…
Several years ago, whilst still a serving police officer, my younger brother Hughie was a Corporation Passenger Transport Driver. In layman’s terms, he drove a big orange and green double deck bus about the housing schemes of Glasgow, picking up and dropping off passengers.
It was the practice of all drivers employed on the buses, to save money throughout the year and hold a special sports-night competition, with free alcohol and buffet for all involved. They would acquire a local social club and make the necessary arrangements for their free night of entertainment with monetary rewards, along with trophies for the winners. Through my younger brother Hughie, I got to know a lot of the drivers and on these special occasions, I would receive an invitation to come along and join in.
It was 7pm on the Friday night when Hughie arrived in a taxi to pick me up. He was wearing a white suit and T-shirt to match, in total contrast to me, who was wearing a black suit and black T-shirt. Making me resemble a photographic negative of him.
‘Change your suit Hughie!’ I told him.
‘No way!’ he said, ‘I look like Brian Ferry in this suit!’
‘I don’t know about Brian but you definitely look like a “fairy” that’s for sure.” I remarked.
Anyway, Hughie was not for changing his new look, so off we went on our ‘Sports’ night out looking like the new Randall and Hopkirk Deceased! On our arrival, the committee members who ran the entire event handed out raffle tickets, five at a time, to the assembled drivers, who were present. Each raffle ticket handed over at the bar, was the equivalent of one drink, therefore, five raffle tickets equalled five pints of heavy or lager or any spirit you cared to order.
As the committee member carried out the distribution of tickets, at intervals of every fifteen minutes, he would say to me, ‘Sorry Harry, but Hughie will have to share his drink raffles tickets with you!’ Then as he was about to move away, he would turn back and, as subtle as a brick to the head, would press ten raffle tickets into my hand.
This would annoy Hughie, ‘How come he gave you more drink tickets than me?’
‘What’s the difference?’ I said, ‘We’re both going to drink them!’
‘Aye, right enough. I’ll go and get them in. Is it rum and coke for sir, with a beer chaser, or are you on the whisky tonight?’
‘One thinks one will enjoy the company and hospitality of one’s favourite double act, Mr Whyte and Mr Mackay thank you very much!’
Off Hughie went to join the queue at the bar armed with our first supply of drink tickets.
Suddenly a voice rang out across the room, it was Tommy, ‘Are you entering any of the competitions Harry?’
‘I might as well.’ I replied. ‘Put me down for the dominoes and pool. I’ve trained all week for this.’
‘What about the synchronised swimming event?’ He said jokingly.
‘Oh, I think I’ll give it a miss tonight, Tommy, my bikini top has a rip in it anyway!’ I replied.
During the events of that evening I was beaten at the dominoes, that bloody double six beat me every time. Anyway, I was waiting to take part in the pool games.
Whilst sitting there, draining every drop of the amber liquid from my refillable glass, with my brother Hughie seated alongside me, a greasy long-haired male appeared. He was wearing a bright blue- coloured jacket with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow so as to reveal several pieces of what looked like barbed wire wrapped ever so ridiculously around his forearm. To crown it off he had a large brass crucifix dangling from his neck. It was that heavy I would reckon that within six months he would resemble the Hunchback of Notre Dame with a dowager’s hump.
He sat down in the chair beside me and said, ‘So are you on the buses too?’
‘No!’ I replied.
‘Oh right,’ he said, nodding his head. ‘What do you work at then?’
‘I’m a lorry driver.’ I responded.
His eyes opened wider, ‘A lorry driver? I’ve always wanted to be a lorry driver. What kind of lorries do you drive then?’ He enquired.
‘A Scania 110.’ I answered.
‘A Scania 110? That’s my favourite lorry of all time. How long is it and how many wheels does it have?’
Now, at this point I’m thinking, this guy is just out for the day, where’s his psychiatric nurse. He was obviously a lump of wood in an earlier life! Anyway, I turned to Hughie and on seeing my facial expression change, Hughie got up from his seat and walked over to another bus driver friend and said, ‘Here Archie, yer mental brother is annoying oor Harry, so ye better have a word with him and tell him to do a drum roll and “beat it”.’
As Hughie returned to his seat on the opposite side of me, Archie signalled to his brother to come over and said, ‘See that bloke ye’re talking tae, he’s a polis, so don’t annoy him, awright?’
Conversation finished, Archie’s brother comes back over and sits down on his seat next to me. He then composed himself, looked both ways and behind himself before staring me right in the face. He then winked and whispered in a low voice out of the side of his mouth.
“I always wanted to be a Polis”!
At which point, I turn my head around to look at Hughie and Hughie said under his breath, ‘Lean your head forward as if to pick up your pint and I’ll just hook him.’
As it turned out, he was quite a nice lad, although slightly demented. Also, apart from the barbed wire wrapped around his arms, posing as some sort of modern jewellery, he had a set of motor vehicle battery jump leads tied in a neat knot around his neck like a fashion statement.
‘Why the jump leads around your neck?’ I asked him.
‘I forgot that you needed to wear a tie tonight and these were all I could find in the boot of the car!’ He replied.
‘Awright!’ I said. ‘Well you better not “start” anything in here!’
Hughie then spotted the buffet being uncovered on the display tables by Big Andy Hunter, nick-named Billy Bunter, he was enormous and rumour had it that he was originally a triplet, but he ate the other two. When he was at school, his favourite instrument was the dinner bell.
Hughie moved swiftly to the front of the queue and shouted over to me, ‘Harry! Do you want toad-in-the-hole wi’ some salad?’
‘If you don’t mind Hughie, I’ll just have the salad, I’ve been towed-in-the-arse once and didn’t really enjoy it!’ I responded.
The assembled queue of drunken bus drivers laughed in unison.
