Home Articles The Scots Lad Episode #6: The Scots Lad: At the Feet of a Bronzed God
Episode #6: The Scots Lad: At the Feet of a Bronzed God
Written by Gerry Hodes   
Saturday, 21 April 2012 21:53
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Episode #6: The Scots Lad: At the Feet of a Bronzed God
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It was a day for feeling envious, starting with dressing in my wholly inappropriate grey flannel long sleeved shirt, tie and scratchy gabardine trousers, whilst all my mess mates tripped lightly through the kitchen in pristine cotton whites from top to toe. Shorts, open-necked shirts, knee high socks, they all gleamed, the result of hard work by our house servant, with the greatest reflections coming from their black leather footwear, which compared with overwhelming superiority to my scuffed Hush Puppies. Day 1 in my new job in Livingstone Customs and my sartorial morale was lower than a cobra’s meat and two veg. Luckily, I retained the arrogance of youth, which has carried me (to this day) through Life, whenever talent, intelligence or skill would have been preferable, but were, regrettably, missing.

And so I presented myself before the High Heid Yin of Zambia Customs wearing the outfit of a librarian from a particularly scruffy council facility in a suburb of Rochdale. Luckily, my embarrassment was assuaged somewhat when I observed that the Deputy Controller was garbed in a saggy suit, the quality of which was exceeded by that of any product from the incompetent workshop of John Collier the fifty shilling tailor. I guess they had a forty shilling department that disposed of suitings rejected by their proletariat punters, but, happily, I had never discovered its location. This guy, clearly, had.

Nevertheless, I paid respect to his rank as he indoctrinated me into the Service in the kindly and respectful manner that was John Capeling’s house style. Peering a little wearily, through metal framed spectacles, into the gloom that pervaded his office, he politely welcomed me to the country and expressed his personal pleasure at my choice of new career. I was too naïve to recognise rehearsed political politesse and, in any case, desired an early departure so that I could scratch myself into some form of comfort, so I merely acknowledged his little speech and accepted my first assignment: Livingstone Post Office.

I guess that I was vaguely aware that HM Customs had a Royal Mail presence back home, but my entire Customs & Excise career to date had been spent rummaging smelly cargo ships and, quite often, being vigorously rummaged in return, by giant, pistol-toting Eastern Europeans with something to conceal. I had no idea that scrutinising postal orders was also part of the job. Yet, notwithstanding, here I was: The Officer, Livingstone Central Post Office. How happy would have been my mother, had she known. She had always wanted me to aspire to the role of Postal & Telegraph Officer, GPO, George Square, Glasgow, not realising that I would have applied to be a turd shoveller in The Vladivostok People’s Bog, to put myself beyond her stifling influence.

As I turned to exit JC’s murky lair, he passed me a large folder and impressed the need to pay careful attention to it. Thinking it was some form of training manual, I started immediately to scrutinise it with some relief, followed speedily by incomprehension. Labelled tersely as ‘Charlatans’, this tome identified a group of individuals who fulfilled the local GP role, but with their own unique medicine cabinet; you know, eye of toad, ear of spider, testicle of customs official,  that sort of thing. Suddenly, Bulgarians with bloodstained Lugers became a nostalgic memory, but I didn’t have time to sigh, as I had to report to the quaintly titled Subsistence Officer, who demanded paperwork for travel expenses never passed to me by the robber baron git Bryson. Like Denis Waterman in Minder, I’m no grass, but, as Greyfriars sage Hurree Jamset Ram Singh might have said, the greatfulness of the temptation to drop the greedy sod in it was very terrific indeed.



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