehow my mind wandered back to my conversation with
McQuillan earlier, so I picked up the intercom with more than a little
trepidation.
"He...hello?" I said.
"Chris, mate, it's me", said Andrew, "gonnae let us in".
Well, that was it. I'd let the genie out the bottle, so to speak. Andrew
meandered up the close stairs and into the flat looking slightly the
worse for wear, clutching carefully his "survival pack", which amounted
to a crumpled up Daily Record, 4 cans of tennents lager and 10 regal
king size -this is a man who is out for the evening, I casually
observed.
The first question I had to ask was about the remarkable coincidence of
himself coming up to the door literally seconds after I had arrived.
"Andrew, you weren't waiting outside for me the last few hours were
you?"
"Naw, definitely no.....well, maybe I was, but here, have a beer and a
fag", he proclaimed, changing the subject. He was shivering.
Andrew then went on to explain the whole reason he pulled out of the
5's, and how he ended up at mine - apparently there a major argument
with the wife.
"What was the argument Andrew?" I asked, thinking it may be about...ooh
I dunno...money, the mortgage, the baby or something you'd expect a big
row about.
"The argument was about", he said rolling his eyes to the heavens, "a
roll and sausage".
"A roll and whit?", exasperated.
"Sausage", he mumbled , concentrating with terrific focus on opening his
second can.
Slightly flummoxed, I needed more information - the eventual answer was
a rambling one with incoherent sentences, punctuated with the occasional
"GET BOWIE ON MAN!", however I managed to deduce the following:
Andrew had gone early that afternoon with the missus and baby in tow to the
local ASDA. Following the shopping they sat down in the restaurant
section for a cup of tea and something to eat.
Andys wife casually enquired if Andrew wanted a roll and sausage, to which
Andrew responded "no thanks, I'm on a diet. Actually I'm doing rather
well, and losing some weight".
Andys wife replied with the standard calm and rational female response.
"So, you think I'm fat!"
Andrew, sensing the imminent danger protested, "no no ....all I
said was that I didn't want a...."
"Shut up you little b*stard, you're always going on about my weight".
And so it came to pass, a huge argument erupted, and Andrew, fearing for
his wellbeing and visage, ran off, heading for the safe sanctuary of a
local Clydebank pub. Well, it was slightly safer than a wife foaming at
the mouth,and hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. It was at that
point he called me, headed for Govan and to my own local, a delightful
little tavern called "The Square Rigg", and then onto my flat, where he
waited.....and waited.
By this point we were running out of booze, and with the phone well and
truly unplugged, to avoid any unwanted calls from mad wifies, we decided
to head into the night for more. Here we encountered problem number
one. It was just after midnight, when most local booze-selling
establishments are closed.
"Not a problem" declared Andrew, bristling with confidence, "I'll just
use the old McQuillan charm - come, let us go the The Square Rigg, where
they shall present us with booze and fags-a-plenty".
On arrival at The Square Rigg, at approximately 12.30, McQuillan used
his charm in an attempt to sway the situation in our favour.
"Och go on ya fannies" he shouted as the barmaids removed the tills,
"all we want is a few tins". This went on for a few minutes more, and
it became apparent we weren't getting anywhere fast.
"Look", he said to a barmaids back, "I can see the tennents cans from
here, go on give us 6, I've got a tenner", and proceeded to produce a
rather grubby beer-stained ten pound note.
Clearly unamused by McQuillan's blinding business proposal, the barmaid
pondered this offer for approximately.03 of a second before retorting
with the immortal line "p*ss aff, huv ye no got hames?"
Shamed in my own local, that was enough for yours truly, but not for
Andrew who was not too disheartened by this minor setback.
In true time-honoured fashion, defeat is a word which never entered
McQuillan's head. Come to think of it, NOTHING ever enters McQuillan's
head in this condition, so galvanised rather than defeated, we wandered
along Langlands Road until we bumped into some old codger, who had a
look of genuine fear in his eyes. Andrew asked him if he knew of any
establishments who would serve us, and without blinking his cataracts,
the elderly chap pointed, with his stick, across the park towards the
local snooker club, which was apparently open till 3am, and a mere 5
minute walk away - perfect - what could possibly go wrong?
Thinking that he'd fallen into the Clyde and came out with a salmon in
his mouth, Andrew flagged down a taxi, despite my protestations for
doing such a thing when the venue was so close by. I was told in no
uncertain terms to "shut the f*ck up", and my mouth was shut.
