The Inter-Club Talent Contest
by Brian Morrison
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: Just another night at the Ardrossan Dockers' Social Club? No chance! It is the inter-club talent competition night, and a couple of Welsh superstar vocalists appear to have gate-crashed the event.
_____________________________________________________________________
It was way back in the pre-karaoke years; nineteen seventy-one to be precise. Wee Sanny Muldoon was feeling suitably chuffed with himself. His name was first on the team sheet for the Ardrossan Dockers’ social club inter-club talent competition; a knockout event that involved all of the social clubs from around North Ayrshire. The general rules were quite simple. Three singers from each club were allocated two singing spots per evening, with a break half way through for pies and peas. It was a home tie for the Dockers. The visiting team for this particular evening was the very impressive Garnock Labour Club. Professional singers were not permitted to take part in these events, but the GLC had one or two extremely talented performers in their team - none more so than Betty O’Boyle. By day she worked as a clippie on the Western bus route around the Garnock Valley, but when she pulled on her glad rags, she was a Shirley Bassey look-alike. She knew all the moves and her voice was suitably powerful too. She carried the team when the others were having an off night. Her performance was guaranteed to be faultless and she always insisted on having a stand for the microphone, so as to free up her expressive arm gestures, just like the real Shirley. Sanny knew that the Dockers were going to have to pull something special out of the bag to win the tie and seal a place in the semi-final of the competition. It was time to spring a surprise. He had been practicing a few Tom Jones numbers with the club’s resident piano player. Who better to take on the Burly Chassis than Mister Jones, her fellow-Welsh singing sensation.
Betty’s first half song was well received by the audience. Even the Dockers’ home support loudly applauded her version of Shirley’s balled, “It must be him”. Sanny also opted for a ballad in the first half. He knew the audience would know the words and sing along to “Green green grass of home”. It worked well, and the tie was set up nicely for a make or break second half.
Those unmistakable first chords for “Hey big spender” made Sanny’s heart sink. Betty O’Boyle broke her own strict rules. She grabbed the microphone from the stand and went on a raunchy walk-about. The male members of the audience were in rapture as she teased and toyed with them during the number.
Then the Dockers discovered that they had been given a lucky break. The third GLC performer had suffered a set back. Alex Harvey (no relation to the sensational Alex) had to call off his second half performance due to part of a pie crust becoming lodged in his windpipe. Their subs bench was empty as far as decent chanters go, but their mini-bus driver, Jock McCubbin, promised them that he would stand in. None of the GLC team had ever heard him sing before, but he assured them that he had been trained to a classical standard. Everything was looking good for them as big Jock spoke quietly to George, the Dockers’ pianist.
‘The Desert song . . . E flat’ said big Jock.
George knew the song well. He had played it many times before. Just to show that there was no bias towards his own club singers, he played a beautiful four bar introduction.
‘Lonely as a desert breeze, I may wander as I please,’ sang big Jock. Not one syllable was in tune. Expressions of pain were already registering on the away team’s faces. Jock stopped at the end of the first line and turned to the pianist. ‘Em, you are playin’ too high. You will need to lower it a bit.’
‘Okay,’ said George, ‘I will step it down to B natural.’ Again he played the four bar intro, this time in the key of B.
‘L-Lonely as a desert breeze, I m-may wander . . . ‘ Jock turn again to the pianist. ‘Ach, now you’re playin’ it too low. Up a bit, man! Up a bit!’
George said nothing this time. He replayed the piano intro in the key of D flat.
‘Lo – em – Lonely as a . . . Now you are going to fast,’ said big Jock. Slow it down a bit for goodness sake. We’re no’ in a race!’
George seemed to have the patience of a saint. Once again he played the four bar intro.
Big Jock tried again to sing in tune, but it was no use. He was completely tone deaf. ‘Lonely as a desert breeze, I may wander . . .’ he turned on George yet again. ‘Who bloody well told you that you were a piano player anyway?’ he raged, before storming off the stage and through the hall’s exit door.
Suddenly everything was looking promising for the Dockers. All Sanny had to do was finish the song and the tie was all wrapped up. He didn’t need that something special after all. There was no requirement for him to do an over-the-top performance. But Sanny’s adrenalin had been pumping. He wanted to show Betty that he could match her performance in all areas. He made a decision to ditch “Delilah”, his original second half song, and go with a number that would really appeal to the ladies in the room. ‘“Love me tonight”’ he said to George at the piano.
