A Christmas Tale

BIG DICK and the CHRISTMAS PRESENT

The Pensioners Christmas Party was the social event of the year for the Doocot’s senior citizens. The Big Do(o), if you like.

Call him a bad-tempered auld bastard -and many did! – but Big Dick knew how to put on a do for his regulars – and it was all free.

Soup, turkey and all the trimmings, Christmas pudding followed by tea and coffee was the menu every year, all prepared by Dick’s wife Maggie with the help of Doocot staff.

And if the food was good, the entertainment was just as fine. There would be two turns, usually a comedian and a band or singer. And just to make the afternoon go with a swing, the partygoers were issued with vouchers for free drinks.

One year, never to be forgotten by those who witnessed it, Dick booked local ventriloquist Harry Lamb to entertain his punters. Harry was a hugely popular turn on the club circuit across central Scotland, his blue material in constant demand for stag nights and smokers.

Harry lived in Drylaw and he knew many members of his audience. Years of experience in the clubs had given him the ability to pick out a likely victim, usually someone who had had slightly too much bevvy and was getting quite loud – and on this particular afternoon Harry was spoilt for choice!

He singled out auld Tommy as his target, and went through his usual routine – which he, and doubtless many of his audience, could recite backwards – while he awaited his chance.

When Tommy stood up to make his way to the toilet, Harry seized his opportunity.

“TOMMY … OH, TOMMY …”, Sonny Boy, the ventriloquist’s dummy called through the darkness.

Tommy stopped in his tracks and turned.

“TOMMY … have you pished yersel’, Tommy?” the dummy asked.

“Naw, I’ve no’!”, Tommy shouted back indignantly, checking the front of his trousers just to make sure.

“Are you pished, Tommy?” asked the dummy.

“Naw, I’m no’ drunk!” Tommy shouted back.

“You must be daft, then?”

“Naw, I’m no’ daft, either!” Tommy was getting riled now.

“Then why the fuck are you standing arguing wi’ a wooden dummy?”

The audience loved it as Tommy stormed off to the toilets, seething.

For years afterwards, whenever Tommy turned up he would be subject to quiet wee ‘TOMMY … OH, TOMMY’ remarks from his mates. The story was even recounted at Tommy’s funeral, where Dick gave a fine oration before rushing back to the Doocot to make sure everything was just right for Tommy’s funeral tea.

There was no doubt ex-policeman Dick could be a hard bastard when he had to be, mind. Punters who had seen him in action were sure never to cross him. Dick’s reputation and no-nonsense attitude ensured that there was seldom any trouble in the Doo’Cot – and on the odd time there was, Big Dick was more than able to handle it.

Usually, a warning word or a long hard stare was enough, but, very occasionally, he was called into action from behind the bar. Ejecting wrongdoers, Dick was efficient, ruthless and, some reckoned, a sadistic bully. He was no spring chicken, but he still had it … and, just for insurance, he also had his trusty Alsation dog and his ex-service truncheon behind the bar.

But keeping order was only part of Dick’s role, important though that was in a pub in a tough working class neighbourhood. It took a special person to run a pub like the Doocot and even his fiercest critics grudgingly had to admit there was no-one better suited to the role.

He kept the riff-raff out, and he looked after his beer. The Doocot’s heavy was only bettered by that legendary pint served up at The Gravediggers – and some loyal Doocot regulars argued that it was even better.

And if Dick usually looked miserable, sometimes angry – a face like a well-kept grave, someone quipped – he had his reasons for not always appearing like a ray of sunshine behind the bar.

Frequent meetings with the brewery meant the writing was on the wall for The Doocot, and for Dick himself. Scottish & Newcastle Breweries was selling off it’s pub chain, and The Doocot was being sold off to Yorkshire brewer Samuel Smith’s.

Dick knew that Smith’s ran a different style of boozer, a style that did not suit him and a type of boozer that would not suit most of his regulars either. Smith’s had taken over the Cramond Inn, another local pub, and had immediately taken out televisions and the juke box. Dick knew his own punters: they would hate it.

Dick was too long in the tooth to learn new tricks and, in all honesty, too tired now to try something new. A Samuel Smith’s would not work in Drylaw, he had argued forcefully – but the brewery bosses were not interested. All they could see were £ signs.

Dick decided he had no option but to retire, but he would leave it for a while to break the news to his clientele. First, he had one last Pensioners Party to organise …

ALEC and his cohorts sat at a long table in The Bird Cage, the Doocot’s lounge bar. The Christmas party hats were now worn at a jaunty angle, and there was a warm fug created by beer fumes and the smoke of pipes, fags and cigars.

