I enjoyed his company immensely.
Judging by the turnout at his funeral recently, I would say a lot of people felt the same.
Now, as you know, I’ve spent a significant part of my working life as a journalist. I’ve covered everything from the political upheaval of the day to international football matches and Country Women’s Institute three pikelets competitions. Congratulations to Mrs Gibson of Rotomanu by the way.
However, I’ve never reviewed a funeral like one would some stage production. Until now.
I do so because this last farewell was, in my humble opinion, utterly spot on in the way it was conducted and reflected exactly who the Proud Scotsman was and how he would have wanted to go out.
Of course there were tears. But these were of both sadness and laughter in appropriate proportions, the latter coming more and more as the ‘after match’ part of the proceedings continued. I am sure the Proud Scotsman would have liked that.
Okay, so first I’ll give you a little bit of background to the sort of bloke my mate was.
For starters, he loved people and a good yarn. Time spent with people of a similar leaning was pure delight for the Proud Scotsman.
He was a respected timber expert in his work life and an accomplished singer - I still reckon his rendition of Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond is streets ahead of the original - guitar player, whisky expert, footballer, boxer and general raconteur the rest of the time.
A story told by the Proud Scotsman was one to savour and left you with a smile on your dial every time.
Likewise stories about him did the same.
When I first met him. I was told of the time he went to a nearby town one Saturday afternoon to play football. After the game he had a few beers with the locals which led to a few whiskys. The guitar came out and the Proud Scotsman was in his element. Eventually it was time to go home - which in his case was in another town 80 kilometres away - but he and the locals were having such a good time he elected to take up an offer of a couch for the night to continue the party at someone’s house.
Time has obviously added to the legend, but the way I heard it he didn’t arrive home for three days. Tired? Yes. In trouble with his wife? Yes. But with an abundance of memories both gathered and left behind.
There was also the rather odd question I was asked when I first met him by one of his close mates. “Do you know the name of Gabby Hayes’ horse?”
For the uninitiated, Gabby Hayes was an old-time movie cowboy who was a sidekick to many of the stars of the day. It seems somewhere along the trail, the Proud Scotsman and his compadres had been sitting around the proverbial campfire reminiscing when the question had been asked.
It seems while many of the gang had suggestions, the Proud Scotsman told them they were all wrong. Remembering this was in the days before the internet was even invented for anyone to check and the legend, or rather question, persisted for years until he announced the answer would be revealed at his funeral. And it was.
Proudly read out by his son, incidentally wearing dad’s kilt, and leaving a wry smile on those among the audience who were in on the joke. I know myself, I would have gone anyway, but it was definitely something I was looking forward to finding out after all these years.
As for the funeral itself it was perfect with a capital P.
Please understand this guy knew a million people and each of those million people had 100 stories to tell about him. If they had been given the floor to relay those stories we would still have been sitting there in six months. Obviously that would have meant losing some precious socialising time. The Proud Scotsman made sure that that was not the case.
There were just two speakers. Both close friends. One being our mutual good mate, the Scottish Plumber. Who relayed the tale of his first meeting with the Proud Scotsman many moons ago.
New to town he had gone to the pub. As you do.
The first person he came across had a familiar accent and so he said: “Ahh, Scottish person.” The reply was short, sharp and very much to the point. “What the **** has it got to do with you?”. Stammering an apology, the Scottish Plumber explained his predicament. New to town, didn’t know anybody, etc, etc. Before the night was over the pair had become firm friends. It was a friendship that was to endure right up until the very end.
Either side of the two speeches, a lifelong friend of his wife - bridesmaid at their wedding in the 60s – conducted proceedings, always with a view to ensuring the occasion was a celebration of life rather than your standard funeral.
Tributes from children and grandchildren were interspersed with a tear-jerking video of Granddad on the guitar singing a lullaby to his two wee grandchildren and a recording of an old Scottish folk classic he had made himself.
It all added to the picture I already had of the Proud Scotsman.
Two years ago I set up a little business. Basically, it’s telling people’s life stories and giving them a little book for family and friends rather than a wider market. It is marketed on the basis that everyone is somebody to someone.
It came from attendance at funerals where people came out saying “I never knew he did that.” Sound familiar?
Anyway.
I needed somebody with a good back story to help me get started. A short while later I bumped into the Proud Scotsman and he agreed to be my guinea pig.
It wasn’t intended as a blow by blow rundown of his life. More some bits and bobs which encapsulated who he was. I know he could have gone on forever. But he didn’t, and what we ended up with was a nice little booklet which hopefully leaves friends and family with a few nice memories.
As I say. Everyone is somebody to someone.
And the Proud Scotsman certainly was.
