Hoons? - - Loons!
Roond here, laddies, they call them 'loons' - really just young men.
Young men are a peculiar species - irresponsible, VERY eager to show bravado
in front of their peers, testosterone-fueled (which, I understand from
today's Sunday papers is getting rarer, thanks to solvents and pesticides).
I was young once (a loooonnnnggg time ago) and was a horrible little shit
like the rest of them (though I didn't see it that way at the time). I ran
around the streets of the town after midnight singing and laughing, waking
up the good people who were abed before the witching hour - and, by God,
there were plenty of witches around in my home town of Forfar -
interestingly, the place where the last witch was burned in Britain. The
last public hanging in Scotland also took place in Forfar - a guy who stole
a chicken; what a villain!
A couple of years ago some loons vandalised my Chebacco, among others, on
one of the stormiest nights of the year. Naturally, there was nothing of
value aboard, even my OB is third-hand and very corroded (though VERY
reliable), so they set about my decks with a sharp screwdriver. Took a half
hour to put right, with some filler and paint. Other boats were done, too.
Those with the strongest defences fared worst.
Interestingly, they used a little 'Topper' dinghy belonging to a very good
friend of mine to do the deed. They hoisted it over the fence of the dinghy
park, and paddled out (using their hands) to the moorings, in a force 6, to
do the business. It's a bloody miracle they weren't drowned.
Now had it been the late 18th century, they'd have been hunted down and
hanged. Hopefully, though, their interest in boats will last a few years,
and they may help to bolster the declining membership of our yacht club in
the not-too-distant . . . Who knows? One of them may even end up as Club
Commodore?
Yours (with tongue firmly in cheek),
Bill
Young men are a peculiar species - irresponsible, VERY eager to show bravado
in front of their peers, testosterone-fueled (which, I understand from
today's Sunday papers is getting rarer, thanks to solvents and pesticides).
I was young once (a loooonnnnggg time ago) and was a horrible little shit
like the rest of them (though I didn't see it that way at the time). I ran
around the streets of the town after midnight singing and laughing, waking
up the good people who were abed before the witching hour - and, by God,
there were plenty of witches around in my home town of Forfar -
interestingly, the place where the last witch was burned in Britain. The
last public hanging in Scotland also took place in Forfar - a guy who stole
a chicken; what a villain!
A couple of years ago some loons vandalised my Chebacco, among others, on
one of the stormiest nights of the year. Naturally, there was nothing of
value aboard, even my OB is third-hand and very corroded (though VERY
reliable), so they set about my decks with a sharp screwdriver. Took a half
hour to put right, with some filler and paint. Other boats were done, too.
Those with the strongest defences fared worst.
Interestingly, they used a little 'Topper' dinghy belonging to a very good
friend of mine to do the deed. They hoisted it over the fence of the dinghy
park, and paddled out (using their hands) to the moorings, in a force 6, to
do the business. It's a bloody miracle they weren't drowned.
Now had it been the late 18th century, they'd have been hunted down and
hanged. Hopefully, though, their interest in boats will last a few years,
and they may help to bolster the declining membership of our yacht club in
the not-too-distant . . . Who knows? One of them may even end up as Club
Commodore?
Yours (with tongue firmly in cheek),
Bill