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SPORTING SHOOTER

A very Happy New Year to you all. Shall you breakfast off strong tea and a lightly boiled aspirin? Before I moved to Northumberland, I had never heard of Old Year’s Night. Did you know that Northumberland is reputed to have the highest per capita whisky consumption in England? There was a never to be forgotten night when I was booked in to a smart dinner party on Old Year’s Night. I had been hunting and had been persuaded to call in for ‘a quick dram’ on my way home - a quick dram surely would not hurt? Put me in the party mood, I shouldn’t wonder. But cut to the chase, as they say, to the moment when I should have been ringing my host’s doorbell – clean, dry, lightly oiled and squeezed into my dinner jacket and was still sitting in the pub, cornered by the larger sort of hill herds. I was singing ‘Jock of Hazeldene’ and still covered from head to toe in drying bog mould. In a bleary sort of way, I counted the drams lined up before me on the table. I counted 14, or fourteen, if you prefer, which kind and, I am sure, well-intentioned folk had bought for me. My common sense temporarily reasserted itself and told me that in no way could I ingest that little lot on top of the not a little lot that I had already consumed. In a calm and collected way, I conveyed my doubts to the assembled company. It lacked sympathy, but provided practical help by producing a pint glass and pouring the assembled whiskies into it. The helpful management included a straw (free of charge) to drink it with:

“Howway, Man” they said – “get it doon ye.” And I did. Then - mindful of the fact that I was expecting to mix with smart company – they took me out into the yard, hosed me down and sent me out to dine in the back of a pick-up truck.

The other thing about ‘Old Year’s Night’ is the dancing. Northumbrian dancing is different and reminds me of nothing so much as the happy hours I spent being wiped all over the walls of the gym by a diminutive psychopath called Staff Sergeant Thomas. His great slogan was – “Get him down and give him some pain.” He succeeded, bless his heart. I was especially reminded of him when I had an unfortunate experience with ‘The Drops of Brandy’ - a dance where you get twirled from arm to arm down a double row of hardy men and women with muscular arms – so muscular that they can get a very fair top spin even on a 19 stone man. Should this man fail to contact with the wicket keeper at the bottom, his muzzle velocity may be such as to spin him like a top across the room and into the china cabinet at the far end. The resulting damage may be considerable, nor does the china come out well. Now, at the first sign and sound of a Gay Gordon, I go and lock myself in the netty. I reckon that Old Year’s Night gets on very well without me. As for all you determined revellers, I wish you:

“Arl the Best!”

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