Height Ay Nonsense

"HEIGHT AY NONSENSE"

"Awright Big Man?"

Tam felt himself physically recoil. As his sloping shoulders testified,
he'd always

been self conscious about his height. He hated all the titles that
being tall bestowed:

"Big Man",....."Big Yin"......big fucking deal, Tam thought.

Or the stupid things folk said to you: "Whit's the weather like up
there?" "Mind and

warn us if it start's snawin' will ye?"

Or the auld cunt who drank in The Star, who said every time he saw Tam;
"Yir

taller every time ah see ye son! Yir getting tae be the height ay
nonsense so ye

are." He was one of the reasons why Tam barely drank in there these
days. If Tam

grew as much as that auld clown said he did, he'd be the first Scotsman
to play in

the NBA by now, kneeing Shaquille O'Neale in the face as he brushed
past him en

route to bending doon and scoring a basket. Yanks would stare up his
kilt in awe as

he walked past.

He nodded to the guy who had spoke to him, Wullie McGuire. He had been
at

school with Tam, and didn't look like he had grown an inch since. He
could barely

see over the top of the bar to get served. "See ye later Tam!" he said,
standing on

tiptoe to grab his pint and then weaving his way back towards the
dartboard.

Mind you, Tam reckoned watching him go, it would be even worse to be
wee. He

cast his mind back to those desperate days when he used to accompany
Splodge

Jackson to the occasional East Stirlingshire FC game. Hard times
indeed, though

the pre-match pint and game of pool in the social club were pleasant
enough. But

then, sick man that he was, Splodge would insist on heading for the
turnstiles and

the grim spectacle which lay beyond them.

At that time the 'Shire fielded a midfield schemer by the name of Boaby
McCulley.

McCulley's parents would have been as well ommitting the "Robert" at
his christening

and simply naming him "Wee Man". For he was ever referred to as such.
At least

by his friends and allies, few in number though they were.

He actually wasn't a bad passer of a ball, and if he was having a good
game the

perpetual minority that comprised the home support would bawl
encouragement.

This was mainly of the, "Oan ye go wee man!" variety.

On the days when they turned on him, however, and for the away support
who were

always the loudest at 'Shire games anyway, (apart from when they played
"The

Warriors" of Stenhousemuir), it would be a different matter. The
bombshell that he

was bereft of inches would be hurled at him incessantly and without
pity.

"Awa' back tae the subbuteo board ya wee shortarse cunt ye!", was a
greeting with

which he must have been more than familiar. Once Tam had heard a big
baw-faced

teuchter doon from Montrose entreat McCulley to, "Bugger aff back tae
Billy Smart's

Circus ya fuckin' dwarf!"

Oh the joys of being recognised as a professional athlete. Even when he
earned

favourable headlines in the newspaper match reports, they were
invariably of the,

"Midget Gem" variety. No, all things being unequal, you were still
better off being a

big haddie than a wee yin.

Tam remembered his own brief and inglorious footballing career.
Freezing cauld

Saturday mornings. The pitches frozen rock solid. Mitre Mouldmasters
that felt like

you were kicking a cannonball. The team talks: "Right big man, you're
centre-half.

Stay in yir ain half, and when ye get the baw, hoof it intae their half
as hard as ye

can."

Despite these enlightened coaching methods, Tam had never developed
into a

central defender of the Beckenbauer type as he had hoped. Just as well
then, that

his career had never gone beyond under-13s. It was at this point that
he discovered

Special Brew, fags and the Buzzcocks. The rest as they say, is history.
Once

you've woken after a Friday night party at somebody's house while their
parents are

on holiday, to find that you're currently residing in Hangover City,
you'll never want to

play Saturday morning league again.

Christ that was a few years ago but, he thought. A lot of beer had been
pished

against the wall since then. Speaking of which..........

On his way back from the pub lavvies, Tam had to pass the group of
darts players.

As he sidled past them, Wullie spoke to him again.

"Haw big yin! Gaunae get that dart for us? Ah lost ma grip and look
whaur it's

ended up!"

Tam turned to see a dart wedged in the wall just below the ceiling.
Wullie's eyes

were glazed, with a fixed stare like something off a fishmonger's
slab.

"Away and get it yersel' ya fucking wee smout!", Tam snarled as he
carried on out

through the pub doors and into the street.