The Bowling Club

By HWS 8th December 2024

The Dumfries Bowling Club bar is a place Shaun McSorley and I would hang around in during the midweek days. It became a beacon of solitude during those days spent in a dole induced coma in the hope just to numb the pain of mind-boggling sadness of knowing we were mere puppets on Thatcher’s strings. The mid 80’s brought along many things and most of it was yet another toe punt in the balls. Fae communities being torn apart at will along with family members being pitted against one another on the picket line. And those once proud heart beating industries of the area that once gave people where I’m from a sense of identity were discarded to the ash heaps of history. Along with our hopes of a brighter tomorrow. Such painful thoughts we couldn’t escape whilst watching horizontal rain rattling off the boozer’s windows. Deep down the pair of us had visions of escaping abroad to live in the sun. Sure, more than likely we would still be jobless and penniless. Still at least we would be in a land where the sunrises.

The usual suspects in the bar during the week are, Whiskey Nose McCulloch, Bruce Campbell, and Arch Thompson. They were undoubtedly the most significant trio of bitter, bullying old twats you could ever encounter. While their antics were often cringe-worthy, you could either sit back and observe them with a healthy dose of disdain, or you could find yourself giggling at them uncontrollably or cringing at their behaviour.

Whiskey nose rightfully earned his title due to his big read cricket ball hooter as a result of his daily battles with Bell’s whiskey. A boy who could easily be handpicked by Santa to guide his sleigh in a Christmas Eve snowstorm. He had a real resemblance to Sid James and consistently wore the same black shirt with small silver tassels on the collar, it reminded me of something that Johnny Cash would wear. Along with this he would just growl at us.

The three stooges were avid supporters of Rangers FC. Just another reason that left me wondering why the fuck I shared the same airspace as these jokers. Of course, they would refer to them as ‘the fucking Rangers’’. Words that sounded like that angry self entitled persona that most of this clubs faithful carried around like the pounds and pence in their pockets.

Bruce as always is kitted out in his customary Adidas samba training shoes, snow wash pieces of denim, and a brown leather jacket with big flaps. Also prominent was his tight, curly hair, which was almost pubic-like, sporting a big brown moustache and silver-rimmed specs. Lager top is his choice of drink preferably McEwan’s. He seemed to like that wee bit of froth on his moustache so he could lick it off. The year is 1987 and Rangers were sponsored by McEwans Lager. Also on the go was the McEwan’s Lager advert ‘’you’ve got the power’ by the band ‘Win’, this instilled into Bruce something that he could never find on his own, a sense of belonging.

Arch Thompson was the angriest of the three, a boy who would probably moan if the sky was blue. His round football-shaped face is a ringer for Korky the Cat from the Dandy. The sort of puss that would fast become addictive smashing.  

The three amigos were constantly trying to get us barred from the bowling club as we were “not of the correct calibre to own a membership to a respected establishment” This of course made things less boring which was a bit of a bonus in the grand scheme of things. Shaun’s crucifix necklace seems to attract special attention from Arch, he addresses him as “the cunt wi the hang glider”

On this particular depressing wet and tedious afternoon, myself and Shaun are in the club drawing picture’s and crushing beer mats while downing snake bites. Simple measures to prevent us from running a razor across our wrists. Our sketches were at least creative including a music group consisting of Arch fitba face Thompson and his entourage. In the name of comedy the band was named “The Firemen” as oppose to “The Police” ironically because at this very moment the jukebox is playing Walking on the Moon and Arch is miming the words with his comrade Whisky Nose whilst they are playing dominos.

The cartoon drawings have Arch Thompson on vocals as he has the loudest and aggressive persona, a bit like John Lydon, but not in any good or talented way. Rudolph’s love child was strumming the bass guitar, giving it pure attitude. We then illustrated Bruce Campbell giving it big bashes on the drums. A tag along who was quite harmless was auld Dougie, he’s also a regular in the bar. Dougie rarely found himself away from his transistor radio in his lug, as he listened to the football scores or horse racing. All with the purpose of trying to score a rare victory over the bookie. We scribbled him into the band and sketched him just standing there tapping a tambourine. Auld Dougie’s dress code is always a dead ringer for that Harry Enfield character with the catchphrase, “Now I do not believe you wanted to do that, did you?”

Arch ‘Korky’ Thomson is at the bar ordering his drinks when we hear the rustle of a crisp packet, and he’s staring straight over at us, all macho with his chest puffed out, whilst shaking his pack of ready salted crisps. The next thing, Raymond the bartender has a pickled egg on a tablespoon and proceeds to drop it into Arch’s packet of crisps. Arch then gives the packet another gentle shake as he’s still staring straight through us with this ‘square go now then ya cunt’’ expression melted across his puss. It reminds me of one of John Waynes western flicks where he’s waiting for the first cunt to blink before he lights up the room like a Fourth of July firework display. 

Incidentally, this pickled egg and crisps mix is his lunch he is telling Raymond and it saves him from “going hame for dinner, it is a balanced meal I’ll tell ye, and I sometimes add peanuts for the full of nutrition”.

