THE
PITLOCHRY FOURBALL
Part 1
The story o’ Camsie
By Exile The
night before had ta’en its’ toll, And numbed the
senses o’ our soul, Through boozy
haze we made a plan, And we agreed
that tae a man, We’d play golf
at Pitlochry, The
smell of breakfast filled the air, ‘Teroan’ was
famous for its’ fare, We ‘rose and
staggered, showered and shaved, But sobriety was
what we craved, As we thought
about Pitlochry, With
clarity I remember the scene, Sliced and links
sausages, bacon and beans, Grilled tomatoes,
mushrooms and just for good measure, Tattie scones and
black pudding, two things I treasure, We’d no be
hungry at Pitlochry, Acres
of eggs, poached, scrambled and fried, Fruit salad and
Alpen and cereals dried, Fruit juice,
grapefruit, coffee and tea, A gargantuan
breakfast just for us three, We’d burst
before we reached Pitlochry, Archie
and I were comprehensively beaten, With eighty
percent of the food uneaten, Cometh the hour,
cometh the man, In steps a figure
like Desperate Dan, The third man
bound for Pitlochry, Yes,
enter the gladiator “Peter the Great”, Also known as
“Gutsy Pate”, His eyes
sparkled, his mouth began to water, There’d be none
left for Joan, or Annie his daughter, He’d demolish
it before we left for Pitlochry, He
mineswept through sausages, beans and bacon, A huge plate of
black pudding was rapidly taken, A million
calories for a man o’ that ilk, Were all washed
down with a gallon o’ milk, He would fart all
the way to Pitlochry, Joined
by Mike we set off up the road, The car was
remarkable considering its’ load, Arrived at the
course, made our way to the tee, Threw up the
balls, it was Camsie an’ me, Versus Archie and
Mike at Pitlochry Surveying
the scene, assessing our task, To get to the
fifth you’d need an oxygen mask, I wished I’d
brought crampons, ice axe an’ a’, I felt sure by
the ninth we’d come across snaw, Were there
mountain bears at Pitlochry? In
glorious sunshine we drove up the first, After three
we’d developed a thirst, After six Pate
wisnae himsel’ Lagging and
struggling an’ looking like Hell, On the
mountainside at Pitlochry, Pate
turned a funny shade o’ blue, Gasped an’
burped an’ tried to spew, Staggered on
unsteady legs, But I thought
about the dozen eggs, He’d eaten
before Pitlochry, He
rubbed his gut and pulled up sudden, His face now
blacker than yon black puddin’, His lips were
blue, he was in pain, He farted, gasped
and burped again, All was not well
at Pitlochry, He
dropped his clubs, began to sway, Was this his
‘ticker’ giving way? He rubbed his
chest, began to sweat, It seemed an even
money bet, He’d ne’er
again see Pitlochry, Nervously
we looked around, How would we get
the big brute down? Archie’s plan I
well remember, Was to roll him
down like a bit o’ timber, For we were high
above Pitlochry, Just
as our spirits began to flag, Pate rummaged
through his golfing bag, I imagined some
pills were going to appear, Instead was a can
o’ McEwans’ beer, ‘Concern’ was
the word at Pitlochry, He
threw his head back, sunk the beer in
one, A noise like a
roar o’ thunder begun, He thumped his
chest hard and let out a belch, That was heard in
Stanley by ‘Torky’ Welch, And it deafened
the half o’ Pitlochry, The
ground shook as though a train had passed, It blew a golfer
on his arse, It blew the
branches off the trees, God fearing men
got on their knees, As panic swept
through Pitlochry, Now
indigestion got the blame, For interfering
with our game, The fact that
Pate had rotten guts , Didnae help our
drives or putts, We were beaten four and three at Pitlochry.
COPYRIGHT
– Calluna
Publishing
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