Yiz ur winchin’, an’ it wiz a cinch she’d get the best prize
Writer behind some of Scotland’s most famous comedy sketches is remembered in a collection of his hilarious columns
There was even more excitement than usual in the Okeydokey Club when Fred and his Band of Boogie Woogie Bachles discoursed the impressive fanfare that heralded the appearance of Wee Andy, MC.
As the eager throng milled round the front of the band platform, they held in their hands numbered tickets that had been issued to them as they paid for admission to the Grand Lucky New Year Carnival Dance.
The expression on the face of the Master of Ceremonies was especially benign.
“Ladies and gents,” he began. “I trust that each and every one of youse have been gave a ticket with a number thereupon it. On certing of them tickets is a lucky number. Now, the holders of them tickets will be the reciputents of magnificent prizes. So, without no furder procastronation, the lucky numbers will now be drew by me from the box you see fornent me.”
The draw began at once. One young lady received a compact. A gent was handed a packet of 10 cigarettes.
Big Ella, a large damsel, found herself the winner of a remarkably small headscarf. “That’ll never cover hur big bawheid,” came the loud comment from Rita the Critic.
“Ah’ll cover that big mooth o’ yours wi’ ma haun’!” called the outsized young lady.
“Ladies! Ladies!” cried Wee Andy in shocked tones. “Kindly do not forget to remember that the season of goodwill isn’t not yet terminiated. Do not let us have no more adiposity.”
The draw proceeded, Rita looking on somewhat grimly as her number failed to come up.
Suddenly the Master of Ceremonies beamed with increased pleasure. “For the holder of this number,” he exclaimed, “there is nothing
more nor less than this handsome bottle of whisky!”
And teetering forward in her long dress to receive the star prize went Barbara the Blonde.
Wee Andy directed his most winning smile on her and, as he handed over the bottle, he modestly lowered his eyes as the blonde kissed him on the cheek.
“It’s a dampt disgrace!” declared Rita.
The Master of Ceremonies was mortally offended. “How dare you implicate that this young lady’s salutation to me is unproper!” he protested.
“Ah’m talkin’ aboot hur getting’ that boattle!” Rita cried. “It’s a ruddy carve-up!”
“Madam, this is absolutely outrageful!” cried Wee Andy indignantly.
“Aw don’t try tae kid us,” Rita bawled. “Yiz ur winchin’, an’ it wiz a cinch she’d get the best prize in yer lucky number swin’le.”
Barbara, the elegant blonde, now intervened. “You shut yer big gub,” she ordered Rita. “I don’t want my afferrs talked about in public”.
“By jings, if we talked aboot a’ the afferrs you’ve hud we’d be here fur two weeks” Rita shrilled.
“If you do not detract these malnutritious allygations, drastic action will be took at once,” Wee Andy warned her sternly.
“Ah’ll settle hur hash fur hur!” announced the blonde, carefully handing her prize to a friend and marching towards her critic.
“Ladies! Ladies!” cried Wee Andy, hurrying to the scene. “I beg of youse – do not indulge in no unseemly violence, if youse please!”
But Rita’s handbag was swinging through the air. It just missed the head of the Master of Ceremonies as he stepped back adroitly, and caught Barbara full on the make-up.
A low emergency whistle was emitted.
Five minutes later Rita was being charged with assault and breach of the peace.
“Ah only gi’ed that blonde bizzim wan scud,” she said in court. To her disgust, this solitary scud cost her £3.