The windows were running with condensation and the temperature was dropping sharply outside. It had been a memorable afternoon – although, after all the drink they had consumed, it was doubtful that any of them would remember too much the following morning!

The lights had been dimmed and vocal duo Jim and Tonic were entertaining the punters with a selection of Christmas hits

“Anybody want another drink?” Alec asked, shouting above ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day’. Only Bobby said aye, the rest had had enough.

Archie had had more than enough: his head was down in his plate of Christmas pudding and his new Christmas tie was ruined.

Alec made his way unsteadily to the bar. “Two nips of Grouse please, darlin’”

Big Dick was serving at the other end of the bar, but he must have heard Alec above the hubbub.

“Who are the nips for?” he asked.

Alec, half-cut, thought maybe Dick was going to pay for them. “Me and Boaby. On the house? Make them doubles!”

“No chance. Nae nips for Bobby, Alec. I’ve been well warned by his missus – don’t let him get started on the nips. Tell him he can have one last pint, but he’s no’ getting a nip in here.”

“So much for the season of goodwill to all men!” Alec said. He threw back his whisky in a oner before returning to break the bad news  to Bobby.

Bobby, not unexpectedly, did not take the refusal well. “Dick’s a miserable bastard. Is he scared of women or something? I’m the boss in my hoose, I wear the troosers! I decide what I have to drink; nobody else!”

While not quite drunk enough to challenge Dick, Bobby worked out a plan to get his nip. He called over auld Paddy the Potman.

Paddy collected empty glasses and emptied ashtrays when the pub was busy and Dick would pay him with a couple of drinks.

“Paddy, can you do me a wee favour?” …

It was a good hour later that Dick noticed Bobby was missing.

“Where’s Bobby? Is he away to the Ferry Boat in the huff?” Dick asked Alec.

Alec was guttered and the long table was beginning to look like a casualty clearing station. “I couldnae tell you, Dick. I haven’t seen him. Great party, mate!”

Dick looked under the table and checked the toilets, but there was no sign of Bobby.

Dick called The Ferry Boat and Bobby’s house, but without success. There was no option: Dick put on his coat on and went outside. It was snowing quite heavily now. Bobby lived just five minutes up the road, but he was pretty drunk; surely he couldn’t have got lost?

Dick checked out the chip shop next door Groathill Fish Bar and yes, a seriously pished Bobby had bought a fish supper some time back; a peace offering for his wife, apparently.

There was a tell-tale trail of dropped chips in the snow and halfway along Easter Drylaw Place, Detective Dick got his man. He spotted a pair of legs sticking out from a privet hedge alongside a discarded fish supper.

And while it’s not impossible that more than one person came to grief in Drylaw hedgerows that night, it was, of course, Bobby. Flat on his back, covered in a thin film of snow, snoring.

“Look at the state of you, man! Come on, get up!” It was awkward, but Dick was able to drag him back through the hedge and get him onto the pavement.

“Can you get up?”

“Fugg off, ya big bastard. Ge’ yer fuggin’ hands off me! I’ll have you now!”

“Have me? Ye cannae even stand!”

With that, Dick hauled Bobby upright and slung him over his shoulder. Bobby protested feebly – he also accused Dick of stealing his fish supper – but he was powerless as Dick marched through the thickening snow towards Bobby’s house.

They passed one of Dick’s regulars on the way: “Is that you oot delivering Christmas  presents, Dick? Nice night for it!”

It was treacherous underfoot and Bobby was a dead weight but Dick got the ‘Christmas Present’ home.

Bobby’s wife Violet was, to put it mildly, slightly displeased but between them Rose and Dick were able to get Bobby onto his bed.

“How on Earth did he get in that state, Dick?

“The staff were well told no’ to serve him any nips. He must have been getting somebody else to buy them for him. I’m sorry about this, Violet. I tried to keep an eye on things but we were really busy. I’ll try to find out what happened.”

“Och, it’s no’ your fault, Dick. He’s auld enough and ugly enough to look after himsel’. He’ll pay for it tomorrow, though!”

Dick turned to go back to the Doocot, but paused.

“Oh, Violet, could you do me a wee favour? Could you keep this between you and me? Dinnae tell Bobby how he got home … I don’t want the boys in the pub thinking I’m a soft touch. That would never dae.”

And with that Dick set off through the snow back to The Doocot.