‘I didn’t know that you cared,’ quipped George, ‘but it’s not unusual.’
Sammy groaned, ‘Not that old gag! Please, do me a favour.’
‘Aye,’ laughed George. ‘No probs, mate. Go up there and sock it to them, you wee hunk o’ burnin’ love!’
The Dockers’ drummer struck up a perfect Latin American rhythm for the song. As expected, George pounded out a note perfect intro on the ivories. And Sanny didn’t disappoint. He glided across the stage, tip-toeing with little baby steps as he sang. His buttocks meanwhile were churning with large circular movements. This was a full forty years before the word “twerking” had been dreamt of.
‘Tell me that you love me, baby – say you’ll never leave me. Loooove me tonight,’ he purred. The females went berserk. The barman paused midway through pulling a pint of heavy. He was having confused thoughts, Jeez – Sydney Devine was in here last week. We Sanny is gettin’ a bigger reaction from the females than he did.
A couple of strange occurrences happened when Sanny finished the song. An encore was promptly demanded. Was this against the rules? Who cared?
The second nuance was the sudden appearance of undergarments being thrown onto the stage during the encore. The range in size of these garments was far reaching. From thongs to bloomers – sports bras to triple Ds, the stage began to resemble stocktaking day at a Primark lingerie department. Then a young lady with tattooed arms at the back of the hall launched a bright red pair of frilly knickers that were edged with black lace. The knickers appeared to take on a life of their own as they sailed through the smoke-laden air towards the stage. They did a peculiar loop-de-loop manoeuvre, followed by a tumbling side-long roll as they banked close to the wall lights. They performed two more loops before gliding gently to a perfect landing at Sanny’s feet.
An extremely confused Sanny picked up the knickers and called through his microphone to the tattooed lady at the back of the hall, ‘How the hell did you do that?’ he asked.
‘Easy,’ shouted the tattooed lady. ‘Ma sanitary towel’s got wings!’
Swearwords: None.
Description: Just another night at the Ardrossan Dockers' Social Club? No chance! It is the inter-club talent competition night, and a couple of Welsh superstar vocalists appear to have gate-crashed the event.
_____________________________________________________________________
It was way back in the pre-karaoke years; nineteen seventy-one to be precise. Wee Sanny Muldoon was feeling suitably chuffed with himself. His name was first on the team sheet for the Ardrossan Dockers’ social club inter-club talent competition; a knockout event that involved all of the social clubs from around North Ayrshire. The general rules were quite simple. Three singers from each club were allocated two singing spots per evening, with a break half way through for pies and peas. It was a home tie for the Dockers. The visiting team for this particular evening was the very impressive Garnock Labour Club. Professional singers were not permitted to take part in these events, but the GLC had one or two extremely talented performers in their team - none more so than Betty O’Boyle. By day she worked as a clippie on the Western bus route around the Garnock Valley, but when she pulled on her glad rags, she was a Shirley Bassey look-alike. She knew all the moves and her voice was suitably powerful too. She carried the team when the others were having an off night. Her performance was guaranteed to be faultless and she always insisted on having a stand for the microphone, so as to free up her expressive arm gestures, just like the real Shirley. Sanny knew that the Dockers were going to have to pull something special out of the bag to win the tie and seal a place in the semi-final of the competition. It was time to spring a surprise. He had been practicing a few Tom Jones numbers with the club’s resident piano player. Who better to take on the Burly Chassis than Mister Jones, her fellow-Welsh singing sensation.
Betty’s first half song was well received by the audience. Even the Dockers’ home support loudly applauded her version of Shirley’s balled, “It must be him”. Sanny also opted for a ballad in the first half. He knew the audience would know the words and sing along to “Green green grass of home”. It worked well, and the tie was set up nicely for a make or break second half.
Those unmistakable first chords for “Hey big spender” made Sanny’s heart sink. Betty O’Boyle broke her own strict rules. She grabbed the microphone from the stand and went on a raunchy walk-about. The male members of the audience were in rapture as she teased and toyed with them during the number.
