We are such sentimental creatures. No, I don’t just mean people here in the Western Isles, although I bet islanders are more sentimental than most if there was some way to measure it. I mean us guys. Happening to find myself in a macho workplace near Stornoway the other day, the conversation turned to strong drink. maybe that’s not unusual but we lads ended up discussing the relative merits of Buckfast, a tonic wine made by some very holy people.
Strangely, no one present had much to say about how good a tonic it is. My granny used to have a regular order of tonic wine from town, I seem to recall. She claimed it was good for her constitution, whatever that is. Mam said it was not really wine at all but medicine. After several toppings up of the teacup she sipped from, in case the minister came in, she would toddle off to bed giggling.
Those guys from the central belt told me tonic wine from Buckfast Abbey is known as “wreck the hoose juice” and “commotion lotion” by those down there whose constitutions need reviving. So it doesn’t make them giggle like a wobbly granny? Quite the opposite, I gather. That brought us on to other fancy drinks we swigged.
Few recalled Bezique, a barely-drinkable concoction in a bottle with so many corners it could have been thought up by Miralles who designed the Scottish Parliament.
Then memories came flooding back. Hooper’s Hooch, Alcola, Vault, Hooper’s Hooch Lite, Tilt, Lemonhead. And who could forget Mad Dog 20/20. And Two Dogs was a lemon-based alcopop devised by a canny Australian farmer with glut of lemons on his hands. They were easy to swallow. So we did. If you had too much you were liable to be very sick. We did that too. We were all emotional wrecks coming out and getting back to work. A chance encounter had transported us all back in time in a few weird but memorable minutes. It wasn’t the bevvy we loved. It was the memories of a happier, younger time. Aw, I’m running out of hankies here. Right, change the subject.
When the course of true love runs smooth, everyone involved is high as a kite. In the real world though, there is always that wee snag, that little irritation to stop you showing that very special person that they are just that. A certain airline serving this part of the world came up with a novel way of helping island guys mark Valentine’s Day. When their adverts appeared they were obviously a good deal.
Treat your beloved to a flight to the mainland at a fantastic discount price, it said. While stocks last. Wouldn’t break the bank to spend three tenners for herself to go swanning off wherever she wanted. Yes, I thought. This will definitely put me in good odour for a long time. Ach, they will be sold out. Should I try? Yeah. Hallooo. Is that Flybeee? Have you any of these super-duper Valentine’s Weekend £29.99 tickets left? Yeees? Really? Fabuloso. Sling one over to my puter right now, boyo. Have you sent it yet? Hurry up, what’s wrong with you? Someone has a plane to catch here.
When I presented her with the Flybe print-out and the obligatory giant-size pack of chocs – is it me or are Smarties getting smaller these days? – she was all agog. In that one moist moment, it dawned on her I had fulfilled her all most cherished dreams. I had remembered. I had spent cash. And I wasn’t going with her. She got just a tad emotional. Vibrating with excitement, the brownie points were spilling my way almost as much as the Smarties were spilling out of the tube in her trembling hands. Result.
Dashing off to phone whoever it is that wives phone when they have had an unexpected bonus, she was back in minutes with a face like thunder. What was I up to? Where was I going? Who was she? Oh-oh. She was emotional again. But why? She had, I promptly learned, checked her ticket and found it was … one way. No. The airline had dreamed up this great deal but it was, in effect, a surefire way to get someone out of your life. Bung them on a plane into the big blue yonder with no plan for their return journey. I wrongly assumed that any romantic deal like that would be for a return journey. Ouch.
Yes, I’m sure it’s all in the small print but who checks that? Not this person now chewing on a bone in the doghouse, that’s for sure. She even suggested I go on the plane instead. No way. I don’t travel light. All these airlines charge a heck of a lot for every case and bag you take on. I hear they are also looking for new ways to get money out of us. Maybe my missus should go while she has the chance. As far as I know, they don’t charge yet for emotional baggage.
end