Now let it be said the local snooker club, on Govan Road, is not the
kind of establishment you would take your mother to - in fact, you
wouldn't take your dog there for a p*sh. It was so rough the barmaids,
who were no strangers to a sausage supper, wore body armour and wellies,
and openly shaved their sideburns in front of the customers. It was so
rough the mice had thrown themselves onto the traps, and the rats had
long since jumped ship. It was so rough there's actually a funeral
parlour right next door, for convenience and that's the truth actually.
Needless to say, our tentative approach to the bar was blocked a couple
of times by some burly chaps who didn't take too kindly to strangers
coming into their bar. In fact, they hated us the moment we set foot in
the place. We managed to get to the bar when Andrew ordered two pints
of lager, which we were downing in double-quick style, and whilst
nervously eyeing up our escape route, our man was getting involved in a
scuffle.
"Ho, you pushed me" shouted the man with the crow bar in his hand, some
10 yards away, "you trying to spill mah pint"?
In his finest English, Andrew shouted back "naw ah didnae!" before
turning to me and saying "'moan tae f*ck, Chris, let's get outta here"!
At this point our safety was threatened, by now three guys were out to
batter us, so Andrew made sure he went all the way back to bar, fighting
past the mad punters who were by now sharpening their razor blades, to
get a carry-out, before making a bee-line for the door. Miraculously,
we made it.
"What did you get?" I asked.
"Well, uh, I was a bit shakey after the altercation, so I just asked for
anything", before producing 4 bottles of..........Newcastle Brown Ale".
"Aw great, my favourite", I enthused.
Surprisingly the beers lasted a good while, and much singing and
merriment was had. Eventually I was getting fed up, and in need of some
kip, so I tried the old tip mcQuillan had told me himself some months
previously.
"Chris", he once said, "any time you want to get rid of a guest, or get
them to their bed if you're knackered, all you need to do is shut the
windows, and crank the heating up to the maximum - within an hour
they'll be sleeping like babies, I guarantee it".
So, I gave it a try, and within 30 minutes Andrew was out for the count,
spread all over the upholstery like a bendy toy - a spectacular
success.
The next morning I was awoken by an anguished shout from the spare
bedroom, in the west wing I think. "Christ, sure enough", I thought,
"it wan't a dream after all".
Bleary-eyed, I went through and discovered my guest, clearly a life-long
member of the Wide-Awake-Club, shouting for his breakfast.
"Chris, I would like you to make me 3 bacon sandwiches, and keep them
coming, making sure the bacon is well-cooked, and grilled not fried.
The bread will be Hovis, but none of that brown sh*te. I would also
like a paper - Daily Record would be fine - and a bottle of White
Lightening Cider. I will then consider getting up".
Slightly taken aback by this early morning outburst, and having real
difficulty in focusing, I blurted out, "but, Andrew, it's 8am, getting
a bottle of cider at this time in the morning may prove to be a problem,
and besides, I'm a little taken aback by the sheer audacity of your
request".
"Chris, Chris Chris, (tut-tut-tut), have I not taught you anything? Any
self-respecting P***i shop sells booze at this time - now stop being a
drama queen and get your fat ar*se down the road. Quite frankly, Chris,
I'm finding your attitude rather rude - I mean, really, is this the way
you treat every guest?".
Nothing more to be said really. It ended up the Andrew got his 3 bacon
sandwiches, dragged himself out of bed to get more booze, got violently
ill, and ended up phoning for his darling wife, who had apparently
driven all round Glasgow in a vain attempt to track him down, and once
the phone was plugged in, we discovered some 27 voice messages - each
one getting progressively more distressed - not a single mention of a
roll and sausage was to be had.
The episode finished with Andrew getting picked up by his wife, and it was
back to business as usual in the McQuillan household.
So that's my story. Of course there is the slightly shorter version on
"Andrew crashed at mine the other night", but far less fun.
I could make judgments, but as my dear old gran always said, "before
you judge a man, walk a mile in his shoes. After that - who cares?
He's a mile away, and you've got his shoes."
Wise words indeed.
Please note that I censored Chris' address. I dont know if he wanted it left intact incase there were any young ladies who fancied swinging by for a night cap but I didnt want to take that chance, they would be traumatised for life. They would also be of fine Glasgow stock and not the psychotic dogs from his home island of Lewis. All women from Lewis are bitches or guys in drag! Trust me I know to my cost. Not about the guys in drag but the other one!
