Home-Koming Night
by Allan Watson
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: Three paradigms from Scottish history attend a Homecoming celebration in their local pub and blast a hole through the cultural and scientific merits of the Scottish race.
_____________________________________________________________________
Engelbert Humperdinck was the culprit to blame for the painfully awful Broomfield Tavern Homecoming event. But Engelbert didn’t act alone. His partner in crime was a nondescript little man called Gavin Smith. Most of the time Gavin was a grey, solitary figure propping up the end of the bar - the sort of guy you only ever noticed in your peripheral vision. But come Karaoke night on the last Wednesday of every month, Gavin would shed his dreary, boring persona and become a born again Las Vegas crooner.
He only knew one song - the Engelbert classic ‘Am I That Easy To Forget’, but despite the groans and cat-calls his limited repertoire normally invited, Gavin would treat his hecklers to a swinging rendition of the ballad, even going so far as to perform the instrumental break a capella style. But just to prove that God enjoys the more comical aspects of cruel irony, Gavin’s wife was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and it became impossible for him to sing ‘Am I That Easy To Forget’ without his fellow drinkers falling into a state of cringing embarrassment, or worse, shrieking hysterical laughter. Deprived of this liberating outlet, Gavin had time on his hands to brood, and from this dark dungeon of black meditation he hatched a vengeful masterstroke of Entertainment Noir. The Home-Koming night.
The Broomfield Tavern, like most housing estate watering holes, was functional as opposed to aesthetically pleasing. A place you could wet your whistle without worrying over trivialities like whether you’d shaved or put your teeth in. I was seated at a corner table with my two regular drinking cronies, Wallace and Bruce. Typically it was Bruce who first pointed out the glaring spelling mistake on the banner above the small stage.
‘Don’t they realise there’s no K in Homecoming,’ he said in an aggrieved tone. ‘Or a hyphen for that matter.’ Bruce was an English teacher at a local secondary school and knew about such things. Wallace was the janitor at the same school where the erudite Bruce lectured on the technicalities of semicolons and split infinitives, and was dismissive of the spelling mistake. Scratching his matted beard, he scowled and let out a taciturn growl, ‘Never mind there being no K in Homecoming. There’s no point in Homecoming either. What’s it all about, eh?’
Bruce wasn’t one to miss the opportunity to educate someone, especially Wallace whom he deemed his social inferior. Bruce was always careful never to get too patronising, as before becoming a janitor, Wallace had spent the bulk of his adult life serving in the Royal Navy and was a handy man with his fists. ‘The specific point, Wallace, is that Scotland as a nation has contributed in no small measure to the world as we know it. We’ve given it science, engineering, medicine, not to mention a whole cultural array of creative talent, most notably in the field of literature and the fine arts.’
Wallace harrumphed loudly and snatched up a photocopied sheet of paper from the table. He held it up like a barrister producing evidence to the jury. Across the top of the paper we could read the word PRAWGRAM. ‘Is this what you mean by a cultural array of creative talent?’
As Bruce donned his reading glasses to pore over the document, I caught sight of Gavin Smith taking the stage to announce the first act of the night. It was difficult to make out even a single muffled word through the microphone, but by leaning over to peer at the Program (or Prawgram) I was able to establish the first act was ‘The Falkirk Wheel – A Celebration of Scottish Engineering Through the Medium of Dance and Gymnastics’. I looked up just as a large woman with dimpled thighs the colour and texture of suet pudding took to the stage wearing a short kilt and a crop-top T-shirt that allowed her doughy belly to hang over her waistband.
The skirling pipes of Scotland the Brave blasted through the PA speakers as the big woman proceeded to turn a succession of perfectly executed cartwheels back and forth across the stage. Maybe if the stage had been larger the act may have held some artistic merit, but the confined space only allowed her one cartwheel to the left before repeating the procedure in the opposite direction, over and over again. A huge cheer went up every time her sturdy legs reached the zenith of their arc, giving the crowd a closer than necessary look at her navy blue Primark pants.
