The Song Of The Sexy Crofter

Yippee kai-aye-yay get along little ewe-hoo
You must be at market by 8 o’ the clock
Though it hurts me to tell you
My friend I must sell you,
I’ve spent all the savings I keep in my sock.

That’s what the sexy crofter of Brue sings early in the morn, (it’s like a regular morning but with more curious fawns and delightful butterflies) as he walks down the lane to his  other field. The village girls line up in their smart office-wear to catch the early bus to Stornoway.  Each is beautiful in her own special way; each has her own special memory of the Sexy Crofter; each has had her own special dose of antibiotics. They watch him go by.

What is it about him?  He’s no good, they all know it.  In fact he’s a lyin’, cheatin’ son of a so’n’so and he doesn’t even try to pretend otherwise.  In fact, he goes out of his way to tell you he’s a wrong ‘un.  He has no
money and any he gets goes on beer and sheep-dip. But he is tall, and he is dark and he is deeply, deeply sexy.

He does sexy things, like saving people from certain peril and there’s nothing sexier than saving people from certain peril.  He’s done that 3 and a half times this month already. First, he ran into a burning dry-cleaners and rescued the shop’s beloved goldfish.  Fluffy was half-boiled when he found her but he CPRed her back to life with a pipette that was thrust into his hands by a passing lab technician, horrified by the carnage in front of him but too allergic to fish to leap in himself, even to save a life.

Then, using just his bare hands and the fortune the gods give to straight-toothed heroes, he lifted a lorry that had accidentally parked on old Mr. MacWhirter .

Next, he rescued an adorable little girl from the jaws of a tiger-shark.  Tiger-sharks are not normally found in the cold waters of the North Atlantic but this one was part of a shark TV-crew on the way to the Arctic to film the effects of global warming on the polar ice-cap and had come into the bay at Dalbeag to warm up. Wrestling and writhing, thrashing and throttling went the sexy crofter across the shallows with the shark, trying to tug the child from the hideous toothy terror, and finally most of her came free.  This was not the half rescue of the 3 and a half though.  The adorable child was counted as a whole save because the loss her leg to the knee didn’t make her any less adorable.  If anything, more, according to Creepy Norman in the Post Office.

The real half-save was really just an error of hearing in the pub when the story of the 4th rescue was told.  After a while, people in that particular pub get so that not only their vision but their hearing goes blurry.  Anyway, as we now know, what happened was this:

Murdo ‘Leccy, the notorious adulterer of Sand Street, was canoodling deep in the ferns by the town hall one night with Janet from MacLean’s when his wife’s sister, Maureen, walked by, pausing to flick a cigarette end into the fountain.  Seeing the ferntops twitching rythmically, she was moved to investigate because she hasn’t a lot else going on in her life.

“Oh, Murdo Leccy!”  breathed Janet, all goosebumps and exclamation marks.  “Where did you learn how to do that?”

But Janet had gasped too loud.  Out in the lamplit street, Maureen’s eyes narrowed.

“Murdo! Is that you in there, you filthy, harlot-hopping, little weasel-todger? I know it is!” She began to cackle a nasty cackle.

“You’re up to to your miserable gonads in trouble now, ‘Nad-Face!  I’m calling my sister! There’s no way you can talk yourself out of this one!  Who’s in there with you?  Is that “Gives You The Extra Yard” Janet from the
fabric counter at MacLean’s? ”

Murdo froze solid, apart from one part of him which shrank away like a terrified mouse into a skirting board.  Thinking fast, he did what he always did in a fix.  He speed-dialed his cousin, who, as it happens, is our hero, that impossibly sexy crofter of Brue.

“Ferns!” he hissed into his Nokia. “Maureen!”

The sexy crofter, round the corner in the Fisherman’s Rest, took the call, put his new pint back down on the
counter carefully and walked out the door. Reaching the corner, right behind the tall ferns, his stunning blue eyes took in the scene immediately and in one fluid motion he’d dropped on his belly like a snake you’d just love to…pet.

Unseen by the shrieking, triumphant Maureen, the sexy crofter writhed his way into the ferny undergrowth with the kind of loose-hipped agility that would make a nun weep.

He reached the disheveled lovers just as a Honda Civic screeched to a halt on the street beside them.  The door opened and a little mountain of beer cans and scorched styrofoam cup ashtrays avalanched tinkily, ominously, onto the pavement.  He could see the pink nylon slippers of a woman coming out of the car.  Closer came the pink nylon slippers, closer, into the ferns now, which were being thrashed aside with a… holy shit! With a cleaver! And a pretty, flipping capable looking arm attached to it!

“I’ve caught you this time for sure,” snarled the raspy voice of a saw-throated woman . “Let’s see what your
lawyer has to say about this, eh?”

The ferns parted and a bulging-eyed gargoyle thrust its head through to glare down in darkness at the couple in flagrante…

“Pardon me, ma’am” said the sexy crofter.  “Oh hi, Beryl, it’s yourself! Look, I don’t mean to be rude but you’ve sort of stumbled into an occupied fern-patch, here.  If you go over by the quay, there’s a good clump there, ‘fyou like.  Bloody council, eh!  Never get around to the weed-whacking.  Now, if you wouldn’t mind just closing the foliage up there, Beryl, there’s a bit of a draught when they’re open, see.  There, that’s great, much obliged to you.  Bye now!  Say hi to Murdo for me!”

Beryl retreated to the pavement sputtering, and gurgling like dodgy plumbing with air in the tubes.  She looked at Maureen.  Maureen looked at her furious sister and began to open her mouth…


But that was all she got out before Beryl’s pre-brick-filled handbag made the sort of sound against her skull
that a butcher’s bag of minced beef, eggs and parsley makes when it’s dropped from a third-storey window.  And sustaining the kind of injury that had become known in the hospital’s A&E, down the years as a BSM: a Beryl’s Special Meatloaf.

