Auld Hughie's Losin It
by Thomas Clark
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: A local worthy's 82nd birthday prompts speculation as to his state of mind.
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Haudin ma hauns up, boays. Me, ah never even noticed it. Hing is, tae, we’d hid a wee bash fur im uppit the bowlin club week afore an he wis fine. Honest tae God, ye wid never o guessed! Eighty-two year auld ‘n’ loupin aboot like a billy goat. Even goat im up gien it wan ae they auld Harry Lauder songs. Tell ye whit, fur an auld fella he’s no half goat a voice oan im. Usetae be wan ae the best wee crooners in the Nitsie, folk wis tellin us. Fair took them back tae the auld days. Then he goes takes a heider doon the stairs an everybody bursts oot laughin an says, well, that takes them back tae the auld days tae.
Ah mean he wis fine an that, eh, nae herm done, but it’s past wan an his eyes is gaun thigither, so we we goat him in a taxi an sent him up the road. Auld fella can hardly walk his length bi then, so ah says ah’d go wae him, ye know, wait ‘n’ return, like. Well, when we git there auld Margaret’s still up waitin fur him.
“Ye daft auld scunner!” she says when he shuffles in. “You get tae yer bed! Don’t bother gaun near that kitchen!”
Bi the time she goat him in a cup ae tea he’d fell asleep in the chair, bent double like, so’s the tip ae his bunnet’s touchin his knee. Folk at the bowlin club wis fawin aer themselves when ah telt them. Next time we sees im he’s goat a black eye an two plasters oan his heid, like he’s Oor bloody Wullie or suhin.
“Aw that oan a wee boattle ae Grouse!” everybody’s laughin. “Och, yir some man, so ye ur!”
Bit we didnae hink anythin else ae it. Ah mean, that wis jist Hughie.
* * *
Anywey, next hing is we’re aw doon the bowlin club an Mary McKinnon’s sittin there wae her rum an coke, no sayin anythin. Well, we’re aw hinkin she’s jist in a cream puff aboot suhin, mebbe goat a new haircut ‘n’ naebody’s said anyhin, when she jist came right oot wae it.
“Here!” she says, thumpin her gless oan the table. “D’ye no think auld Hughie’s losin it?”
“Eh?” We aw turns tae look. Couple ae tables aer they’re passin a wallet roon wi a photae ae somebody’s wean. Everybody’s smilin an noddin away, an Hughie’s staunin there an aw, watchin them aer the tap ae his sunglesses. Then somedy hauns im the wallet an they’re aw gushin aboot this wean an clappin im oan the shooder.
“D’ye no think auld Hughie’s losin it?” Mary said in that wey, ye ken. She took a sip ae her straw, but there wis nuhin left so it jist made the ice-cubes rattle. “Ah hink he’s definitely losin it.”
Well, auld Mary’s a blether, right enough, but then when ye looks at it, like, it starts tae add up. Ah mean, ye’ll hiv noticed it yersel, the wey he jist stauns there when ye’re talkin tae him, no sayin anyhin, jist listenin tae ye. Then when he says suhin it’s dead quiet like, so’s ye can hardly hear it, an it’s nuhin tae dae wi whit ye were talkin aboot. An the wey he walks aboot! Shouldae seen im gittin up they stairs when we were watchin the ammies. It wis like wan ae they mummies fae a horror film. Ah mean, ah ken he’s knockin oan a bit, but that’s no right, that. That’s no normal. So we’re aw talkin aboot it, an everybody’s pittin in their ain wee tuppenceworth, an that’s when we realise it’s true – the poor fella’s oan is wey oot. Auld Hughie’s losin it.
Took a wee while fur word tae git roon. It’s no like Mary’s wan fur keepin secrets, but when that stuff aboot Betty Hislop’s man came oot, Hughie kindae goat pit oan the back burner. Still, wance Betty wis sortit oot, the auld fella wis right back oan the agenda. Ah mean, it wis Margaret ah felt sorry fur. We aw did. The auld yin, like, he disnae hiv a Scooby, hinks it’s aw business as usual. Likesay, we’re aw noticin it – forgettin his doakter’s appointment, turnin up at a funeral wae a button oaf his shirt – but he’s happy as Larry, eh, no bothered. An naebdy’s wantin tae say anythin tae Margaret cause that’s the last hing she’s needin, in’t it, some hackit auld beesom tellin er her man’s the talk ae the steamie. Bit ye kin tell, like, it’s gittin ower much fur er. Did ye see her up the jumble sale, at the chapel hall? Honest tae God. There’s her auld fella gaun jist aboot doolally, hardly rememberin tae wash is face in the moarnin, an she’s oot foldin claes an makin tea! The poor auld sowel, ah don’t know how she copes. God knows, he wis hard enough work even when he wisnae gaun aff is heid.
