Ahh Scotland is a grand place indeed! We have a laissez faire attitude towards enjoying a drink, not culturally sanctioned alcoholism as some might think; but more a tacit acceptance that having a beer or three causes no harm. However the freedom to enjoy a drink also comes with a strict rule of etiquette that precludes boorishness - that way we joyful Scots can get drunk and more importantly be around drunk people while sober without fear of unwanted interference. Generally. Usually. Look, I make no promises, but if you do come to Scotland expect to be swept up in a drunken cloud and spat out a few days later with a sore head and disjointed memories. Don't ask me to explain the traffic cones, nobody knows, in fact St Andrew's University launched several PhD students towards this very field of research, but as yet the results have been inconclusive.
It was during one of these evenings of gentle descent into foam topped befuddlement I found myself at my local sailing club, sipping my forth real ale (as recommended by the club's very own Beer Sommelier), that one of my fellow drinking buddies shouted "Hey, Jock, you wanna buy a yacht for £200?". I immediately ceased starting at the cleavage of one of my many friend's wife and contemplated this intricate and delicate question. You see, I am a considered person and when presented with an opportunity like that I always look at the potential pitfalls that go along with it. I think I must have thought about the question for four, maybe five microseconds, before responding with a spirited "Fuggit, why not!".
From this point on my memory of the sequence of events is slightly disjointed. I remember a tractor pulling a small yacht out of a tangle of brambles and nettles (I'm afraid I do not know the American names for these plants, but one is spikey and the the other is stingy), I remember writing a cheque for £200, I remember my mate telling me that he owns the trailer upon which my boat resides. That was about it from that evening, the beer was good, the craic was grand and the ladies of the club were on best form. The remainder of the evening was spend having a good blether (look it up), drinking fine real ales and negotiating the wanton pack of cougars that my home town excels in.
The next morning however, the icy cold hand of reality shook me awake. I still had enough in the way of functioning thought to recall images of a filthy boat, somehow nestled on the bosom of a silk draped Aphrodite. I shook my head and started again, reducing the focus on the female and increasing the focus on the boat. What the hell had I done?! My long suffering wife awoke at the same time, rolled over and spooned in behind me, I recall the warmth from her naked body feeling wonderful and making me grateful to be alive.
"You are a fucking idiot", she whispered gently into my ear.
"Uhm, did I buy a boat last night?", I responded, already 82% sure of the answer.
"Yup."
"Shit!"
Sunday mornings are like unicorns to me. People talk about them and some are pretty sure they exist, but I have never seen one. I am a lazy bugger in the mornings, not one to leap out of bed at dawn and cycle for a hundred miles, I much prefer the comfort and safety of a warm bed, with company. However this Sunday morning, despite only being sentient enough to successfully operate one eyeball at a time, I got up. I washed. I dressed. I even made a super strong espresso (strong enough to make your teeth wiggle) and screwed a rollie (a self made rolled up cigarette for the linguistically challenged) into my face.
I walked the two kilometre journey to the sailing club with leaden feet, a growing hangover and an increasing level of self doubt - what the hell had I let myself in for?
[It is perhaps worth mentioning measurement systems at this juncture. I walk and cycle in kilometres. I navigate on land in kilometres, I navigate on sea in nautical miles. I drive in miles for both my speed and distance, but I buy my fuel in litres. I measure wood in inches, but metal in millimetres. I measure vehicle energy in Horse Power, but electrical energy in kiloWatts, except for batteries for which I use amp hours. I am an engineer so I can easily convert between them, but I am also convinced that the whole mash up is merely a state conspiracy to disempower the public by confusing them. I am a strong advocate of sticking to one system, for me preferably the metric one, because it makes sense. Except for nautical navigation, then the nautical mile makes sense. We would then side-step the disaster of the US Imperial measurement system versus the almost dead UK Imperial System (yet still beloved by the terminally stupid who usually don't have anything to measure in the first place)]
I ambled into the boat yard at the club, my head now pounding as the walk had invigorated enough of my brain alive for it to complete a full diagnostic check; and it did not like what was being reported. I noticed a couple of vehicles parked over at the far corner of the park and decided to see what was occurring. Perhaps someone there could enlighten me as to the outcome from last night's activities. Right enough, my mate Murray was there, fully cheerful and clearly just finishing whatever he had been doing for the last few hours. He is a morning person, he wakes full of vim and vigour, ready to tackle the World. I have no idea why I am friends with him.
Murray had risen early on Sunday, arranged for a tractor driver, launched his yacht from his trailer, launched my yacht, recovered his yacht back onto what was my trailer (although the exact ownership of trailer/boat combination now lost in a cloud of ale) and had just completed pulling my boat out of the water on his old trailer. Which did not fit properly.
"Morning Jock! Thought you were coming down early to help out?", he cheerfully greeted me
I looked at my watch, which took three attempts and involved using only one eye.
"It's half past ten!", I grunted, hoping that the significance of the earliness of the time on a Sunday morning would somehow resonate with him.
"I've been here since eight! It's what we agreed last night.", he beamed at me. I caught a twinkle in his eye and was pretty sure that he was lying to me. Well, nearly sure. He knows me well enough not to expect anything before 11am, the mere fact that it was half past ten should have carried the significance of my efforts to him. Maybe.
"'sake!", was all I could manage by witty retort.
"There you go mate, you are now the proud owner of Topsy, a Hunter Europa 19 foot yacht!", he gleefully slapped the side of the boat as it loomed above us on its ill fitting trailer. The impact of his hearty thump caused something to dislodge and we could hear something slide over the top of the boat. It was coming our way, but I had neither the ability nor will to move out of the way. A traffic cone clattered off the safety wire, spun mid air and embedded itself pointy end down in the ground between us. I tapped the ash from the end of my cigarette into the wide opening of the cone.
"Nobody knows.", we said in unison.