Meanwhile the dog, Murdo, smudged green and reeking of Elizabeth Taylor’s “White Diamonds” slipped into a still-warm seat at the bar in the Rest, picked up his devastatingly sexy cousin’s pint, and drank with all the gusto of a man who had just escaped certain Beryl.

Peril and Beryl are practically the same things and both often result in a grisly death so this piece of selfless,
and therefore sexy, saving of a life was counted as a half, a half being deducted for being related to his stupid-ass cousin whom everybody else would have like to see castrated. Strangely, no-one ever wished a castration upon the Sexy Crofter of Brue.

So he had that: selfless acts of death-defying courage, for sure he had that.  But there was something else,
thought the ladies at the bus-stop, each to her secretest self, half of them hoping he’d look up and seek out their eyes as he walked past, half of them praying he wouldn’t.  All of them half-hating, half-loving him.  All of them wondering what he was thinking.

And here’s what the sexy Cowboy of Brue was really thinking as he strolled down the lane, his hands in his
pockets, the morning sun on his back, and here and there gorgeous butterflies settling Disneyesquilly on curious fawns’ noses, contributing to the aura of magic that surrounded him at all times; here’s what he was really thinking:

“Christ, I’ve really got an itch in me balls! It’s like there’s a ball-weevil in there with a little feather duster! How the hell am I going to scratch it with all these gorgeous women over there at the bus-stop?  God and me guts are giving me jip, an’ all.  Shouldn’t have had that paneer aloo gobi last night with my beans.  Man, I’m just going to have to wait til the bus has gone and then I’ll let one rip and really have a good root down in my breeks.”

He walked on, humming to distract him from the tortuous itch and the ballooning pressure.

Yippee kai-aye-yay get along little ewe-hoo
You must be at market by 8 o’ the clock
Though it hurts me to tell you
My friend I must sell you,
I’ve spent all the savings I keep in my sock.

Across the street, the women sighed their private sighs.  And then the bus came.

20 thoughts on “The Song Of The Sexy Crofter”

  1. Alas, my dear, the willing suspension of disbelief was working just fine until the last ball bit. Don’t you have Gold Bond Medicated Powder (TM) in Scotland.



  2. Ah, he should have worn a kilt and scratched his balls with a pencil. Could you tell if a man wearing a kilt was scratching his balls with a pencil, Sam? Betcha couldn’t.

  3. Sam, what is it with you girls, you would way prefer a healthy man with a good appetite to a good man with a healthy appetite.
    Nice one BTW.

  4. Fantastic! Miss Streep is a must for Beryl… perhaps Ahrec Bawdwin as the Sexy Crofter of Brue?

    I wonder was there ever a man, woman, or beast native to Lewis who was related to no other on the island?

  5. Your sexy crofter is in 12 year old son’s class where there’s an epidemic of itchy balls. But, no embarrassment, as pubescent hands are surgically attached to willies á la gangsta rapper. And strangely, I used have a straight toothed pal called Sammy the likeable. The gals loved him too to their anti-biotic detriment.
    Excellent Sam, loved it.

  6. Sparky, I’ve fixed it since you read it.

    Rand, I dunno, does it work on The Clap?

    Nanas, I’m not sure. I am a keen observer of men in kilts.

    Vincent, men and women alike. I overheard a brief but horrible conversation with two fellas lately, one of whom got really down on women for not being attracted to his great job, treats-her-like-a-princess, non-violent (seriously, this guy counted that, out loud, as one of his “pluses” – that he didn’t hit women!). What both of them were forgetting is that they were whiney assholes who thought they were somehow entitled to a woman. They were angry at women in general for not falling at their feet in gratitude for their charms.

    Conan, we’re a stop off for migrating birds who sometimes seduce the natives. Surely that’s enough of an injection of foreign blood into our bloodlines? There aren’t really any hard and fast rules though, except maybe, don’t do it with a politician.

    Honey, he’s ignorant of his own sexiness too, and that just makes him all the more appealing.

    Sniffle, Sammy the likeable – hee! You can spot heroes easily in Britain and Ireland cos they’re the only ones with naturally straight teeth.

  7. ha, Sam, funny.

    My husband has on occasion, defended not good enough-ness with suggesting I see how some of the alkie scumbags he serves in the offlicense are like with their partners. He doesn’t seem to get that it’s completely irrelevant, as I would never have married a scumbag who spent his whole time in the pub anyway. :)

  8. All too true, Sam, But what do girls and women see. See, for up or downwind does not matter, so not hormones, nor beauty and it sure as hell is not the voice. For us men, and that is all men, have a view when women are in the zone. It is not a hotness, sexiness or hormonal zone. Beauty, certainly, but not a requirement. It is a zone when she will get away with pretty much anything. It is almost as if a limelight is being shone on her. And this has absolutely nothing to do with innocence, leastwise not by any generally accepted understanding of the word anyway, for some I’ve known within it could give masterclass in a cathouse. But what do girls/women see of the Sexy Crofter.

  9. Vincent, I don’t know. One woman’s prince is another woman’s prat.

    Eolai, I might give Creepy Norman a chance to speak for himself. Usually he drinks alone though. With his bunions.

    Cheers, Weebro! Sure thing. I have your Myspace page linked too.

  10. Jo! Sorry toots! Didnee see you there. The point’s a fair one. This guy though, he just thought any woman ought to be cock-a-hoop to have him. He was pretty bitter that they’d managed to resist his charms.

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