Wallace shook his head ruefully. ‘The Falkirk Wheel? More like the Falkirk Whale.’
I noticed Bruce staring intently at the window we were sitting beside. His attention had been caught by a spider vainly attempting to spin a web between the split wooden frame and the greasy film of grime on the glass. ‘Look at that,’ he said. ‘Does this place never get cleaned properly?’
I smiled indulgently. ‘But you have to admire the wee beastie’s pluck and determination. It’s not giving up without a struggle. You could take a lesson from that spider you know.’
Bruce’s response was to produce a tissue from his pocket and squash the spider into a gooey pulp. ‘Bugger that. They’re full of germs. Now as I was saying, every schoolboy knows how much this country has contributed to modern technology. There’s Alexander Graham Bell giving us the telephone for starters.’
Wallace shook his head. ‘I think the German scientist Philipp Reis and the Italian fellow Meucci might debate that claim. And with every justification.’
A rousing cheer filled the pub as The Falkirk Wheel finished her cart-wheeling and bounded flushed and sweating from the stage. A quick look at the prawgram informed us that the next act would be a tribute to the world of golf, with the added element of escapology. Curious to see what this entailed, all three of us turned our attention to the stage where wee Sammy, a three foot midget was dragging a large golfing bag into position. From the depths of the bag a length of chain was produced, and two men from the audience cheerily wrapped wee Sammy from head to foot in shiny steel, before dropping him into the golfing bag and zipping it closed. A single drum beat emanated from the speakers to provide an atmosphere of suspense as the golfing bag began to writhe and bulge like a sausage in a microwave oven.
Four minutes later wee Sammy was finally released to a sympathetic round of applause, and carried - still wrapped in chains - from the stage. Bruce used the lull in the proceedings to rekindle his debate with Wallace. ‘What about Alexander Fleming then? Penicillin. Anti-biotics. Surely you can’t find anything negative to say about that, Wallace.’
Wallace could - and did. ‘Ah yes, providing the world with a cure for a plethora of venereal diseases. Says a lot for the priorities of the Scottish race, doesn’t it? ‘
‘Joseph Lister then,’ stated Bruce undeterred. ‘Gave us the doctrine of antiseptic surgery, right here in Glasgow, at the Royal Infirmary.’
Wallace was unmoved. ‘Lister was English. Doesn’t count.’
Behind us on the stage Gavin Smith was introducing the next act, described on the program as ‘An indulgent and appreciative study of the whisky industry’. This involved a local alcoholic carrying half a dozen malt whiskies on a tray, from which he then proceeded to drink one after the other. It was a short act. No pun intended.
‘James Simpson. Chloroform,’ snapped Bruce, looking increasingly nettled by his failure to browbeat Wallace into submission.
Wallace merely sipped his pint before intoning in a bored voice, ‘Chloroform was nothing but a variation on a theme. And besides, an American chemist, Samuel Guthrie was using it before Simpson.’
Bruce scratched at a small patch of dry, inflamed skin beneath his left ear. I hadn’t noticed this before and wondered if he secretly suffered from psoriasis. Small flakes of dead skin drifted down onto the now rather soggy program which Wallace had been using as a beer mat. On stage the whisky drinker had been replaced by some old chap with a TV set. Gavin Smith was explaining to the crowd that as a tribute to John Logie Baird, the old chap would repair a broken television set before their very eyes. Within seconds the old boy had whipped the back from the TV set and was probing furiously at its innards.
As Bruce pulled a ten pound note from his pocket and made a strategic retreat towards the bar to get a round in, I said to Wallace. ‘William, I never thought you were so cynical about Scotland.’
Wallace looked aggrieved. ‘Me? I’m the most patriotic Scot you could ever wish for. I just hate it when that over-educated fool Bruce tries to act like he’s King of the castle. I hope he minds to get me a glass of rum as a chaser. As we used to say in the Navy - You can take our lives, but you’ll never take our free rum.’