Aye, so, we aw goat thigither up the bowling club, eh, see aboot arrangin suhin fur the auld lad afore he’s too faur gone tae appreciate it. A testimonial or a presentation night or that. Mebbe even name a trophy efter im. “The Hughie MacPherson Memorial Cup”. Nice ring tae it, eh? It’d jist be cawed the Hughie MacPherson Cup tae begin wi, bit we’d git the engraver tae leave a space. Save buyin a new yin later, ye know. Jist tryin tae be practical.
Cause it’s nae picnic, like. Ah mean, it’s no easy. It’s a terrible hing tae say, but ye git right fed-up listenin tae im say the same hings aboot his grandweans, or his great-grandweans or whatever it is, aer an aer again. The young yins, they’re guid wi him. Take the piss a wee bit sometimes, eh, but they’re never done buyin him drinks an that. Gaun up when he’s at the bar, yappin Trish’s ear aff. “Whit you chitterin aboot noo, eh, auld yin? Haw Trish, another Scotch fur ma wee pal Hughie!” Thank Christ fur that. Gies the rest ae us a minute tae ursells. That’s aw ah’m sayin.
Still, we’re needin tae git sumhin soartit oot. We’ve been meanin tae ask Mary whit she thought aboot this trophy idea. It’s no like we kin ask Margaret, an Mary’s jist goat a better kind ae… ah don’t know… a better kind ae sense aboot the auld fella. Sometimes ye’ll be lookin at him talkin tae somedy quite the thing, an ye’ll hink tae yersel, well, mebbe there’s nuhin wrang wi him, efter aw. Then Mary’ll say “Aye, he’s in good fettle the night, bless im, but it’ll no last,” an next hing ye know he’s scrabblin aboot under the table fur a fifty pence he says he’s droapped. She usetae work up the nursin home, Mary did. She kens whit she’s oan aboot. So wur meanin tae ask her aboot it, this trophy ah mean, if she hinks it’s a guid idea, but she’s no been in aw week. Usually never away fae the place! Left her hoose keys here oan Saturday there, so ye’d hink she’d hiv been in bi noo. Best ae it is, tae, Hughie’s been right chipper the last couple ae days. Sin she’s no been here tae see it. Worries hersel sick aboot the auld boay. Curtains in her hoose her drawn an aw. Ach well. Who knows whit she’s up tae. Mebbe goat hersel anither fella oan the go. Ye never ken wae yon Mary. She’s a fly yin, her.
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: A local worthy's 82nd birthday prompts speculation as to his state of mind.
_____________________________________________________________________
Haudin ma hauns up, boays. Me, ah never even noticed it. Hing is, tae, we’d hid a wee bash fur im uppit the bowlin club week afore an he wis fine. Honest tae God, ye wid never o guessed! Eighty-two year auld ‘n’ loupin aboot like a billy goat. Even goat im up gien it wan ae they auld Harry Lauder songs. Tell ye whit, fur an auld fella he’s no half goat a voice oan im. Usetae be wan ae the best wee crooners in the Nitsie, folk wis tellin us. Fair took them back tae the auld days. Then he goes takes a heider doon the stairs an everybody bursts oot laughin an says, well, that takes them back tae the auld days tae.
Ah mean he wis fine an that, eh, nae herm done, but it’s past wan an his eyes is gaun thigither, so we we goat him in a taxi an sent him up the road. Auld fella can hardly walk his length bi then, so ah says ah’d go wae him, ye know, wait ‘n’ return, like. Well, when we git there auld Margaret’s still up waitin fur him.
“Ye daft auld scunner!” she says when he shuffles in. “You get tae yer bed! Don’t bother gaun near that kitchen!”
Bi the time she goat him in a cup ae tea he’d fell asleep in the chair, bent double like, so’s the tip ae his bunnet’s touchin his knee. Folk at the bowlin club wis fawin aer themselves when ah telt them. Next time we sees im he’s goat a black eye an two plasters oan his heid, like he’s Oor bloody Wullie or suhin.
“Aw that oan a wee boattle ae Grouse!” everybody’s laughin. “Och, yir some man, so ye ur!”
Bit we didnae hink anythin else ae it. Ah mean, that wis jist Hughie.
* * *
Anywey, next hing is we’re aw doon the bowlin club an Mary McKinnon’s sittin there wae her rum an coke, no sayin anythin. Well, we’re aw hinkin she’s jist in a cream puff aboot suhin, mebbe goat a new haircut ‘n’ naebody’s said anyhin, when she jist came right oot wae it.
“Here!” she says, thumpin her gless oan the table. “D’ye no think auld Hughie’s losin it?”
“Eh?” We aw turns tae look. Couple ae tables aer they’re passin a wallet roon wi a photae ae somebody’s wean. Everybody’s smilin an noddin away, an Hughie’s staunin there an aw, watchin them aer the tap ae his sunglesses. Then somedy hauns im the wallet an they’re aw gushin aboot this wean an clappin im oan the shooder.
