The Johnsons.
Our on-going Soap Opera
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EPISODE TWO…
'LEAVING'
Wee Alec, Mrs Puggie Johnson youngest, was leaving. Yes, he was finally going, the fire had convinced him of that. Having threatened it since he was six, at forty- two here he was, on his way. Toilet trained and dry at night, well, at least with the help of pull-ups. That’s it, he was off.
The destination he was bound for? Well that thought had not occurred to him. Leaving was all that mattered, and here he was on his way. Yes, on his way. Now, right now!
But it was raining, and he could do with just one more stiffener for the road. So he popped into Whites for another round of farewells.
Mind you, he was only going as far as Cupar tonight. Well, the big-leap. The grand adventure. It was not a thing to be accomplished in one huge step. It had to be done in stages. Slowly. Gently. On Tuesday he might think about moving on to Edinburgh. And then who knows, the world was his pearl. He remembered when he was little, thinking of all the new lands he would conquer, the places he would discover. The jungles and deserts he would explore They would put a statue of him outside the museum, or a plaque at least. He would be know as the Columbus of the Conchie. The Hidalgo of the Hil town. The Magellan of Mid Street. Or some such other grand name. But sadly, as yet, the furthest he had ever been was the campsite at Barry Buddon. That way if you didn’t like it you could always come home his mother said to him sensibly.
But these were changed days, and here he was …finally off. Earlier he had made his way down the Cleppie calling into every ale-house and hostelry on the way. Saying his goodbyes. Accepting the well-wishes, and the odd pint from friends and acquaintances. Those I may add who were staying put, while he was for the off. You could see it in there eyes. The envy. The respect. Here he was, as free as a pigeon, while they were still tied to the apron strings. Easing back, he basked in the adulation of the moment.
Mind you he was playing it sensible. It was the Fast and he had left his job open at the factory. Well, you never know, you might not like it, and options were things to be left open. Abroad! Peebles? Durham? Newcastle? England? The Continent? It was all. Well it was all, so vast. So totally overwhelming, so frightening. Never mind another pint and he was off. Off…OFF…Off.
It was still raining when he was pushed out the doors and fell onto the pavement. He had missed the last southbound train, and his bag sat in the left-luggage at Tay Bridge Station, the last bag on the rack.
‘Ah never mind…there’s always tomorrow,’ he said to himself as he fell asleep in a puddle. The oil slick shimmering in the rain as the headlights picked him out, ensuring that the wheels of the Ford Fiesta narrowly missed his head…
To Be Continued…
EPISODE ONE...
‘THE GREAT ARDLER CONFLAGRATION…!’
In all the annals of history, it was the strangest event that had ever happened in the land of Ardler. Meteorite showers were usual! Why, passing Spy-Satellites falling out of the sky and making a hole in the road, were almost an everyday occurrence. And lets face it, one had almost become used to the surface of the land (and that of the people) pitted beyond recognition by the continuing fall-out from Chernobyl; but all three at once? Well, that had certainly never happened before!
On that black Thursday in November, in one fell swoop the old Ardler of myth was swept away forever. Never mind that the quaint gardens, and gable ended Tudor and Georgian houses of the old town were lost. Never mind the chrome and steel 60’s developments that housed the ‘Chav and Yuppie’ communities had disappeared forever. Or the ‘fabled ring-piece,’ long reputed to be a meeting place for fairy-folk (well some of them at least) in the area. Never mind that the alleyways and cobbled highway that was Billy Connolly Boulevard was consigned to history. Or that the restoration project, ‘The Little Jimmie Krankie Memorial Boating Lake,’ would now never be finished. But terror of terror’s that much loved hostelry ‘The Laughing Jack O Connor,’ in Jimmy Logan Square, was alight and burning fast.
That was terrible enough on it’s own, but it was what it held, was the catalyst that galvanised the whole community. It fused them together, and like a beached whale they acted as one. From house to house the cry went out ‘Jack o Connor’s on fire.’ The response was immediate, the populace of Ardler would forget differences, and act as the well oiled-machine (Well! Well-oiled at least) they knew they could be. As houses toppled all around them in the inferno, they formed a scrum to save all the barrels of ‘Mince Liqueur,’ and pull them to safety.
At the head of the team was Mrs Puggie Johnson and her best friend, and 1st lieutenant, Big Aggie from Lochee. Behind her was ‘her first born,’ Darvin Johnson, the Strathmartine stud, who in his dreams is longing to become a famous Hollyrood Director, and wearer of all things satin? The frail elderly matriarch, ‘Auld Ina Johnson,’ Mrs Puggie Johnson’s frail mother-in-law came next. Is she really a little auld wifey, or is she something far more sinister. Next in line was Shania Kylie Melua Johnson’ who longs to be a reality TV star. Appearing in I’m Not A Celebrity, So Don’t Bother Me. The W Factor and Big Sister, she is really not fussed what one. She has the looks! She has the talent! But what is she hiding in her wardrobe?. ‘Wee Johnnie Johnson’ was next, founder of the SFP Scottish Fundamentalist Party (Mince on every plate - and a plug for every sink) who are looking forward to going head-to-head, against competition from not only the local Council, but the Dumpdee Gadgie Association and the Tinkies and Minkies Alliance.
But what is the personal tragedy he must carry, one which would destroy him if ever it were revealed. Following up was ‘Wee Shuggie Johnson,’ who see’s himself as a future Richard Branson, but what on earth is he doing in the spare bedroom? Then ‘Wee Alec Johnson,’ constantly trying to find ways to escape from the Ardler enclave, unaware that most buses will do the trick. Alas the rest of the Johnson’s Clan were tragically absent from the event ( as I haven’t thought of their names yet) But, exactly who is ‘Ananais the goat boy?’ and why is he worrying everyone?
After a long night of toil, and innumerable acts of bravery on at least one person’s part, all 437 barrels of the precious nectar were saved. But by the morning the parks, the streets, the fountains, the old Opera house. The shops, offices, factories and simple homesteads; all were Walkers.
But fear not! Even as I write this from my rain-drenched cardboard box on the Kingsway, plans are a- foot (about 12 inches actually) for the town to live again. Architects are slavering over draught boards? Councillors are in closed session watching endless re-runs of ‘This is where it hurts Dr Wong’ and ‘Syreeta The Stobswell Sex-Siren.’ Whilst the Lord Provost sits in his lonely garret, with only his chain of office for company, fluffing up someone else’s beaver.
Yes! Collectively, they will make it work. A new day will dawn for that stricken community. When the milkman’s cries, and the plaintive honk of the fishy- man from Arbroath, will be heard again on these deserted streets.
And like a duck from a pond, a new Ardler will rise from the ashes of the old.
To Be Continued…