The Hooligan's Jig.
Well here we are in December and as it seems that over the last few entries I have only managed to jot down my thoughts once a month, I am now going to make this my standard effort with a scribble reasonably soon after the 1st. Of course those of you who know me will realise I am seldom that organised so almost anything may happen. The first problem with increasing the gaps between publications is that I forgot my password to access the Glen Orchy Kerr's website, requiring a forced march with the mutts across the Long Glen on a fine, frosty day to note the required rune on the back of a box of Cigarillos. Somewhat more time consuming than a phone call however so much better for one, especially as I have just received the annual ear bashing from the local Doc who appears determined to regularly lower the bar on every measurement of one's health from blood pressure to weekly alcohol units, seemingly hell bent on turning one's dotage into a turgid bore.
Speaking of such things I lost three full days to jury service in Oban Sheriff Court, the quicker witted amongst you may wonder why such a sensible spot would drag in the elderly for any reason other than to shelter them in the public gallery from Oban's ghastly climate. Apparently the local jury pool situation has become impossible with half of the 12,000 Argyll voters being exempt from service by dint of profession (briefs, priests, quacks etc.) whilst the other half are ineligible because of criminality or insanity. So there was nothing for it but to waive the rules and round up a pile of pensioners. By golly the courts work slowly, starting at about 10.00, coffee for half an hour at 11.30, an hour's lunch at 1.00 and then a positively herculean effort between 2.00 and 4.00 before knocking off for the day. Much of this time we spent dosing in the jury room whilst the learned chaps in wigs battled over some ancient and tedious point of law, in this case called the Moorhen Manoeuvre or some such. However despite the court officer coming to tick us off for being hearty and making too much noise while the sheriff digested his din-dins we managed to return a verdict. Whilst thanking us all for our efforts at the end of the trial the beak faltered during his well rehearsed homily "and you will be excused jury service for five years" as he glanced along the rows of bald heads and blue rinses, even his lordship twigged that he will not be seeing any of us again, well not outside of the dock anyway. The only disappointment apart from the quality of the lunches, was that my expenses claim was returned with a pittance for a settlement and a terse note asking why I had not used public transport. Well its like this my Lord, do you want me to arrive at 3.00pm and depart at 3.45pm to cope with the rural Argyll timetables? A short day by any standards.
Another day was lost when I was trapped in a cupboard, accidentally I should add. I was routeling around for something or another when suddenly the door slammed shut, incarcerating yours truly and a flatulent mutt in the dusty dungeon. By good fortune there were plenty of Tower of Glen Trollaigh drafts for air supply and the light switch not only worked but was on the inside of the cupboard. After much fruitless banging and loud hallooing I was forced to settle on an upturned box and peruse old copies of The Field magazine. Further examination of my prison unearthed all the usual newspaper wrapped rubbish plus an interesting though inaccurate family tree; and saints be praised a more or less full bottle of Teacher's presumably stashed by some long forgotten party goer. Sad to say I was not missed by the household and it was only tobacco smoke curling under the bottom of the cupboard door that alerted Mhairi to my plight and Lachlan was summoned to release me. "God,what's that smell" was dearest Dottie's sympathetic greeting from behind The Daily Telegraph, I was only able to point accusingly at Haggis our verdigrised elderly Lab, whilst travelling at speed towards the lav having missed two of my scheduled pee stops.
One other spree enjoyed at this time of year is the Friday night dancing class in a loch side village hall, this is strictly Ceilidh and definitely not approved of by the douce members of the Strathspey and Reel Society. Lots of laughter and organised by a pretty suave dancer who is also a joiner; so I rather cruelly refer to the class as "Dances With Builders", however apart from knocking the rust off in time for the seasonal hops, there are sufficient drams to make the noise of one's whiskers scratching on the sheets painful the following morning. So, my dears, when I ask for the pleasure of the next dance this season you know that I am a finely tuned dancing machine, although I advise toe protection at all times! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Speaking of such things I lost three full days to jury service in Oban Sheriff Court, the quicker witted amongst you may wonder why such a sensible spot would drag in the elderly for any reason other than to shelter them in the public gallery from Oban's ghastly climate. Apparently the local jury pool situation has become impossible with half of the 12,000 Argyll voters being exempt from service by dint of profession (briefs, priests, quacks etc.) whilst the other half are ineligible because of criminality or insanity. So there was nothing for it but to waive the rules and round up a pile of pensioners. By golly the courts work slowly, starting at about 10.00, coffee for half an hour at 11.30, an hour's lunch at 1.00 and then a positively herculean effort between 2.00 and 4.00 before knocking off for the day. Much of this time we spent dosing in the jury room whilst the learned chaps in wigs battled over some ancient and tedious point of law, in this case called the Moorhen Manoeuvre or some such. However despite the court officer coming to tick us off for being hearty and making too much noise while the sheriff digested his din-dins we managed to return a verdict. Whilst thanking us all for our efforts at the end of the trial the beak faltered during his well rehearsed homily "and you will be excused jury service for five years" as he glanced along the rows of bald heads and blue rinses, even his lordship twigged that he will not be seeing any of us again, well not outside of the dock anyway. The only disappointment apart from the quality of the lunches, was that my expenses claim was returned with a pittance for a settlement and a terse note asking why I had not used public transport. Well its like this my Lord, do you want me to arrive at 3.00pm and depart at 3.45pm to cope with the rural Argyll timetables? A short day by any standards.
Another day was lost when I was trapped in a cupboard, accidentally I should add. I was routeling around for something or another when suddenly the door slammed shut, incarcerating yours truly and a flatulent mutt in the dusty dungeon. By good fortune there were plenty of Tower of Glen Trollaigh drafts for air supply and the light switch not only worked but was on the inside of the cupboard. After much fruitless banging and loud hallooing I was forced to settle on an upturned box and peruse old copies of The Field magazine. Further examination of my prison unearthed all the usual newspaper wrapped rubbish plus an interesting though inaccurate family tree; and saints be praised a more or less full bottle of Teacher's presumably stashed by some long forgotten party goer. Sad to say I was not missed by the household and it was only tobacco smoke curling under the bottom of the cupboard door that alerted Mhairi to my plight and Lachlan was summoned to release me. "God,what's that smell" was dearest Dottie's sympathetic greeting from behind The Daily Telegraph, I was only able to point accusingly at Haggis our verdigrised elderly Lab, whilst travelling at speed towards the lav having missed two of my scheduled pee stops.
One other spree enjoyed at this time of year is the Friday night dancing class in a loch side village hall, this is strictly Ceilidh and definitely not approved of by the douce members of the Strathspey and Reel Society. Lots of laughter and organised by a pretty suave dancer who is also a joiner; so I rather cruelly refer to the class as "Dances With Builders", however apart from knocking the rust off in time for the seasonal hops, there are sufficient drams to make the noise of one's whiskers scratching on the sheets painful the following morning. So, my dears, when I ask for the pleasure of the next dance this season you know that I am a finely tuned dancing machine, although I advise toe protection at all times! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
posted by The Baron Trollaigh at
9:32 AM
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