The Sixth Worst Singer in Scotland

My dad used to say he was the worst singer in Scotland — until he married my mum, then he became the second-worst singer in Scotland.

My mum had Van Gogh’s ear for music.

In the fullness of time, my older brother came along. They nurtured him, and he grew from a tiny baby into a toddler. He learned to walk and talk. And then the day came when he too tried to sing, and on that day my dad realised he had become the third-worst singer in Scotland.

Regrettably, all four of his children inherited his ‘tone-deaf’ gene. So with a wife and four children, my dad confidently pronounced himself the sixth-worst singer in Scotland.

I come from a long line of musically inept and tone-deaf forefathers — but there is a reason for telling you this.

The Prank

One Saturday night, Constable Sylvester and I were on duty when we received a call, Willie Gibbon had started his nonsense again. His neighbours complained about him shouting abuse at them.

Willie Gibbon was a regular. He had an incorrigible appetite for rubbing people up the wrong way and, because of our many dealings with him, he had a chronic dislike for the police.

We spent a full hour mediating between Willie and his neighbours. He exasperated them, and he exasperated us. A bollocking and a final warning later, we got him back into his house without resorting to an arrest.

Willie Gibbon was the most intolerant of men. We spoke to the neighbours, calmed them down and warned Willie that if we had to come back, he would end up spending a night in a cell.

We returned to the office. I sat down at my desk and got on with writing my reports. Constable Sylvester disappeared upstairs to make tea. Halfway through boiling the kettle, he phoned down from the kitchen to ask me if I wanted milk or sugar.

From this stemmed my problem.

The phones in the office had two unique rings: one to indicate an external call, generally a member of the public, and the other to identify an internal call from elsewhere in the office.

My inborn genetic inability to differentiate between tones meant both rings sounded the same to me.

All I heard was the phone ring.

Expecting it to be a member of the public, I answered the phone in the appropriate manner,

“Hello, Police Office, PC McEwan speaking, how can I help you?”

Constable Sylvester was quick to cotton on and without the slightest delay, he put on a drunken voice and said:

“Constable McEwan, this is Willie Gibbon! You better get down here right fecking now, I want to make a complaint and don’t bring that arsehole you were with earlier or I’ll fecking kick him in the nuts.”

I fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

“What is it now Willie?” I spat through my gritted teeth. “Who do you want to complain about?”

“Just get fecking down here, or I will complain about you too,” and at that, he hung up.

I couldn’t believe it. We had just left his house, and he wanted me to come back so he could make a complaint. Heavy-hearted, I trudged upstairs to give Constable Sylvester the dire news, little knowing he could hardly contain himself.

“That was Willie Gibbon again. He wants to make a complaint.”

“What about?” he asked, as innocent as Mary’s boy child.

“He just said he wanted to make a complaint and hung up, but would complain about me if I don’t go. I had better go see what he wants.”

“I’ll come with you,” Sylvester offered, angel-faced.

“No. No. Willie said he didn’t want you there. I’ll deal with it.”

Constable Sylvester must have delighted in the way his ingenious impromptu prank had played out. He even offered to drive me there on the pretext he would nip into headquarters to get the office mail.

I stepped from our car outside Willie’s house, told Sylvester I’d walk back to the office when done. He smiled and waved goodbye.

Willie answered the door and gave me a quizzical look.

“What the feck do you want now?” was his opening gambit.

“You called me, what do you want to complain about?”

Well, from there it degenerated. After one confusing conversation and a tongue-lashing from Willie, I left. I had to leave before I blew a gasket.

I walked back to the office, mumbling away to myself about Willie Gibbon and cursing at him for once again wasting my time.

As I approached the office, there was Constable Sylvester standing at the canteen window looking down at me. He had a cup of steaming hot tea in his hand and a great big knowing smile beaming on his face.