More Roamerisms from the early 1990s

❚ It had to happen, I suppose. In last week’s rugby report, prolific points scorer DR Nicolson was given a new courtesy title – Dr Nicolson.

❚ MFR had a riveting two-hour phone-in programme about the rights and wrongs of Southrons being unwelcome in a certain Highland bar.

In the middle of it all a Cockney came on the line to tell the listeners he was sorry to hear about all the hassle, as he himself always got on great with the ‘sweaties’. The term meant nothing to the programme presenter. So the Cockney elaborated: ‘Sweaties, Mite! Sweaty Socks – Jocks.’

❚ One of our local nouveau anglopreneurs was out in a boat – fishing. In the bucketing rain. At the oars was Donald who was being paid a trifle for his trouble.

Every now and then LNA took a swig from his hip flask to ward off the cold. But nary a drop for Donald. Still not catching anything the angling anglopreneur sought additional solace with a cigar.

To his consternation he found that, though the matches in their box were OK, the box itself was very damp.

Casting around on the boat he asked Donald if he could think of something dry on which he could strike a match. ‘You could try my tongue,’ Donald suggested. Drily.

❚ It was like a scene from Snow-White and the Seven Dwarfs at Spaghetti Junction on Monday. ‘Dig, Dig, Dig’ in unison, went the contractor’s men.

Meanwhile, Grumpy, behind the wheel of the lorry, was trying to figure out who had the right of way out of the High Street and onto the bypass. Indeed the high tech Disney version was certainly operating on An Aird that day, following the granting of planning permission for the start of the development there.

A JCB was cutting – not the first sod – but digging up bits of old cars, welly boots and worse – all leftovers from the days of the town dump.

❚ Meanwhile there was great activity in Fort William High Street due to the latest diversion down the side of the Argyll. Temporary signs everywhere.

One had blown over and was lying flat on its face. Another was so close to the junction with Fraser Square that vehicles ran over it before the drivers had time to react. Meanwhile, as the road outside Presto’s appeared to be clear, lots of traffic carried on along the High Street – to be met by an army of cones. So reversing and three point turns became the order of the morning. However, in so doing, the drivers met other vehicles coming down Bank Street. All of them were confronted with more diversion signs – under the Post Office canopy.

It would have been pantomimic, right enough, if the ‘traffic management’ hadn’t been so amateurish. In fact it was all too reminiscent of the Irishman’s road directions: ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t start from here.’

❚ Alistair Grant was absent from reception. He was on special duties at the Belford as part of the recent Ardtornish emergency planning exercise. Alistair was given, shall we say, a roving commission within the hospital. And his role and patrol took him, limping, into casualty.

There he was, surrounded by all the Lochaline-ites with their range of simulated injuries. Alistair got talking to one of them, who turned out to be the ‘chief casualty’. And ‘chief casualty’ had noted that Alistair was hirpling a bit. So he said to him: ‘You seem to have more of an injury than I have. You’d better go in for treatment before me.’

❚ They were keen to be dramming it up at Christie’s Sale in Glasgow. But the prices weren’t for the common five eighths. An 1882 Ben Nevis bottle realised £1,705, and a single malt from the previous year went for £1,350. Both were put up for auction by private collectors and, no doubt, they’ve found new homes. But not in Lochaber, however.

❚ Whisky rep in town, visiting his various High Street customers. In one particular establishment he was disappointed that Jimmy, his usual contact, wasn’t in. ‘That’s a pity,’ said traveller to proprietor. ‘Because I’ve got a wee something for him.’

Ever the gentleman, the shop owner said he would contact Jimmy and advise him accordingly. Jimmy was duly phoned. ‘I’ll be right over’, was the eager reply. And he was, setting up a new record time from Caol to the Fort. Into the shop and, after a handshake, rep handed Jimmy a boxed package.

Caressing it lovingly, Jimmy conjectured as to what might be inside. A forty ouncer, perhaps?

Opened it up, a procedure watched with interest by proprietor, and out came a whisky company monogrammed scarf. I understand that proprietor was reduced to grabbing the scarf, then trying to stuff it into his mouth to contain his merriment.