Listening to The Coming Home Party – Tiny Tim
One of the drawbacks of being a celebrity is the constant stream of invitations you receive. I have mentioned before how tiring the social swirl that comes with fame can be, but you just have go with the flow as they say. This week the invitation was from the Slack’s of Slackbuie.
The big house was bought about a year ago as a holiday home by the Slack family. Fortunately, we don’t see too much of them. They are the kind of people who, when you say no to the proffered cup of tea, don’t give you one. Mr Slack is something in the city I am told and looking at him I would guess, probably a lamp post. His kids names, Salvatore and Sienna, hint at previous geographic enthusiasms before the Highlands.
I would imagine that for his party contributions, Slack will have a vision of the inevitable peerage coming his way, and that may have played a part in a purchase in Slackbuie. I don’t know if you have ever thought about this, but when someone gets the title lord, there is usually a place name attached to it, like Lord MacKay of Clashfearn. Sounds pretty cool. In the John Buchan novels, there is Lord Lamancha. If you just signed your name as Lamancha, it sounds pretty exotic, mysterious if you like. Now imagine if you will, a place like Skinflats. It just doesn’t work, and to be honest Slack of Slackbuie is not really much better in my opinion.
On buying the house, the family proceeded to ‘out Highland’ the residents, much to the horror of the Colonel. I am waiting to see which of them will first insist their mail be written in runes or Ogham. Re-introduce Pictish is the cry! Slack has even appointed his own personal piper. Now, MacTaggart is well qualified on the piping side, but is also well known for his ability to drink industrial quantities of whisky, which is the only industrious thing about him.
In case anyone should mistake this for some petty grudge, I should highlight one or two anecdotes that will allow you to judge for yourself.
MacTaggart often speaks of his military service. He set out to join the Cameron Highlanders and by mistake joined the Cameronians. Both were Scottish regiments it’s true, but the latter being a rifle regiment, double timed everywhere and had a marching pace of 140 paces a minute. I suspect that may explain his unwillingness to move at anything beyond a slow march these days. Funnily enough, I have a friend in Switzerland who also joined the wrong regiment. He was asked to choose between heavy mortars and light mortars. Inspired, he opted for light, missing the minor detail that one is towed by trucks, the other carried on the backs of Mountain Grenadiers as they mine the mountain passes. His career was somewhat inglorious, reporting to barracks with his rifle in bits in a plastic bag as he couldn’t re-assemble it, and eventually being found unfit for duty after an unfortunate mortar attack on the General’s mountain chalet.
The story that sums MacTaggart up best though occurred on the Slacks’ initial visit. He was offered a whisky to drink the health of Mr and Mrs Slack. Not being averse to the formalities of his position, he toasted Mr Slack and knocked back the dram. Mr Slack was a little taken aback that only he had been toasted, until MacTaggart pointed out that in the Highlands, it is considered ill mannered to drink two healths with the same dram. I believe that not only did he create a new tradition that day, he drank a health to the couple, their children, their parents, extended family and their dogs, causing Slack to reconsider the wisdom of his appointment.
I have digressed somewhere along the line. In the year since they bought the house, there have been major renovation works going on, and this weekend was the unveiling of this work. Slack had organised grand festivities, food stalls, and music in the form of a miniature Big Band, led by Glen Miller’s grandfather.
He had also organised his own security, dressing up his men in kilt outfits and telling them to blend in. These strange figures would suddenly jump out of bushes, or peer over walls, securing things. In fairness, the last time he brought security in was for the Highland Games, and only the valiant few, weighing less than 280 pounds, returned from accompanying the Slack guests in the hill race.
It was a nice that Duncan and Alick, the two stonemasons, were invited to sign their work, and in truth they had outdone themselves on the various gargoyles and sheela-na-gigs they had carved on the building. For the garden party, Alick had insisted on wearing his dungarees, but did put on a tie, looking like a particularly scruffy Oliver Hardy. Big Dunc had gone the extra mile though. He had found a pair of tight striped trousers, a tail coat, waistcoat and to top it off, spats. As Mrs Slack approached the Groom of Frankenstein, she opened and closed her mouth, either overcome by aftershave or genuinely just lost for words. Dunc, never short of the mots justes for any occasion, and obviously seeing himself as Cary Grant rather than Boris Karlof, proclaimed ” I dinna ken what age ye are yer ladyship, but ye look much younger”. With that Grendel in glad rags gave an elegant obeisance, interrupted only by the sound of ripping material, as the tight striped trousers gave up their unequal battle, ripping right up the behind. “My Goad, did ye see that?” said the gardner, “Aye, and its ribbed like a cod’s mou” replied the cook.
As the festivities progressed, MacTaggart was asked to play his pipes in the battlements of the tower. What possessed Slack at that moment will probably never be known. The ‘battlements’ as Slack described them, are not terribly high, but the tower is, and MacTaggart could be seen, swaying in the stiff breeze aloft, his kilt and plaid flapping wildly around him. He appeared to be blown to the far corner, or maybe he just staggered, and suddenly a kilted figure was seen hurtling off the top of the tower to crash land on the Highland Hot Roast Hog stand, causing a mini Vesuvius of roast pork and apple sauce as the roast part of Hot Roast set alight the tartan clad figure. No-one moved, presumably security were still in bushes securing things. Because of the amount of whisky MacTaggart was likely to have consumed it seemed unlikely the fire would burn out any time soon. In the distance, a mournful ancient lament was heard playing on the pipes, and MacTaggart rounded the corner. Mrs Slack fainted, and Sinclair the tailor realised where his missing mannequin had gone. How we laughed as the ambulances arrived to help the shocked and burned crowds.
Atomic Crofter 