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.


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