From the smug look on his face, Wallace seemed to think he had made a clever jest. No doubt an old military joke of some sort. Bruce arrived back at the table with the drinks and just had time to say, ‘James Watt! Father of the steam engine,’ before there was a loud bang and a bright flash of cobalt coloured light from the stage. It seemed the elderly repairman had unwisely plugged the television into the mains before commencing his tinkering. A low cloud of acrid smoke drifted from the stage stinging our eyes and catching at the back of our throats. Flames were licking at the top of the set, while the erstwhile TV repairman lay prone on his back still clutching the smoking screwdriver.
The crowd, unsure of what was happening, began to panic and there were a few raised voices suggesting outright hysteria wasn’t far away. Folk were blundering about between tables, and the scene could have got seriously ugly if Gavin Smith hadn’t grabbed the microphone, and without any music to back him, began singing Am I That Easy To Forget. The effect was instant. Everyone sat down and by the time Gavin reached the second verse order was fully restored.
Wallace nodded in my direction. ‘What about you, Rab? You’ve been pretty quiet all night. What’s your take on this Homecoming nonsense?’
‘Aye,’ remarked Bruce. ‘Speak up, Mr Burns. What unique elements of culture and scientific progress have we Scots given the world?’
I waved away a stray wisp of smoke and turned to observe the crowd singing along with Gavin, seemingly oblivious to the inert form of the TV repairman being carried behind the bar. ‘Why, that’s easy,’ I said. ‘We gave them…. The Scots.’
As if on cue, the PA speakers kicked into life playing a recording of Jimmy Shand and his Band performing a jaunty Polka on massed fiddles and accordions. As one, the drinkers of the Broomfield Tavern got to their feet and began cavorting around the pub in time to the primal swell of the music. They might not have been painted with woad or wearing animal skins - but the spirit of the Scottish nation was still undiminished no matter what history implied.
Wallace, Bruce and I raised our glasses and clinked them together.
‘The Scots,’ we said in unison. And downing the remainder of our beer we joined the massed ranks of dancers on the floor.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Three paradigms from Scottish history attend a Homecoming celebration in their local pub and blast a hole through the cultural and scientific merits of the Scottish race.
_____________________________________________________________________
Engelbert Humperdinck was the culprit to blame for the painfully awful Broomfield Tavern Homecoming event. But Engelbert didn’t act alone. His partner in crime was a nondescript little man called Gavin Smith. Most of the time Gavin was a grey, solitary figure propping up the end of the bar - the sort of guy you only ever noticed in your peripheral vision. But come Karaoke night on the last Wednesday of every month, Gavin would shed his dreary, boring persona and become a born again Las Vegas crooner.
He only knew one song - the Engelbert classic ‘Am I That Easy To Forget’, but despite the groans and cat-calls his limited repertoire normally invited, Gavin would treat his hecklers to a swinging rendition of the ballad, even going so far as to perform the instrumental break a capella style. But just to prove that God enjoys the more comical aspects of cruel irony, Gavin’s wife was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and it became impossible for him to sing ‘Am I That Easy To Forget’ without his fellow drinkers falling into a state of cringing embarrassment, or worse, shrieking hysterical laughter. Deprived of this liberating outlet, Gavin had time on his hands to brood, and from this dark dungeon of black meditation he hatched a vengeful masterstroke of Entertainment Noir. The Home-Koming night.
The Broomfield Tavern, like most housing estate watering holes, was functional as opposed to aesthetically pleasing. A place you could wet your whistle without worrying over trivialities like whether you’d shaved or put your teeth in. I was seated at a corner table with my two regular drinking cronies, Wallace and Bruce. Typically it was Bruce who first pointed out the glaring spelling mistake on the banner above the small stage.
‘Don’t they realise there’s no K in Homecoming,’ he said in an aggrieved tone. ‘Or a hyphen for that matter.’ Bruce was an English teacher at a local secondary school and knew about such things. Wallace was the janitor at the same school where the erudite Bruce lectured on the technicalities of semicolons and split infinitives, and was dismissive of the spelling mistake. Scratching his matted beard, he scowled and let out a taciturn growl, ‘Never mind there being no K in Homecoming. There’s no point in Homecoming either. What’s it all about, eh?’
