Well, there was no
bodily impact, I can confirm that much, Chris.
But there was this:
At one point between toasts # 9 & 10 on Saturday at the Governor's Lodge top deck, a strappin' big, young kinsman of Clan MacPherson brought me over a tall, frosty beer, and when I inquired after his generosity, he informed me it was from
sy
mp
athy - as he'd just learned that day that the MacIntyres were in-laws of the Campbells [
typical, juvenile interclan cheap-shot].
When the laughter from the MacPherson table subsided, I appropriated a smoldering cigar from the Clan Boyd shriner standing to my right, dropped it into the proferred beer (still in the dude's hand), and suggested that I'd wait if he wanted to swap his kilt for a pair of britches. When my antagonist asked why he should be wearing pants, I informed him that it would be far less embarrassing for him when a fat old man kicked his bahookie down three flights of stairs. Upon hearing this, Mr. MacPherson angrily hurled the glass of ash-polluted beer to the deck between my feet, soaking my glenfinnans & wool hose. What he didn't figure on was that the bagpipe quartet drinking at the next table were all police officers, volunteer firemen, army vets & master masons, and before he could get a really good grip on my weskitt, they'd rendered the irritable young fella horizontal, and, one man hoisting each limb, trucked him right off to the security station down at the parade ground.
When I asked the red-faced clansmen at the MacPherson table if
they were going to pay for my stained socks, or if I should just write to their chief in Scotland for recompense, I
really wasn't at all serious, and yet three $10 bills were quietly collected and sheepishly handed over.
I used most of that loot to buy a round for the fire-guys when they returned - seemed like the right thing to do.
