The Road to Arbroath

The job at Bathgate proceeded without incident into 1977. On a personal level I had only blotted my copybook once which was at the New Year Party. Whatever I had done during the festivities resulted in me not being spoken to for nearly a month ! It may have something to do with the fact that my Father-in-Law to be now looked liked a stand-in for Jack Duckworth from Coronation Street. My Father-in -Law (to be) now sported a stylish pair of spectacles perched on the end of his nose held neatly together with elastoplast in the centre. I felt that it was incumbent on me to apologise to someone, but as no one was speaking to me I didn't know for what ! Ahh well 'c'est la vie !'

The big moment came on Friday 4th March '77. I was in the office at about 5.pm (we used to work 10 hr days as standard at that time). The phone rang - it was the hospital - Linda had gone into labour ! I asked how long did they reckon she had - a few hours I was told. I did a quick calculation - An hour to finish the shift - an hour to drive to Paisley Maternity - 7.pm, yeah I could make that ! In hindsight I now know what a dumb attitude that was - but, in those days, the priority was not lose 'hours' and therefore money and anyway she would be in the hands of professionals - what could I do ? What an idiot ! But then a lot of guys thought like that in those days.

Anyway - I did make it with an hour to spare and did my 'duty' - well almost ! I became too caught up in the drama and emotion of the scene only to be ejected from the delivery room ! I was left in 'expectant' fathers bit imagining all sorts of doom & gloom scenarios. This guy had a packet of cigarettes which I grabbed and smoked (I didn't even smoke at the time !). Eventually someone came and told me I was the proud father of a baby boy ! My life and way of thinking was to change forever !

It occurred to me that our 'gypsy' lifestyle could not go on and that I had to be nearer the sources of work on the East Coast. If I was to be 'travelling' a lot then Linda should be closer to her family who were in Arbroath. 'Solus' managed to get me a Council house on an incoming worker ticket. What a mistake that turned out to be ! The Big Day came, we were moving - I hired 2 Transit Luton vans and plus we had my 'Solus' Escort van. This 'convoy' set off leaving Linwood (and the West Coast) forever heading for 64 Horologe Hill, Arbroath. I was driving one of the Lutons and all was going well until we started to pass through Auchterarder. The main street was busy and narrow. There was a big 'flatbed' artic lorry parked on the road. I misjudged the the width of my Luton and 'clipped' the edge of it tearing a huge gash in the side and wiping out the cooker and the fridge at the same time. Not in a happy frame of mind we arrive in Arbroath later that afternoon.

Now, I had planned this operation meticulously, I wanted to organise things so that everything was unloaded in order and put in the appropriate rooms. Well, we all know what the Bard said about " the best laid schemes of Mice & Men etc." I opened up the 1st Luton and climbed up to pass stuff down to my 'army' of helpers, I jumped down again and CRUNCH ! - I was rolling across the road in excruciating agony - I had done my knee cartilage in ! Shivering and wimpering in shock I was dragged (with great difficulty) and dumped in a corner of the (as yet uncarpeted) livingroom floor. Someone gave me water and painkillers and I watched helplessly as everything was brought in and dumped willy nilly all over the place. The 'Coup de Grace' was delivered later on by Linda's Auntie Margaret, she had prepared a famous Arbroath delicacy, namely Arbroath Smokies for us all. A plate with one on was shoved under my nose - I was not a fish eater so I did not know how to deal with it so I just took a big bite - ARGHH ! a mouthfull of bones - I hated effing fish bones. So there I was - a fecked van, house in chaos, a fecked knee, fecked cooker and fridge and a 'moothful' of fish bones. For the first time ever (but not the last time) I howled the famous cry "WHAT THE F##K AM I DOING HERE !"

The tale did not end there ! The next day my leg all strapped up, (they had taken me to Arbroath Casualty, for the 1st of many visits to there, the previous night) I managed to climb into the (damaged) Luton and the driver only convoy set off back to Glasgow to return the hired vans. We got as far as Kincardine Bridge when I realised my van needed fuel. I spotted a petrol station and drove in - CRUNCH again - I had gotten the van stuck firmly under the canopy ! What a carry on ! At that point ritual suicide seemed a good option. After a couple of stressful hours the (by now even more fecked) van was extricated. We arrived at the hire place and I parked the Luton with the good side facing the office. "No problems ?" the guy asked "None" I lied and recieved my deposits back. I 'legged' it as fast as my 'gammy' knee would allow.

Why did this crap always happen to me ?