Bruce wasn’t one to miss the opportunity to educate someone, especially Wallace whom he deemed his social inferior. Bruce was always careful never to get too patronising, as before becoming a janitor, Wallace had spent the bulk of his adult life serving in the Royal Navy and was a handy man with his fists. ‘The specific point, Wallace, is that Scotland as a nation has contributed in no small measure to the world as we know it. We’ve given it science, engineering, medicine, not to mention a whole cultural array of creative talent, most notably in the field of literature and the fine arts.’
Wallace harrumphed loudly and snatched up a photocopied sheet of paper from the table. He held it up like a barrister producing evidence to the jury. Across the top of the paper we could read the word PRAWGRAM. ‘Is this what you mean by a cultural array of creative talent?’
As Bruce donned his reading glasses to pore over the document, I caught sight of Gavin Smith taking the stage to announce the first act of the night. It was difficult to make out even a single muffled word through the microphone, but by leaning over to peer at the Program (or Prawgram) I was able to establish the first act was ‘The Falkirk Wheel – A Celebration of Scottish Engineering Through the Medium of Dance and Gymnastics’. I looked up just as a large woman with dimpled thighs the colour and texture of suet pudding took to the stage wearing a short kilt and a crop-top T-shirt that allowed her doughy belly to hang over her waistband.
The skirling pipes of Scotland the Brave blasted through the PA speakers as the big woman proceeded to turn a succession of perfectly executed cartwheels back and forth across the stage. Maybe if the stage had been larger the act may have held some artistic merit, but the confined space only allowed her one cartwheel to the left before repeating the procedure in the opposite direction, over and over again. A huge cheer went up every time her sturdy legs reached the zenith of their arc, giving the crowd a closer than necessary look at her navy blue Primark pants.
Wallace shook his head ruefully. ‘The Falkirk Wheel? More like the Falkirk Whale.’
I noticed Bruce staring intently at the window we were sitting beside. His attention had been caught by a spider vainly attempting to spin a web between the split wooden frame and the greasy film of grime on the glass. ‘Look at that,’ he said. ‘Does this place never get cleaned properly?’
I smiled indulgently. ‘But you have to admire the wee beastie’s pluck and determination. It’s not giving up without a struggle. You could take a lesson from that spider you know.’
Bruce’s response was to produce a tissue from his pocket and squash the spider into a gooey pulp. ‘Bugger that. They’re full of germs. Now as I was saying, every schoolboy knows how much this country has contributed to modern technology. There’s Alexander Graham Bell giving us the telephone for starters.’
Wallace shook his head. ‘I think the German scientist Philipp Reis and the Italian fellow Meucci might debate that claim. And with every justification.’
A rousing cheer filled the pub as The Falkirk Wheel finished her cart-wheeling and bounded flushed and sweating from the stage. A quick look at the prawgram informed us that the next act would be a tribute to the world of golf, with the added element of escapology. Curious to see what this entailed, all three of us turned our attention to the stage where wee Sammy, a three foot midget was dragging a large golfing bag into position. From the depths of the bag a length of chain was produced, and two men from the audience cheerily wrapped wee Sammy from head to foot in shiny steel, before dropping him into the golfing bag and zipping it closed. A single drum beat emanated from the speakers to provide an atmosphere of suspense as the golfing bag began to writhe and bulge like a sausage in a microwave oven.
Four minutes later wee Sammy was finally released to a sympathetic round of applause, and carried - still wrapped in chains - from the stage. Bruce used the lull in the proceedings to rekindle his debate with Wallace. ‘What about Alexander Fleming then? Penicillin. Anti-biotics. Surely you can’t find anything negative to say about that, Wallace.’
Wallace could - and did. ‘Ah yes, providing the world with a cure for a plethora of venereal diseases. Says a lot for the priorities of the Scottish race, doesn’t it? ‘
‘Joseph Lister then,’ stated Bruce undeterred. ‘Gave us the doctrine of antiseptic surgery, right here in Glasgow, at the Royal Infirmary.’
