Don't Call Me Angus

By Gus Mackenzie

Just the mention of St. Andrews stirs excitement in the heart of every golfer. But to young Angus MacKay, living in the Swilken Bank Hotel, overlooking the eighteenth hole of St. Andrews Old Course was not particularly awe inducing. But it was, an adventure.

Dont Call Me Angus is a mixture of fiction and memoir that recounts the story of a Scottish family during the 1960s and 1970s. In this pleasant and amusing collection of tales, author Gus Mackenzie writes of the emotions and moderate dramas generated by years of telling and retelling family tales.

With beautifully descriptive narratives tinged with an ever-present humorous wink and a nod, the adventures begin with the MacKay family; Angus, the youngest son, his brother, sister, parents, and assorted relatives who live in and manage the Swilken Bank Hotel.

Despite encounters with Bing Crosby, Sean Connery, Tony Jacklin, and Christopher Lee, Anguss real adventures stemmed from the fire in room 9 and eventful trips to his grandmothers house in Kirkcaldy. Layered with light hearted insight, Angus delves into the posh and unique life of the family Mackay as they live in the shadow of the iconic St. Andrews.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 26, 2009
• ISBN: 9780595626359

Gus Mackenzie

Angus Mackenzie was born the youngest of three children in St Andrews in June of 1965. In 1985 Gus met his wife Steph, whilst working the long hours in the hotel trade. He and his wife now reside in Kirkcaldy and have one daughter, Amanda Jayne.

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Don’t Call Me Angus

Gus Mackenzie

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Bloomington

Don’t Call Me Angus

Copyright © 2009 by Gus Mackenzie

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ISBN: 978-0-595-52581-2 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-51317-8 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-0-595-62635-9 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 3/20/2009

Contents

DON’T CALL ME ANGUS.’

The Hustle and Bustle:

The ‘70s’- the decade of discontent:

OH ANNE-GUS

Hoh! Hoh! Merry Christmas:

THAT’S BUSINESS:

NYC 2004:

For Amanda and all your Cousins.

Amanda, Emma, Lisa, Iona, Elizabeth, Deborah and Olivia.

You are all a constant source of; love, fun and happiness

to us all.

For Vivian, Tom, Isobel and Alister.

Thank you for your help, support and encouragement.

Whilst Don’t call me Angus is not a biography,

I have had to change every ones name, purely to protect

the Family from Social services!

DON’T CALL ME ANGUS.’

All my childhood memories and recollections have always been blurred and deliberately distant. I’m not big fan of school reunions or college get togethers.

Nor am I fan of spending money or spending time away from home, maybe it was the private school education, which was as much use as a ‘chocolate fireguard’ or possibly it was that I liked my own creature comforts too much?

Things like; my bed, my bathroom, my TV and simply my small family around me.

But in the early part of my life and being the youngest child of three, it was simply the case of following the lead of those older and wiser in the posh and delightful place that is St Andrews. My Parents worked around the clock, trying to keep us all in a lifestyle that we had became accustomed and it is fair comment to say they did a superb job, throughout the chaos and pandemonium that was the decade of discontent.

I’m quite sure we all grew up to be well-balanced, respectful and independent bunch?

As Mum and Dad worked the long hours and days in the licensed trade, the torch of responsibility then went onto our Grandparents, especially Granny P. Without doubt my best friend in life and if wasn’t the Grandparents, then the torch of blame was naturally passed onto the unsung hero’s of my life; Marie and Alastair. The older siblings that tormented the living daylights of me and one and other, even as children themselves they always watched over me with loving amusement and if perfectly frank, still do, which I am eternally thankful.

Now in the New Millennium with my wife Steph and my daughter Amanda my own small family, I can fondly look back onto those years and simply bore the living day lights out of them both. They know only too well that if I don’t physically and mentally remember everything about my childhood, then the boxes of Kodak photo snaps will lift the haze of the misty years and simply spill the beans on those fuzzy memories. Luckily for me, the family Mackay could back me up, telling these tall tales in a light and breezy tone. They know only too well if what I can’t actually remember I will simply expand on its truth, always through humour, always with a twinkle in my eye.

