Did you know that there exists, on the Internet, a triple X rated version of the old classy bawdy ballad, The Ball of Kirriemuir, performed by that sadly no longer with us erstwhile Hogmanay institution, Kenneth McKellar?
It’s not a fake by the way, it’s genuinely the man himself. Check out that unmistakable light tenor voice trilling its way through about a dozen verses of the famous ditty much loved by rugby players and other assorted dirty-minded topers.
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Some of the verses are merely whimsical, a few are on the mildly coarse side but a couple are so downright filthy, you’re momentarily shocked to hear Ken singing them.
(Then you remind yourself that Big Ken was himself a born and bred Paisley Buddy, people to whom an intellectual challenge is to employ the f word as a verb, noun, adjective and pronoun, all in the same sentence.)
It’s a strange song when you come to think of it. I mean, have you ever been to Kirriemuir? As far as I can recall, it’s a douce, buttoned up town, not at all the sort of place you’d imagine could efficaciously host an all singing, all dancing, one-in-all-in, dissolute shagfest.
‘The Ball the Ball, the Ball o’ Kirriemuir. 5 and 20 weemin there an’ everywan a wh…?’
Nah. No way, that’s not Kirriemuir. Never in a million years. The Ball of Port Glasgow, now I could believe that.
I like the idea of Kenneth McKellar being a bit of a dirty old bugger. For too long, we Scots have been way too squeamish about sex. I was thinking just that, when, the other night, I chanced upon on a long discarded copy of the 1990s best seller, Men Are From Mars, Women are from Venus.
Now, like I suspect, most people who thought to buy this dull, self-regarding work, I’ve never read it. Never even opened it, to be honest. I do know it’s a load of old pony and trap, though.
A bloke I knew in Glasgow at the time, a self-educated witty psychopath called Tam, provided me with a handy, short but nonetheless definitive review: ‘sexist pish’.
I should add that Tam was – or should I say purported to be – what was then known as a ‘New Man’; sensitive to women’s feelings, in touch with his feminine side, not afraid to cry whilst watching Little House on the Prairie, that sort of thing.
Now, I don’t want to cast doubt on the sincerity of people like Tam but can I just add that the man himself, on one of his less brank spanking moments, liberally refreshed by a good bucket did actually confess that his new man status would hopefully transpire to be ‘a good way to get my nookie at parties’, though I’m not sure if it ever worked out that way.
I’m pretty certain that men and women are not from different planets but they are definitely different. They have different ways of seeing things, different ideas about relationships and (I think) different reasons for buying Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus.
Men, in the main, bought it so they can get to know women. (As opposed to simply knowing how to piss them off.) Women bought it … well I’m not sure why they bought it really. Seems to me women have already got all the answers.
For example - they know how to transform a man. And they’re exceptionally good at it. I mean, how many guys do you know who promptly abandon their self-indulgent bloky ways when they first hook up with a woman?
Suddenly he doesn’t turn up for the Tuesday night five-a-sides. Then you hear on the grapevine he isn’t renewing his season ticket. Finally, he goes completely to the other side. He starts using moisturiser and visiting Marks and Spencer on Saturday afternoons. Vanished. Lost to mankind forever.
Incidentally, just in case you think this is a gross disparage against womenfolk from a bitter wronged punter of the male persuasion, can I refer you to Julie McDowell’s excellent HeraldScotland blog on which she honestly and with consummate wit lays out the modern woman’s psyche for all to see. For blokes, it’s an absolute must read.
Women, (according to Julie), and here I don’t believe I’m paraphrasing, are basically selfish, demanding, capricious, enigmatic and seductive. And like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates, (according to me), you never know what you’re gonna get.
Men bending over backwards to please a women is a metaphor rather than reality, though I’m sure some blokes have physically given it a go, but the simple truth is, no matter how hard you try, eventually it’ll never be enough.
We’re simple creatures really, frankly, we’ll do anything to get that thang you’ve got and we want. Simple. Basic. And horny.
In Australia the best example of a bloke being re-invented by a woman is one time cricketer Shane Warne. Warney used to be a slightly tubby beer swilling larrikin up until quite recently when he got engaged to the famous actor Liz Hurley.
You might remember Liz from being in that film … uh. Or when she played Em , in that TV thing…
No, sorry. I can’t think of a single thing of an actorish nature that Liz has ever done. She seems merely to be famous for shagging rich blokes.
Anyway Liz has done a number on Warney and the former lover of big tits and baked beans has duly been totally transmuted.
(Quite literally in fact, since with his painfully stretched skin and plastic hair Warney doesn’t even vaguely resemble a shadow of his former self although he does look quite a lot like those tailors dummies you used to see in the windows of Burtons.)
Appropriate really because like the mannequins Warney appears to have no genitals. Oh he’s having lots of fun right now, sure, but mark my words, eventually it’ll all go, well, tits up - it’s only a matter of time.
After all, even the Kirriemuir Ball lasted only the one night.