CHRISTMASTIME
IN STANLEY By
Exile It
was Christmastime in Stanley, I was walking frae the school, The
holidays had started, the icy wind was cruel, Jimmy
Reid was busy, clearing pavements o’ the snaw, There
leaning on his shovel was Bob Donaldson an’ a’, Bob
hadnae’ sanitation, the pail was emptied on his plot, Huge
organic ‘ingins’ were no the only big things he’d got, But
they were Officers o’ the village, and they worked tae’ great effect, The
very heart o’ the community, they were held in great respect, Handcart,
brush and shovel, were their implements by day, Pride
in seeing a job well done, irrespective of their pay, Pride
in being Black Watch, having served in two world wars, Jimmy
Reid had fought in India, and they said he fought the 'Boers',
Across
‘The Square’, along ‘The Green’, walking frae’ the west, Wae
a balaclava tae keep me warm and an ‘interlockin’ vest, The
wind was bloody icy as I walked down Percy Street, Passing
Geordie Crambs’ Post Office, it was cold enough to greet, I
thought of a’ the characters wha’ had walked that way before, Hardy
buggers trod this pavement for a century or more, Just
a wee lad heading homewards, getting colder, couldnae’ stop, Then
I heard Norman Paterson outside his faithers’ shop, He
was whistling like a kettle, frae’ his mouth a jet o’ steam, Inseparable
frae’ his message bike, a real outstanding team, I
just hope that when I’m older, an adult if you like, That
some bonnie lass will love me just like Norman loved that bike, Then
I glanced in his shop window, on the slab a piece o’ rump, An
beside it a big haggis just like Jeannie Brushes’ lump, Fir
ye widnae’ see a turkey nor a chicken nor a goose, It
was Christmastime in Stanley, it was steak pies in yer hoose, And
I couldnae quite imagine wha’ would eat yon fancy meat, Maybe
Toffs that fished the water, or posh folk frae’ Brougham Street, So
I hurried past the butchers, tackets sliding up the slope, Across
the road was PD Smith's, up front there was the Co-op, The
biggest shop in a’ the the
village, it was lit up, looking braw, As
I drew level wae the Masonic Lodge it began again to snaw, I’d
heard stories about that building, but we never knew a lot, Except
that men would get half naked and do something to a goat, Co-opy
Duff just left that building, on sheet ice he dare nae’ stop,
His
bald head shone, reflecting Christmas lights in Haggarts’ shop, Just
the very thought o’ ‘Haggarts’ and yer heart would skip a beat, Full
of Dandy and Beano annuals, now there’s a Christmas treat, And
how we’d roar wi’ laughter at Oor Wullie and the Broons, Wi’
Horace, Hen and Daphne, and Granpa playing spoons, Co-opy
Duff had reached the pavement, when he caught me wi’ his ee’, He
just knew me by our number, ‘eleven-nine-five-three’, But
he never said a word tae me, he saved that for his dog, That
fat ‘lab’ was fed to burstin’ point, it couldnae even jog, At
least it wouldnae bite you, you could pat it when you’d meet, But
ye wouldnae take that chance wi’ ‘Tim’ wha’ lived across the
street, Tim
was Jim McMorrans’ Alsatian dog, he was mean, and keeping guard, On
the entrance into Store Street , where the wind was blowin’ hard, Then
a message bike shot past me, Norman wisnae in control, But
he kept on whistling loudly till he hit the telegraph pole, In
amidst a’ the confusion in the quickly failing light, Some
uncompassionate bugger said “At least the poles a’ right”, I
crossed o’er the top o’ Charlotte Street, took the time frae’ the
Tower clock, It
was five past four, and my toes were numb frae a hole through my shoe and
sock, When
I got home my mother would take her hand off my backside, For
wearing out my good school shoes, playing on a slide, And
then secure in Store Street, knowing I was on home ground, For
here the proletariat of the village could be found, Two
long, stark, tenement buildings, mainly attics and ‘single-ends’, Had
nae’ bathrooms, but shared toilets, it kind o’ made you friends, Relaxing
on the ‘lavvy’ you’d peruse the Sunday Mail, And
read about the fitba’, before you wiped your tail, Or
just when daylight ended and it was getting damp, You’d
read your comic in the ‘lavvy’ by the light of a paraffin lamp, But
it was Christmastime in Stanley and I felt the icy blast, The
temperature was dropping and the snaw was fallin’ fast, I
knew every nook and cranny, every door and every close, In
that one lived 'Ag' McIntosh, up there lived Tony Ross, And
the street was full o’ characters like ‘Trotsky’ and Peter Jack, Kenny
Paul and Cully Robertson, the Bendalls and Granny Mac, A
later story, well remembered, although his praises were never sung, Was
the incident at the funeral of Arthur Luncarty Young, There
was silence at the graveside when Georgina laid her wreath, But
through some slight of hand and cunning, she extracted Lunc’s false
teeth, These
teeth were Arthur’s pride and joy, but Georgina had nae remorse, She
forced them into her mouth and smiled, and looked like Curry’s horse, Although
she was a kind wee soul, she was no beauty queen, ‘Trauchlin’
through the village frae Mill Street tae ‘The Green’, You
could see Georgina coming wi’ these enormous ivory tusks, Rumour
had it that wae Arthur’s teeth she could gnaw through coconut husks, But
in fairness she maintained them well, they were polished brilliant white, And
they shone out like a beacon in the darkness o’ the night, As
I looked skyward through the snowflakes and saw a chimney stack, I
was reminded of the story of that stalwart Peter Jack, Now
Peter kept a budgie, it was cheaper than a wife, Although
Jeannie Brush would visit to put spice into his life, But
Peter loved that budgie and for hours the pair would talk, And
each night before bedtime he’d take it for a walk, Ay'
night while they were walking, Peter forgot to shut the cage door, The
bird flew off to the chimney pots, he never saw it any more, Now
Peter was a broken man, he couldnae forgive his folly, Wouldnae
give his heart to Jeannie Brush or any other dolly, And
then he hit the bottle, he was aye doon at the ‘Byre’, Rumour
had it that he even tried to set himself on fire, But
Store Street was truly multi-racial wae’ Ukrainians and Poles, Germans,
Tallies and Hungarians and some poor English souls, Some
had fled their homelands, mainly thanks to Russian tanks, Some
had married into Stanley stock through National Service ranks, Some
had settled down in Stanley after fighting in the war, Wi’
a ‘single-end’ in Store Street at least they’d feel secure, Then
I gazed in Hancocks’ window, was excited at the sight, Of
grapes and dates and tangerines, lit up wae fairy lights, And
the shop was packed wae mothers buying groceries on tick, Aye
it was Christmastime in Stanley, and the snaw was lying thick, Soon
we’d be sitting wearing paper hats round Christmas trees unlit, Or
rakin’ in clooty dumplin’s for a silver threepenny bit, Now
consider the traditional Christmastime, I’ll try to be quite brief, Take
one look at Rudolf, where did he get these teeth? Look
at him another way and hanging from his rump, Is
a symbol of virility like Jeannie Brushes’ lump, And
why is Santa always climbing on a chimney stack? If
he’s no lookin’ for that budgie that belonged to Peter Jack, Take
another look at Santa, at the redness of his nose, If
he didnae get that in the ‘Byre’, where else do you suppose? The
way he handles Rudolph, wouldnae dream o’ using force, Just
like auld Bert Slessor and Hugh Kerr Currie’s horse, Putting
two and two together what I’m really trying to say, Santa
doesn’t live in Toy Town but a village on the Tay. MERRY CHRISTMAS COPYRIGHT – Calluna Publishing | ||
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