A Big Riddy

A big riddy, a beamer, these were colloquial terms in my schooldays to describe facial colour changes due to being embarrassed.
Embarrassment.
Embarrassment is an emotional state experienced upon having a socially or professionally unacceptable act or condition witnessed by or revealed to others.

Late for the Glasgow train, one morning, I put a spurt on to try not miss it.
I ran dead fast up the brae towards the station. My fastest ever was required. The six coach city express drew up to the platform. I wouldn’t make it, I didn’t think. Would I?
The doors shut, the ding ding ding ding sounded. I stopped dead behind the waiting room, not wanting to be exposed to the transcendental transient audience seeing me run up to the tight shut doors as the train pulls away. All, with their uneducated laughing college faces, looking out at me and me trying not to look as if it is bothering me.
So I stood behind the ticket station.
It would go and another will come in twenty minutes.
It stood there.
The train.
I stood there.
Waiting.
A shout out from the driver.
“Hoi Big Yin , Are you gettin on this train or whit?”
I emerged from behind the ticket office to see a sea of irritated faces waiting for me to board
How embarrassing?

The need to let accumulated gas emit from one’s body, from one’s bum is always Big Riddy trigger.
Move on, move on out, move it up. move it out.
Rawhide.
Out of the shop out of the mall.
Quickly, into the car park.
Christ its busy.
The pain, Christ I’m gonna shit myself.
To the car, quickly.
To the Car.
Christ I’m gonna shit.
Keys out.
Cant wait.
Standing at the car.
It’s safe here.
Here it comes.
Standing at my car in the car park.
Let it go
Aaahhhh.
The pain it goes as I phrrrrrrrrrrrrtttttttttt.
Standing at the car in the car park in between cars. Once more aaaaaaahhh.
Phrrrrrrtttttttrtttttrrrtttphhhrrtt.
Relieved.
I stand there.
Free.
Some one coughs, and coughs again.
I turn to see the wee frumpy bespeckled freckly wummin sitting with her window down.
Sitting in the car next to mine, in the sun, with her window down.
Never seen her.
Whit a beamer!
Whit a bummer!

The Maid of the Loch, the last inland water paddle steamer in the world. It’s gubbed though. The big engine pistons were puggled.

Me and Heather walked up on a starry starry night.
I gently kicked the door in and we entered the Captains deck lounge. I unrolled the red carpet and we lay on it, under the twinkling glistening. I took the six cans and half bottle out, swigged some lager washed it down with a Dewars and Heather did the same.
We commenced our winching session, our pre nuptials on that last floating paddle steamer.
Voices!
Voices saying things like,
‘Waow, Izzat thon Waverly?”
“Naw, ya prick, the Waverly is doon oan the Clyde, thats the Maid”.
“C’moan let’s git oan it’.
“Naw, ya dick, yer no allowed”,
Employees of British Rail, called out to Balloch Pier train station,. to a problem on the line.
The beam from a torch shone under the twinklings and we continued listening to the Glesca Banter.
“Haw Paddy, that looks like an arse, is that an arse, Pete, dae you see an arse?’
‘Whit ye sayin ya dick, Gies the torch”
The torch light wavered about.
I pulled the red carpet up over our naked bodies
“I’m tellin ye A seen an arse, a big arse’
Again the light shone.
There was light
‘Ma arse, ye seen bugger aw arse, ya tube ye”
“Right yooz two, come away frae the boat, Thats no whit were here fur, c’moan”.
In the distance the voices eventually quietened
The whisky complimented the twinkling.
We lay softly under the prickly carpet
We started to do it. I tried… my hardest.
The pricklyness and pricklessness was hard to bear.
The skooshh of my can broke the silence.
‘The whisky , probably” , was her suggestion.

‘How embarrassing;” said I

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