Much later, after the buffet was cleared away and many, many more whiskies were consumed by yours truly, I was summoned to the pool table to play my first game.
‘Right Harry,’ said the organiser. ‘You’re on this side with the rest of the OMOs here.’
‘Ho!’ I said, taking great exception to this remark. Then Hughie explained what he meant by OMO – One Man Operator – bus drivers and not HOMO as in a sexual preference.
Surprisingly, with Hughie’s coaching skills, I win it very easily. My next couple of games go the same way, as I find it all so easy. The balls as they say are running kindly for me and are never too far from a pocket to pot them into.
I’m playing like Stephen Hendry, minus his plooks and before I know it, hey, I’m in the semi-final stage of the tournament and I find it very hard to believe, because I can hardly see the pool table, never mind the coloured balls. Anyway, my opponent breaks off and I’m bent down, lining up my cue for my first pot at a ball.
‘Hold it Harry!’ Hughie said, ‘Pot this one first!’
I looked over to see one of my balls covering a pocket and just perfect for potting.
‘I never noticed that one, thanks Hughie.’ I replied.
The game continued in this vein for several shots, me bending down to line up a pot and Hughie changing my mind by pointing out a much easier pot to take on. ‘I must have drunk more than him!’ All the time Hughie was talking one load of utter pish to my opponent, who was having to use all his concentration skills just to understand what Hughie was saying to him. As for me, I’m closing one eye and trying to focus on my cue ball as it appears to be moving about the table on it’s own and I’m thinking to myself, ‘I wish that bloody white cue ball would stop moving!’
Then just as I am about to take my shot, I clearly see a hand lift up one of my balls and place it in front of the pocket. I straightened up and composed myself, because I decided, I must be seeing things, balls don’t move about by themselves and even in my rapidly drunken state, I couldn’t ‘piss this mot.’ I mean I couldn’t miss this pot!
Then I realise why I’m so good at pool all of a sudden. My brother Hughie was talking to my opponents and while distracting them he was placing my balls over the pockets for me to pot them, as well as ‘potting’ a few of my balls into his own trouser pockets.
I wondered how some games seemed to be over very quickly … I was only potting half my quota of balls, compared to my opponent’s full quota.
Being a conscientious police officer with a reputation for being honest and upholding the law, I couldn’t handle the fact that I was in the pool final due to the behaviour of my brother, Hughie, who was blatantly cheating. With this preying on my mind, I did the only honourable thing available to me!
No I didn’t own up, are ye daft? I was winning. I just compromised.
I told Hughie I didn’t want his help in the final because I was good enough to win it on my own. Suffice to say, I didn’t win the final and to rub salt into my wound, I played total crap and was completely whitewashed. Come to think of it, even when I play sober, I’m total crap. Which, in retrospect was probably a fair result for me. However, Hughie reckoned I was extremely lucky to get nil! Which was hurtful, because I do have feelings you know!
In the meantime, during the evening, Hughie had also been helping the committee by handing out the drink raffle tickets as well as helping himself to several sheets for doing it. He had also arranged with the girl behind the bar to allow us to trade them in for a carry-out and had placed an order for a bottle of whisky, a bottle of rum and two dozen cans of Red Stripe lager. Just in case we got thirsty on our road home.
I decided we should go for a Chic Murray (an Indian curry) and told Hughie I was going outside for some fresh air, while they were clearing up the tables. Unfortunately, I forgot to mention to him about going for the Chic Murray.
While sitting on a wall outside waiting for Hughie, a police panda car pulled up alongside me.
‘Hi Harry,’ said the passenger. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Oh hi Davie!’ I replied. It was a friend I had been to college with. I continued, ‘I’ve got this theory, Davie, that the world revolves on an axis, so if I wait here long enough, my house will pass by and I’ll get hooked up by the wife!’
‘Don’t think so Harry, why don’t you jump in the back and we’ll give you a lift? He said.
‘Okay Davie.’ I said, getting into the rear of the car.
‘Could you drop me off at the Noor Mahal Indian restaurant in Shawlands, I feel like a wee Chic Murray afore I go home.’
‘No problem Harry!’ replied Davie and he promptly drove me to the restaurant dropping me off outside the front entrance. As I entered I was shown to a table for two as I had told them that my brother Hughie would be joining me here.
All I remember after that, was the waiter nudging me and saying, ‘Excuse me Harry, but we are wishing to go home now and I don’t think your brother is coming!’
I looked around me and the restaurant was empty, apart from the staff, still clearing up.
‘What time is it Zaffar?’ I asked the manager.
‘Very late Harry, quarter-to-one in the morning, you have been sleeping for ages!’ He replied.
While all this was going on, Hughie had come out of the club looking for me, couldn’t find me and organised a small search party of his friends to help him search the nearby golf course, just in case I had fallen into a bunker. Having no success in finding me, he then flagged down a ‘fast-black’ taxi and went to my house, where he informed my wife as follows, ‘I’ve lost him, I’ve lost Harry. One minute he was there and the next minute, “Poof” he was gone.’
Mind you, ‘Poof’ I think was the wrong choice of word to describe my disappearance from outside the club.
He continued explaining, ‘I’ve been up and down the golf course next to the club looking for him in case he fell into a hole!’
‘Some of the guys helping to look for him nearly shit themselves and ran off when they saw me dressed in white coming towards them in the darkness!’
All the while, my missus stood with her arms folded, listening to this pathetic tale of woe from my drunken brother and totally unconcerned.
Poor Hughie, he was completely demented and unaware, that I was wrapped up, as snug as a bug in a rug, in the spare room of my parent’s house and snoring away like the proverbial pig, with my runners up medal for the pool competition along with a crisp twenty pound note tucked away in my breast pocket.
Roll on the next games night on the buses!
‘Fares Please’!