This following story all began in 2004 when we boarded a plane for NYC, for a very special treat, ironically to meet up with Mum and Dad on a holiday that we will all relish forever. Here I could pin down Amanda and Steph and start yet another tale, trundling down the run way and memory lane, albeit briefly, as we were only on the connection flight to London, but still it ignited the chance for a warm and cosy yarn and a chuckle of my disastrous holidays as a nipper and the ultimate torment of having older brothers and sisters. Always with a humorous insight into the life of a troubled and not so smart baby brother, living the posh and unique life with the family Mackay as a bairn (sorry, my mistake – as a child).

The Hustle and Bustle:

Its Monday Lunch time, on a bright but brisk spring day in March 1965 and the world was still coming to terms with the death of the cigar-wielding ‘Defender of Democracy Sir Winston Churchill.’

Because it’s Monday, it would be the start of another busy week at the ‘Swilken Bank Hotel’ in St Andrews, a 20 something room hotel. Cornered on the picturesque Links and Golf place, it looked directly onto the luscious green lawns of the ‘Old course’ and ‘Royal and Ancient,’ then towered by the massive six storey, red-bricked ‘Hamilton Hall.’

Our place, the ‘Swilken Bank,’ was probably the envy of every small Hotelier for its location and appeal. In this breezy town of 11,000 population, it is exclusively; ‘The home of golf’ and home to us, ‘The MacKay’s’. Steeped in ancient history, sporting legacy and university culture, it is a town with a small population but with an immense personality, swelling with students in red capes, it drops then rises again like the high tide in holiday season.

The hotel had three main entrances: One as the main entrance, for the long stay paying guests. The reception; square and coloured in dark mahogany wood, dark greens, and ancient grandfather clock standing in one corner. In another corner, huge pot plants and a pair of delightful giant Chinese ming vases, big enough to hide any torn carpet and frayed edge. The second entrance for the lounge bar and local boozers, golfers in arron sweaters, student sorts in sporting jackets with leather arm patches and wiry hair. The third is for the tradesman entrance, namely us: ‘The MacKay’s.’

In the dank hotel kitchen is Grandma MacKay or ‘Gaga’ as we called her.

Desperately thin and hard working, she would run the kitchen with traditional recipes and abundant dominance. In her dark blue overalls and inappropriate red patent belt, her sleeves would be rolled up and her right arm deep in a huge pot of green pea soup, more often than not, her left hand gripping a tiny ciggie between her spindly fingers. Obviously there is no flavour to this green gruel, hence the massive ham shank that’s being hurled around. Then two cookers down is ‘Big George,’ a big fat chef.

He should really be a big jolly chef. But in this industry of customer service and hospitality, there is no such thing. As the image of Oliver Hardy, he would be immaculately turned out and still be a spectacularly unsuccessful charmer, probably in his mid fifties and residing with his Mum or with us in the hotel. In fairness, George did make a great steak and Guinness pie.

However, whoever trained him to chop an onion was a mystery, not even slices, not even wedges, his reasoning was: That’s how the punters like it, he would say in his broad, decidedly speedy Dundonian accent, the accent that was a real puzzler to us posh kids?

In 1965, when everything was in a memory of black and white, the Beatles sang; ‘Ticket to ride,’ the kitchen porters sang in perfect harmony; ’Stop in the name of love,’ George would always be as charming as ever.

The view through the kitchen in my mind, was that of clouds of steam and smoke from the gigantic metal pots and pans of boiled spuds and veg, but then a massive pot of ‘Tripe,’ stinking to high heaven, bubbling up into a spiralling foam and then through the blue smoke haze from the roasting ovens is Grandpa.

