Picaroons Guy Reports: NB Highland Games

(Photo Courtesy NB Highland Games)

Guid day, Mukkers. Here’s hoping ye all got oot to see the NB Highland Games in Freddy town July 23-25. And if ye did, here’s hoping ye made it oot alive

Large men in kilts can be an unnerving experience, especially when they’re tossing big rocks and telephone poles while screaming highlander war cries at the top of their lungs. If you agree, then you should try observing this after a dozen Dark & Stormys and half a pound of deep-fried haggis. Throw in some bagpipes and a couple of easily identifiable Englishmen, and you’ve got yourself a good old Scottish hoedown.

The Picaroons team always gets excited about this event. Sean (the boss man) is a proud Scott, and usually starts acting a little peculiar about two weeks out. He was particularly squirrelly this year. “Whatever you do,” he said, “never look a Scotsman in the eye, especially if you’re not Scottish.” I didn’t ask. And even though I’m a ¼ Scottish, I was determined not to risk it.

Griff and Andy P had just finished hooking up the kegs when the first customer of the day scuttled up to the beer counter. He was probably about 90 years old and decked out in full Scottish attire: kilt, stockings with flashes, Glengary hat, sports jacket and a tartan tie.

“I’ll have one of yer Dooryard,” he said, while reaching into his jacket. Sean and I looked on in disbelief as he pulled out a flask of whiskey and removed the cap. “Just gonna sweet’n it up a little.” He added a good 2 ounces then caught me staring directly at him. Our eyes locked. “Why don’t ye take a picture? It’ll last longer.” Sean had seen this coming and had already left the tent. I suddenly wished I were at the dentist.

“Where’s yer kilt?” he said. Yep, a double root canal was look’n awfully good. “I don’t have one,” I replied. “Why not? Are ye not Scottish, lad?” I decided to change the topic. I noticed a small knife tucked in his stocking and looked up at him. Our eyes locked again. I swallowed nervously. “I like your knife, sir. Is it ceremonial?” His eyes turned dragon yellow and his face dark red. “It’s a Sgian Dhub, ye puffter. Black Dagger!!! Call it a knife again and I’ll kick yer teeth in.” Clearly, this wasn’t going to end well. Immediate action was necessary.

Realizing my predicament, Griff and Andy P made for the Beermobile to retrieve the Picaroons keg stand apparatus; essentially a set of metal bicycle handles with rubber grips and a couple of clamps that help secure it to the top of the keg—the perfect distraction.

“Whit in the hell is that contraption?” the old guy blurted. “It’s for doing keg stands, sir,” I slyly replied. By this time he was beginning to feel the effects of his breakfast of champions and swaggered right up to it. He began to explain that he was The University of Edinburgh’s beer chugging champion, class of 1938. “Aye, a little Nancy toy,” he said. “Lets give er a whirl, a’m thirsty. Now give an old man a hand.”

The old man straddled the keg and placed a hand on each grip. Griff and P each grabbed his ankles and in a matter of seconds he was turned upside down above the keg, the nozzle pointing straight into his mouth. Let me just say, hanging upside down is not a flattering position for a 90-year-old man in a kilt.

“Fire away, lads,” he shouted. I opened the tap and stood back. Gulp, gulp, gulp, the old guy sucked down that ale with the energy and enthusiasm of a frat boy. A large crowd had now formed around us. Chug! Chug! Chug! they chanted. A couple of fiddlers started in with some high-tempo Celtic tunes. People were stomping their feet and clapping loudly. The whole tent seemed to be shaking with ecstasy. Three and half minutes later he finally tapped out and Griff and P gently lowered him to the floor. Half the keg was gone.

He took two off-balanced steps backwards, burped and then seemingly recovered. “Aye, that’s good stuff, lads. Now take me to the heavy games. I want to show the caber boys how it’s done.” Griff and P raised him above their shoulders, I filled everyone’s glass, and the whole crowd marched across the pitch towards the afternoon’s events.

Thank you to Chantal, her team and the whole NB Highland Games Organizing Committee for a job well done. We’re already counting the days until next year’s event.

Lang may yer lum reek,

The Picaroons Guy