The Tugger's tie and tale

Our latest bizarre tale from Scotland's west coast comes from Blue Dalziel

I'll tell you about lowering standards,” he said. I'd never clapped eyes on his coupon before and here he is butting into the conversation.

The Fank and I were having at the bar. It would have been fine if we'd been talking about lowering standard, but The Fank was holding forth (as he does) about flooring Zander's house.

Which I'm sure you'll agree is a different topic altogether. The stranger was undaunted.

“I've just lowered mine onto the floor of thon town hall. It's there, gathering dust and who cares? I'll tell ye. Naebody. That's who.”

“What are you haverin' about Old Timer?” I asked him.

“I see this tie means nothing to you,” he replied waving the scrappy swatch of material hanging round his neck at me.

The tie had a crest on it of a rope tied to the head of a dragon and “We Haul the Hulls” scribed around it.

“Can't say it does,” I confessed.

I'm not a man for ties. Or crests for that matter.

“Tug!” says our new companion, so I put a grip on the cravat and gave it a yank. This causes some consternation.

“No the tie ya eejit!” he says, picking himself off the floor.

“See me son, I was the skipper of a tug and not just any old tug mind you.”

He drew himself up to his full 5' 5”.

“I am the last of the Royal and Ancient Order of Tuggers”.

A tear seemed to be dewing in the corner of his eye so I refreshed his Old Mull, the least that could be done under the circumstances.

In any case, he seemed a friendly enough wee ...

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• In : Travel
• Issue : 12
• Page : 74
• Words : 694