I always remember Grandpa, wearing his big baggy blue trousers and waist jacket from a 3-piece suit and never once wearing a tie, well, why should he?

But Grandpa ever obliging, prepared the salads for the starters.

Simply: 3 lettuce leaves, 2 tomato slices, 4 pieces of cucumber and a sprinkle of onion rings. Whilst this was all very professional and methodical, it was sometimes known for the numbers to run short and an expedition then carried out to raid the rubbish bin, purely to give the Patrons what they wanted. Who said lettuce wilted when mixed with other food waste from a busy kitchen, quick rinse under the tap, Job a gid in (as the expression goes, when a job has been carried out to perfection, though not necessarily professionally)? All this was carried out whilst Grandpa had a tiny fag drooping from his lip and the nip of whisky, presumably for company sitting close by. My memories of Grandpa are faint, as he passed away when I was only nine years of age, through various complications and Cancer. But I still remember how he would always smoke his pipe in a flume of ‘puff puff smoke,’ or that he would always have a packet of sugar coated ‘Jelly tots’ just for me or that we used to share his car, a dark blue Hillman Hunter with cream leather seats, quite posh for such a rubbish car. But combining all this with the other chef brigade was Mum: A heavily pregnant lady and that’s me, the lump in her tummy, warm and cosy. Give me a couple more months and I should be ready to make an appearance.

But in this inexhaustible state, Helen my Mum, has already turned over three mattresses, prepared another 6 rooms, apparently helped some American chap named ‘Al’ choose Mondays neck scarf, matched his yellow and green tartan trousers, with a suspect tank-top and a not so smart, tartan toory.

Then listened to a barrage of orders, from Gaga the boss and logged the laundry for collection at 1pm and woken my 15-year-old Auntie, who should really have been working, with probable disapproval, some 3 hours earlier.

All this is topped of, by entertaining my big brother Alastair:

Number two child after Marie and soon to be the middle child and a time bomb in the making, a freckled face little chap, piggy eyes, pudding bowel hair-do and hopefully coming to the end of the terrible two’s. In fairness to the folks they were always unsure if there will ever be the terrible fours, eights or sixteen’s, only time will tell?

Ultimately it was lunchtime and not really a big time of the day to seek personal attention, never the less, time to make it his very own.

Clipping big George’s ankles, causing him to make the splits, missing Gaga then crashing through the dining room double doors, Ali was known to be a dare devil on his yellow and blue trike. By today’s standards, it was a horrid little squeaky 3 wheeler, but still, it was transport for any aspiring menace.

As soon as he smashed his way through the double doors of the restaurant, he was in a new environment. No longer was Jimmy Young sounding on the kitchen radio, with ‘To-days recipe’ but now Montovani, piping through the west wing.

Pedalling on a thick dark green carpet, which had little gold thistles and daggers designed on it, his kneecaps rise and fall like super car pistons, with grazes and plasters on his knee’s, his tongue is out, his nose dripping with even more determination, more pedal power but more defiant slower speeds.

Unlike the slippery surface of the kitchen, it would be easier to avoid littered rubbish bags, brown potato sacks, cracked tiles and a barrage of deliverymen, than in the cosy environment of the dining room. But it was never long before Paul; the half Italian, half Pollock Shaw Glaswegian maitre d’ chased him out.

Oi you go out now sonny Jim. Was he Italian, was he Glaswegian, was he gay, no one knew?

Returning to base in hells kitchen, Jockey the Crail Fishmonger, would always arrive stinking (fish doesn’t normally have a fresh odour, or was it the whisky?) and always late with the freshly iced fillets. Deafened by the rants from Gaga about his constant shoddy punctuality and ‘dam right lazy attitude’ how else could she serve ‘breaded haddock,’ without the key ingredient? It was obvious that Jockey was a loveable scoundrel, with smirks from Grandpa, it was only natural to assume that there must have been a hole in his fishing net or possibly that the ‘Old sea dog’ stopped at every delivery point; hotel, restaurant or cafe and drowned a huge ‘Glenfiddich with soda.’ Then simply driving off in his little white Austin van to the next delivery point, ‘half cut,’ a danger to himself and the rest of the town in his thick polo-neck jumper and sailors cap.

