There is an institution in the British Empire countries known as the “rugby song”. Rugby songs are usually sung in the bus bringing the team home from an away game, or in the pub after the match. Inebriation is very much a requirement, as most of the songs are inevitably bawdy not to say obscene.
One such song is entitled “The Ball Of Kirriemuir“, of which I shall post but the intro, the chorus and a sample verse or three (all from memory):
“Four and twenty virgins came down from Inverness;
When the ball was over, there were four and twenty less — singing:”
Chorus:
“Balls to your partner
Arses to the wall
If ye’ve never been shagged
On a Saturday night
Ye’ve never been shagged at all.”
Verse:
“The village doctor, he was there,
Scalpel in his hand;
And every time the music stopped
He’d circumsize the band — singing:”
Chorus
Verse:
“The vicar’s wife, O she was there
Lying on the floor;
And every time she spread her legs
The suction shut the door — singing:”
Chorus
Verse:
“There was fucking in the doorways,
There was fucking on the stairs;
You couldna’ see the carpet
For the mass of pubic hair — singing:”
Etc.
I know about a dozen verses myself… and there are another thirty, if not more. The song is reputed to have originated in the late 19th century.
But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.
Yesterday’s Landscape pic featured a very pretty little bridge over a wee burn near Kirriemuir, taken by Yours Truly when I was traveling through Scotland several years ago.
And that’s the problem.
You see, having been to Kirriemuir, I can tell you that there’s a problem with the song that made it famous.
It couldn’t have happened.
Now Kirriemuir itself is a lovely little village — quite gorgeous, in fact.
(it hasn’t changed at all since that pic was taken)
But let me tell you: there’s not a single building in the place that would have been large enough to hold a wee bairn’s birthday party, let alone a grand ball / orgy on the scale envisioned in the song. (There are a few industrial warehouses, but they are of very recent vintage and therefore highly unlikely venues.)
There isn’t even a large manor house in the area, unless you count Balintore Castle, which is several miles distant:
…and until quite recently, has been pretty much in ruins for centuries:
You can’t even see Kirriemuir from the castle because of the hilly terrain and perpetual mist. (#ScottishWeather)
As a friend pointed out, if the ball had been held at Balintore, the song would have been entitled: “The Ball At Balintore” which is not only alliteratively pleasing, but also slyly suggestive of the evening’s activities. But it wasn’t.
The only other building of any size in the area — and which is even further away — is Glamis Castle (of Macbeth fame):
…and you can forget any plebeian shenanigans occurring there. (#OwnedByTheRoyalFamily)
So much for the ball at Kirriemuir, then. Wherever it took place, though, I’d love to have been there. (#RedPubicHair #DisgustingOrgy)
One should never meet one’s heroes, lest one be disappointed.
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