A Wee Thackit Inn regular recovering frae Carluke Gala ? Naw.
Being a hack who, like the polis, divorce lawyers, surgeons etc, make their living oot o’ human tragedy and glakitness , ah like tae sadistically tour the toons’ pubs the day EFTER the Lanimers and Gala,
Noo, ah was taught mah Scottish history in the Grammar in the Seventies. Ah think it wis during a spare hauf-hour wan Tuesday.
Therefore, ah ken fine that the word “Lanimers” is Gaelic for “booze-up” and it wis foonded by William Wallace, oan the suggestion o’ Rabbie Burns, tae celebrate winning the Battle of Glencoe, the wan in which he rescued Mary Queen of Scots fae the Romans.
Noo, wan o’ Scotia’s great intellectuals o’ the time - ah cannae mind if it wis Alexander Graham Bell or David Livingtone - advised Willie tae gie the folk o’ Lanark the day EFTER Lanimers aff too in order tae gie them time tae recover and face sunlight again withoot reacting tae it like Coont Dracula.
Mony years ago ah wis witness tae a Post-Lanimers recovery session in the then Clydesdale Hotel that left me fu’ o’ admiration and respect fur the then-owner, George.
Aroond the bar there sat, silently, twelve o’ us who hud massively overindulged the day afore and wir noo payin’ fur it, big time.
George stood, gently swaying, ahint the coonter, his face as white as his freshly laundered shirt; he looked much like mah Uncle Davy did in Campbell McMorran’s funeral parlour efter they’d applied the post-mortem cosmetics. In fact, Uncle Davy actually looked healthier than him..
Onyway, every noo and then there wis an attempt by wan o’ us tae raise a gless tae oor lips afore oor haund started tae shake too much, scaling the contents everywhaur and we hud tae return it tae the beer mat.
Suddenly and wae a skull-crushing bang, the door opened and an elderly gent dressed heid-tae-toe in tweeds,plus-fours and a’, stomped up tae the bar and wae unneccesary volume asked George “I’ll have a pint of your best heavy, barman!” George nodded politely and started tae draw the pint o’ heavy when the auld fella pipes up: “Oh! I didn’t notice you had light on draft! Could I change my order to that?” George quietly put the pint of heavy aside and duly drew the light when, inevitably, his customer booms oot: “Cider! I didn’t see you had cider. Oh, I haven’t had a pint of that since my student days. Could I change my order again barman?”
George, now looking at him like a prospective axe-murderer but keeping it together, drew the cider and asked him: “That’ll be £2.40 please sir.”
The auld yin bellowed: “Two pounds forty? Oh no! I’m not paying THAT for a pint of cider. Good day to you!” at which he stomped oot again.
A menacing silence followed, wae us staring at George who wis, in turn, staring at the three rejected pints. Efter a few moments o’ reflection, he picked wan up – and slowly poured it ower his ain heid. We all managed a subdued chortle at this and somebody mumbled: “Happy Lanimers George.” The reply is unprintable.