Then there would be ‘Bisto’ the butcher, he would always deliver and arrive on time in his huge and gleaming top of the range Jag. Always showing of his wealth and appearance, always with a tiny tom-thumb cigar, always with greased down hair (possibly Bisto the ‘Spiv’ used a pork chop to comb it?), always dripping in gold accessories and still wearing his white overalls, with a black and white pin striped apron. Luckily he wasn’t the only butcher in the town, but he was reliable and a 19th hole Wednesday night regular with his wife Carmel. So it is was only fit and proper that we used his business, very few butchers in the town actually appreciated that Mum had sound training as a butcher herself and could easily spot a not so fresh piece of tripe, steak or faggot at one hundred paces.

(Tripe and faggots are things you are best not to know about. Culinary dishes on the same lines as black puddings and haggis, if you knew what they were, you wouldn’t touch them…OK!

Tripe is rank, horrible; serving it with onions doesn’t help its flavour. It’s actually a cows stomach lining and looks like a throw over rug…Yuch. Faggots, not necessarily a Scottish delicacy, but a meat ball made mainly from piggy bits, really offal or awful.)

However, everything and everyone within the hotel had a clear purpose. I soon discovered that a large part of all hotel life was inevitably going to be the socialising. With a permanent front of house winning smile, where better than the dining room or public bar: Comfortable seats, lingering smells of roasts, herbs and spices, coffee and liqueurs. The bar with its distinctive odour which improved in fragrance as the day wore on, combined with an atmosphere of warmth generated by the long suffering locals and the direct sun light that shone in over from the R & A.

These hotel facilities weren’t just for the year in, year out paying guests.

At £21.00 per head in old money, for one-week full board; bed, breakfast, lunch and dinner, it was quite a package.

Not really a place for the local caddies, but somewhere so called gentry could meet. The lounge bar view was the envy of any nosy parker and golfing voyeur.

If positioned correctly, one could look down onto the ‘Tom Morris Clones’ driving their Jenson’s and Bentley’s into the R & A. But then the common folk; in their Triumph Heralds, Hillman Imps and Minx’s and those old Oxfords with the huge winged taillights, parking and manoeuvring on the Links, a narrow one- way street, which bordered the 18th green, lined with white concrete posts and green fencing.

Ultimately it was to see who was tee-ing off and, if really inquisitive, to see who just trundled down from the ‘Scores’ on to the ‘Bruce embankment.’

Here in the bar, there was always a tall chap dressed in tweed or military blue blazer, from the intellectual bracket, curly moustache, white candyfloss hair and named the Major? It was always a mystery to me, but as the years went by, every local hotel and guest house always had someone called the ‘Colonel or Major,’ permanently living as residents all year round with discounts on breakfast, lunch and evening meals.

In our case, the Major was a real Major and was a retired commander of the SAS.

He always had a bar of chocolate for Alastair and then usually socialised whilst standing up and finished every single sentence by saying; Good, good, rolling backward and forward from his heels to his toes and a slurp with his bottom lip.

But as Dad was an ‘ex-Para’ man, the Major would always greet Dad with the immortal words: Stand easy, as he slapped his morning paper on the bar, or when ordering sandwiches, he would always ponder on the type of Mustard, constantly changing his mind he would simply bark; As you were!

Sitting by the large panoramic window, would be Mr. Pierson, forever wearing his gold-rimmed half moon bifocals. He is someone who made a success at being unsociable, always with a Times newspaper, folded over so many times it had become a note pad of the daily crossword and allowing glances over the 18th green, most probably a widower and retired dentist, but as a resident of St Andrews, he was both miserable and elitist. Even though he only lived seven minutes