“D’ye no think auld Hughie’s losin it?” Mary said in that wey, ye ken. She took a sip ae her straw, but there wis nuhin left so it jist made the ice-cubes rattle. “Ah hink he’s definitely losin it.”
Well, auld Mary’s a blether, right enough, but then when ye looks at it, like, it starts tae add up. Ah mean, ye’ll hiv noticed it yersel, the wey he jist stauns there when ye’re talkin tae him, no sayin anyhin, jist listenin tae ye. Then when he says suhin it’s dead quiet like, so’s ye can hardly hear it, an it’s nuhin tae dae wi whit ye were talkin aboot. An the wey he walks aboot! Shouldae seen im gittin up they stairs when we were watchin the ammies. It wis like wan ae they mummies fae a horror film. Ah mean, ah ken he’s knockin oan a bit, but that’s no right, that. That’s no normal. So we’re aw talkin aboot it, an everybody’s pittin in their ain wee tuppenceworth, an that’s when we realise it’s true – the poor fella’s oan is wey oot. Auld Hughie’s losin it.
Took a wee while fur word tae git roon. It’s no like Mary’s wan fur keepin secrets, but when that stuff aboot Betty Hislop’s man came oot, Hughie kindae goat pit oan the back burner. Still, wance Betty wis sortit oot, the auld fella wis right back oan the agenda. Ah mean, it wis Margaret ah felt sorry fur. We aw did. The auld yin, like, he disnae hiv a Scooby, hinks it’s aw business as usual. Likesay, we’re aw noticin it – forgettin his doakter’s appointment, turnin up at a funeral wae a button oaf his shirt – but he’s happy as Larry, eh, no bothered. An naebdy’s wantin tae say anythin tae Margaret cause that’s the last hing she’s needin, in’t it, some hackit auld beesom tellin er her man’s the talk ae the steamie. Bit ye kin tell, like, it’s gittin ower much fur er. Did ye see her up the jumble sale, at the chapel hall? Honest tae God. There’s her auld fella gaun jist aboot doolally, hardly rememberin tae wash is face in the moarnin, an she’s oot foldin claes an makin tea! The poor auld sowel, ah don’t know how she copes. God knows, he wis hard enough work even when he wisnae gaun aff is heid.
Aye, so, we aw goat thigither up the bowling club, eh, see aboot arrangin suhin fur the auld lad afore he’s too faur gone tae appreciate it. A testimonial or a presentation night or that. Mebbe even name a trophy efter im. “The Hughie MacPherson Memorial Cup”. Nice ring tae it, eh? It’d jist be cawed the Hughie MacPherson Cup tae begin wi, bit we’d git the engraver tae leave a space. Save buyin a new yin later, ye know. Jist tryin tae be practical.
Cause it’s nae picnic, like. Ah mean, it’s no easy. It’s a terrible hing tae say, but ye git right fed-up listenin tae im say the same hings aboot his grandweans, or his great-grandweans or whatever it is, aer an aer again. The young yins, they’re guid wi him. Take the piss a wee bit sometimes, eh, but they’re never done buyin him drinks an that. Gaun up when he’s at the bar, yappin Trish’s ear aff. “Whit you chitterin aboot noo, eh, auld yin? Haw Trish, another Scotch fur ma wee pal Hughie!” Thank Christ fur that. Gies the rest ae us a minute tae ursells. That’s aw ah’m sayin.
Still, we’re needin tae git sumhin soartit oot. We’ve been meanin tae ask Mary whit she thought aboot this trophy idea. It’s no like we kin ask Margaret, an Mary’s jist goat a better kind ae… ah don’t know… a better kind ae sense aboot the auld fella. Sometimes ye’ll be lookin at him talkin tae somedy quite the thing, an ye’ll hink tae yersel, well, mebbe there’s nuhin wrang wi him, efter aw. Then Mary’ll say “Aye, he’s in good fettle the night, bless im, but it’ll no last,” an next hing ye know he’s scrabblin aboot under the table fur a fifty pence he says he’s droapped. She usetae work up the nursin home, Mary did. She kens whit she’s oan aboot. So wur meanin tae ask her aboot it, this trophy ah mean, if she hinks it’s a guid idea, but she’s no been in aw week. Usually never away fae the place! Left her hoose keys here oan Saturday there, so ye’d hink she’d hiv been in bi noo. Best ae it is, tae, Hughie’s been right chipper the last couple ae days. Sin she’s no been here tae see it. Worries hersel sick aboot the auld boay. Curtains in her hoose her drawn an aw. Ach well. Who knows whit she’s up tae. Mebbe goat hersel anither fella oan the go. Ye never ken wae yon Mary. She’s a fly yin, her.
About the Author
Bellshill-born Thomas Clark is a Glaswegian poet, writer and translator. He blogs about writing at www.thomasjclark.co.uk