As we’re drawing and imaging Arch signing in a band the laughter almost becomes contagious.  As old fitba face is munching on the crisps he gives us the obligatory fantasy threat yet again, “you lot are no so clever when I see you in Fine Fare and you go white wi fear especially the cunt wi the hang glider!” This daydream grenade has been thrown into our laps many times. So, once again Shaun and I need to inform him and and more importantly for the benefit of the audience that “we have never seen you in Fine Fare”. To which we get the compulsory threat of “I’ll take the twae of yizootside”

Predictably, Raymond, the barman rolls over and attempts to defuse any potential tension. He informs us: “I don’t believe in mindless violence gents so can we all keep things civil, the club has a good reputation”. As he has both his hands out in a slow posture that mimicks bouncing two basketballs. Of course, he is only looking in our direction with this request. This will be due to his fear of Arch et al and with him also being a supporter of the Rangers I would strongly predict. Raymondo either wears a Scotland or a British Lions rugby shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and this would alternate each day. Today it was the red British Lions one. His head is always shaved to the bone and we are convinced he applies some kind of oil making it shine like a snooker ball.

Suddenly, Raymond is very impressed with our sketch. It is really Shaun’s handy work he did have natural talent and had flirted with going to art school in the past.

“That is talented drawing lads,” Raymondo compliments us, possibly this is a kind of deflection tactic. He is so impressed he inquires, “Would it be possible for the club to have the drawing, it’s not often we can show such creativity from our members” so, with Mr Sheen head having no idea who the characters were, we oblige and to this day the picture of a band named The Firemen hangs above the Bar at the Bowling Club; with only Shaun and myself knowing who the characters are.

Sitting away from the crowd were two distinguished gentlemen: Eric Boland and Professor Yaffle, both of whom had little fondness for Arch and his companions. Eric is genuinely a good soul, who, after a few beers, has a habit of crushing your hand and proclaiming, “I’ve just rode into town,” a phrase inspired by his love of Western movies. As always he is wearing his signature deerstalker hat. I believe the hat adds to his character; I loved how he would tie the ribbons under his chin while sipping his glass of whisky with his pinky raised. I suppose you could say Eric was a bit damaged or eccentric but it was never in a negative way for us.

According to legend, Eric was a well-known Rugby Union player who traveled to the north of England to play Rugby League, where he could earn maire than a cauliflower fur his troubles. His dream to aspire  was viewed as a serious betrayal, leading to a disconnection from his peers in the Rugby Union community. Fitba Puss and Whisky Nose also criticised him for this choice, failing to resist peer pressure and the small town mentality. Having such ambitions is often viewed as an act ae class treason in such small towns.

Eric did not care and would inform us “see that lot at the bar, thir a waste o claes … Fackin arseholes”. Shaun and I could certainly relate to this.

Professor Yaffle is Eric’s right-hand man but he just sits there in silence but will laugh at Erics stories like some geriatric groupie with this “nyick nyick nyick”  tone. This resulted in us baptising him “Professor Yaffle” in honour of the carved woodpecker from the ‘70s children’s programme Bagpuss. He also just so happened to wear those round lensed specs as well like John Lennon

Professor Yaffle’s full name on the programme is Augustus Barclay Yaffle. He typically prides himself on being the brains of the outfit, given his extensive knowledge. However, our version at the bowling club presents a more complex character who mostly agrees with Eric and the rest of us.

Eric would rhyme off stories and direct a sideways glance, swinging his thumb towards Yaffle for confirmation, “he’ll tell ye,” and Yaffle would respond with a toothy smile followed by his characteristic squawk. Shaun and I loved sitting there, enjoying the company of the two men and their crazy sense of humour. We could relate to it, perhaps out of boredom, but who cares?

Eric is sharing his daily anecdote, which has a cowboy western movie twist to it, as he mimics drawing a gun while riding into town. it, as he mimics drawing a gun while riding into town like fucking John Wayne himself.

“I rode into town and down the Old Kent Road and stopped for caviar and truffles”.

Our table of four is on that infectious laughter, in-the-moment vibe enhanced by Yaffle’s response. However, Korky the Cat puss Arch Thomson is glaring over holding this invisible wheelbarrow posture. Miserable prick was opposed to a laugh and giggle. The cunt was always self-conscious in case we were ripping the piss out of him and band of merry men.

As the pints were rapidly downed, Eric folded a beer mat into his mouth in the name of comedy and for the sheer thrill of making a tit of himself. His patter is drenched in a thick London twang and he belts out a repetitive rant…

Dan the Old Kent Rowd

Dan the Old Kent Rowd

Dan the Old Kent Rowd

This trip through the asylum has set us all off in to explode in a fit of giggles and watching the poker face response from Arch et.al only turned up the thermostat on the comedy routine. However, Raymondo, the barman with his snooker ball napper on full display is collecting empties and with his intense gaze in our direction we’ve clearly not tickled his funny bone. Arch fitba puss Thomson escapes the unravelling events and growls over to us, ‘IRA bastards!’’. The sickly odour of sectarianism is hoovering up everybody’s beaks. Such a bizarre accusation, leading Raymondo to seek out an escape hatch. He informs us ‘“okay lads it’s time to leave, we can’t have such political views here at the club” So due to our apparent political opinion’s reported and confirmed by the jury of Arch “fitba puss” Thomson and encouraged by whisky nose McCulloch we are being told to leave. By this point, none of us can even find the energy to argue. We are still too much in hilarity. As we leave the club and approach the exit, Raymond feels a sense of power and is guiding us towards the door walking behind us expertly herding us like a flock of sheep. Although we are leaving anyway and are care-free about the whole situation.

As we look back at the fine gentlemen of the Bowling Club establishment. We have whisky nose, Korky the Cat and Bruce frothy moustache singing in unison “cheerio, cheerio, cheerio”!

Simply the breasts