Wallace was unmoved. ‘Lister was English. Doesn’t count.’
Behind us on the stage Gavin Smith was introducing the next act, described on the program as ‘An indulgent and appreciative study of the whisky industry’. This involved a local alcoholic carrying half a dozen malt whiskies on a tray, from which he then proceeded to drink one after the other. It was a short act. No pun intended.
‘James Simpson. Chloroform,’ snapped Bruce, looking increasingly nettled by his failure to browbeat Wallace into submission.
Wallace merely sipped his pint before intoning in a bored voice, ‘Chloroform was nothing but a variation on a theme. And besides, an American chemist, Samuel Guthrie was using it before Simpson.’
Bruce scratched at a small patch of dry, inflamed skin beneath his left ear. I hadn’t noticed this before and wondered if he secretly suffered from psoriasis. Small flakes of dead skin drifted down onto the now rather soggy program which Wallace had been using as a beer mat. On stage the whisky drinker had been replaced by some old chap with a TV set. Gavin Smith was explaining to the crowd that as a tribute to John Logie Baird, the old chap would repair a broken television set before their very eyes. Within seconds the old boy had whipped the back from the TV set and was probing furiously at its innards.
As Bruce pulled a ten pound note from his pocket and made a strategic retreat towards the bar to get a round in, I said to Wallace. ‘William, I never thought you were so cynical about Scotland.’
Wallace looked aggrieved. ‘Me? I’m the most patriotic Scot you could ever wish for. I just hate it when that over-educated fool Bruce tries to act like he’s King of the castle. I hope he minds to get me a glass of rum as a chaser. As we used to say in the Navy - You can take our lives, but you’ll never take our free rum.’
From the smug look on his face, Wallace seemed to think he had made a clever jest. No doubt an old military joke of some sort. Bruce arrived back at the table with the drinks and just had time to say, ‘James Watt! Father of the steam engine,’ before there was a loud bang and a bright flash of cobalt coloured light from the stage. It seemed the elderly repairman had unwisely plugged the television into the mains before commencing his tinkering. A low cloud of acrid smoke drifted from the stage stinging our eyes and catching at the back of our throats. Flames were licking at the top of the set, while the erstwhile TV repairman lay prone on his back still clutching the smoking screwdriver.
The crowd, unsure of what was happening, began to panic and there were a few raised voices suggesting outright hysteria wasn’t far away. Folk were blundering about between tables, and the scene could have got seriously ugly if Gavin Smith hadn’t grabbed the microphone, and without any music to back him, began singing Am I That Easy To Forget. The effect was instant. Everyone sat down and by the time Gavin reached the second verse order was fully restored.
Wallace nodded in my direction. ‘What about you, Rab? You’ve been pretty quiet all night. What’s your take on this Homecoming nonsense?’
‘Aye,’ remarked Bruce. ‘Speak up, Mr Burns. What unique elements of culture and scientific progress have we Scots given the world?’
I waved away a stray wisp of smoke and turned to observe the crowd singing along with Gavin, seemingly oblivious to the inert form of the TV repairman being carried behind the bar. ‘Why, that’s easy,’ I said. ‘We gave them…. The Scots.’
As if on cue, the PA speakers kicked into life playing a recording of Jimmy Shand and his Band performing a jaunty Polka on massed fiddles and accordions. As one, the drinkers of the Broomfield Tavern got to their feet and began cavorting around the pub in time to the primal swell of the music. They might not have been painted with woad or wearing animal skins - but the spirit of the Scottish nation was still undiminished no matter what history implied.
Wallace, Bruce and I raised our glasses and clinked them together.
‘The Scots,’ we said in unison. And downing the remainder of our beer we joined the massed ranks of dancers on the floor.
About the Author
Allan Watson was born, lives and works in Glasgow, but has never worn the kilt or eaten a deep-fried Mars Bar. He is a comedy sketch writer, a composer/musician and the author of four novels and a collection of short stories. Many more interesting facts about him can be read on his Amazon author’s page here.