Then the Dockers discovered that they had been given a lucky break. The third GLC performer had suffered a set back. Alex Harvey (no relation to the sensational Alex) had to call off his second half performance due to part of a pie crust becoming lodged in his windpipe. Their subs bench was empty as far as decent chanters go, but their mini-bus driver, Jock McCubbin, promised them that he would stand in. None of the GLC team had ever heard him sing before, but he assured them that he had been trained to a classical standard. Everything was looking good for them as big Jock spoke quietly to George, the Dockers’ pianist.
‘The Desert song . . . E flat’ said big Jock.
George knew the song well. He had played it many times before. Just to show that there was no bias towards his own club singers, he played a beautiful four bar introduction.
‘Lonely as a desert breeze, I may wander as I please,’ sang big Jock. Not one syllable was in tune. Expressions of pain were already registering on the away team’s faces. Jock stopped at the end of the first line and turned to the pianist. ‘Em, you are playin’ too high. You will need to lower it a bit.’
‘Okay,’ said George, ‘I will step it down to B natural.’ Again he played the four bar intro, this time in the key of B.
‘L-Lonely as a desert breeze, I m-may wander . . . ‘ Jock turn again to the pianist. ‘Ach, now you’re playin’ it too low. Up a bit, man! Up a bit!’
George said nothing this time. He replayed the piano intro in the key of D flat.
‘Lo – em – Lonely as a . . . Now you are going to fast,’ said big Jock. Slow it down a bit for goodness sake. We’re no’ in a race!’
George seemed to have the patience of a saint. Once again he played the four bar intro.
Big Jock tried again to sing in tune, but it was no use. He was completely tone deaf. ‘Lonely as a desert breeze, I may wander . . .’ he turned on George yet again. ‘Who bloody well told you that you were a piano player anyway?’ he raged, before storming off the stage and through the hall’s exit door.
Suddenly everything was looking promising for the Dockers. All Sanny had to do was finish the song and the tie was all wrapped up. He didn’t need that something special after all. There was no requirement for him to do an over-the-top performance. But Sanny’s adrenalin had been pumping. He wanted to show Betty that he could match her performance in all areas. He made a decision to ditch “Delilah”, his original second half song, and go with a number that would really appeal to the ladies in the room. ‘“Love me tonight”’ he said to George at the piano.
‘I didn’t know that you cared,’ quipped George, ‘but it’s not unusual.’
Sammy groaned, ‘Not that old gag! Please, do me a favour.’
‘Aye,’ laughed George. ‘No probs, mate. Go up there and sock it to them, you wee hunk o’ burnin’ love!’
The Dockers’ drummer struck up a perfect Latin American rhythm for the song. As expected, George pounded out a note perfect intro on the ivories. And Sanny didn’t disappoint. He glided across the stage, tip-toeing with little baby steps as he sang. His buttocks meanwhile were churning with large circular movements. This was a full forty years before the word “twerking” had been dreamt of.
‘Tell me that you love me, baby – say you’ll never leave me. Loooove me tonight,’ he purred. The females went berserk. The barman paused midway through pulling a pint of heavy. He was having confused thoughts, Jeez – Sydney Devine was in here last week. We Sanny is gettin’ a bigger reaction from the females than he did.
A couple of strange occurrences happened when Sanny finished the song. An encore was promptly demanded. Was this against the rules? Who cared?
The second nuance was the sudden appearance of undergarments being thrown onto the stage during the encore. The range in size of these garments was far reaching. From thongs to bloomers – sports bras to triple Ds, the stage began to resemble stocktaking day at a Primark lingerie department. Then a young lady with tattooed arms at the back of the hall launched a bright red pair of frilly knickers that were edged with black lace. The knickers appeared to take on a life of their own as they sailed through the smoke-laden air towards the stage. They did a peculiar loop-de-loop manoeuvre, followed by a tumbling side-long roll as they banked close to the wall lights. They performed two more loops before gliding gently to a perfect landing at Sanny’s feet.
An extremely confused Sanny picked up the knickers and called through his microphone to the tattooed lady at the back of the hall, ‘How the hell did you do that?’ he asked.
‘Easy,’ shouted the tattooed lady. ‘Ma sanitary towel’s got wings!’
About the Author
Born in Saltcoats, Brian Morrison has a day job at the Hunterston Power Station. But in his other life he is well known as a caricaturist and comedy sketch writer. More recently, he has become a novelist and a writer of children's stories. His dark comedy, Blister, is available on Amazon.