Nearly as much fun as the Special Olympics

March 20, 2007 at 10:17 am | Posted in family, old people | 1 Comment

I wish I had had my camera with me on Saturday – our gang was a sight to behold. I celebrated St. Patrick’s Day by going to the Scottish National Woodworking Show with Linzi’s dad, Jack (who’s disabled and needs a scooter to get around), his half-nephew Gordon and Gordon’s son (who’s disabled in some unspecified way – I’m not really sure, but he had a stick with him), and their friend Archie (‘im wot I compared diseases with last week, also disabled and needs a scooter). I only had two pints all day, so didn’t live up to my party’s expectation that I’d strip down to my tattered string vest and y-fronts and start fights with inanimate objects over unmade insults. Foreigners have such an odd take on us sometimes.

What I did do was spend much of the day looking at saws and awls and the like. I’m good at working with wood. Arf.

Those electric scooter things are fucking menaces. Worse than prams. Worse than fatties. Jack was grand as long as I could keep him going straight, but every so often, something would catch his eye, and he’d have to reverse the scooter to go back and see it. They make that beep-beep-beep noise that trucks make to warn you when they’re reversing, and with good reason – they weigh a fucking ton.

People didn’t even get the chance to leap out of the way. Jack saw something, whapped the scooter into reverse, and with a grinding trundle and the crisp snap of bone, left carnage that a tank driver in Tiananmen Square would be proud of. I was exhausted from apologising by the end of the day, especially because Jack could just chuckle benevolently and claim ignorance, leaving me to mend the shattered lives left in his wake.

The clincher came when he got stuck in a narrow aisle and had to do a twenty-seven-point turn – it ended up like that scene in Austin Powers when he’s trying to turn the steam-roller around, except instead of solid walls, he was bashing up against display cabinets filled with tools and assorted goods for sale. He drove off snickering while I, red-faced and apologetic, had to clean up what looked like Beirut after a particularly busy night.

Lunchtime came, and the day reached its climax. We got a table in an open-decked café place, directly beneath a sign that proclaimed “ONLY FOOD AND DRINK PURCHASED ON THE PREMISES CAN BE CONSUMED IN THIS AREA”. Being rebellious, non-conforming types,


we defiantly tucked into our lunch-boxes of sandwiches and crisps and fizzy drinks, while the café staff circled meekly, trying to shame us into moving on, but afraid to confront the cripples and their wards for fear of being seen as discriminatory.

It was like The Beverly Hillbillies meets the Special Olympics, what with the packed lunches and the gymnastics on the scooters. Thankfully they are a sound bunch, always first to laugh at themselves, and don’t mind me having a laugh with them about the situations they get themselves into; there was no need for any PC pussyfooting bullshit, which is one of the reasons it was a good day.

When I got home that night I got fucking hammered.


1 Comment »

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  1. I am final, I am sorry, it not a right answer. Who else, what can prompt?

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