Our first family car was a black Austin Woolsley which my Dad picked up in 1968 prior to moving to Troon. I’m fairly sure it passed the 100,000 mile in 1975 so it must have been a decent motor. Obviously, there weren’t nearly as many cars on the roads in those days and it was always an adventure going anywhere by car.
Drink driving was unfortunately quite common. This has blighted many careers and lives and I am fully supportive of the total clamp down that has happened in recent years. Nevertheless, a few amusing incidents have taken place involving vehicles and drink none of which I’m glad to say took place on a public highway.
It wasn’t uncommon back then for guys to drive to the golf club, down a few drinks after their round and drive home again. Usually though if someone was rather worse for wear he would be persuaded by his friends to leave the car and get a lift back with someone else or walk. A story, which may or may not be true, did the rounds in Troon for a while. A golfer, having consumed several too many sherbets after a round of golf on the Portland Golf Course, decided it was time to return to the delightful company of ‘her indoors’ . Those who know the course will remember the car park as being just next to the wall to the left of the first tee. The main road behind the wall ran parallel to the first fairway and you did want to drive down there when someone with a penchant for a wild hook was on the tee! Our man decided against everyone’s better judgment, including his own, that he was fit to drive with only a short distance to negotiate. His friends waved him off and continued drinking. Next morning his car was found stuck in the bunker on the left half way up the fairway which led to the classic line ‘he always drives into the bunker on the first.’
On another occasion a group of rugby club gentlemen headed by car from Troon to attend a rugby international at Murrayfield. Now I must stress that the driver was as sober as a judge and no alcohol was consumed until the group arrived in Auld Reekie. The driver also remained sober throughout, the group did not. One worthy was having trouble opening a can, his motor skills having departed somewhere along Rose Street. The driver had the bright idea of using the car key to open the can, promptly snapped it in two and the group almost missed the last train home.
Our family home in Troon was on one side of two grass crescents which were separated by a quiet main road. There was a family, the Carols, who lived on the other side of the crescents about a decent six iron’s distance away. Strangely we only ever talked to or saw them on Hogmanaay for a singsong because one of our number knew one of their relatives who visited at that time of year. I always found it mildly amusing that just after Christmas we visited the Carol family to sing. The whole gathering, kids and all, would decant en masse with shortbread, lump of coal and drink for this annual ritual. On one such excursion, a reveler announced he was going to drive. ‘We can just walk’ we said and ‘you shouldn’t be on the road.’ ‘I’m not going on the road’ he replied and took the direct line straight over the grass, bumping up over the road and then across the grass on the other side. It was a few months before the deep ruts in the grass vanished completely.
Many years later at a Round Table Gala day in Bridge of Weir, this memory came back to me. Gala Day was a big event with a major under 18’s football competition finals as its centre piece. The pitch was surrounded by the usual plethora of stalls, bouncy castles and so on. Someone had secured a large portable exhibition truck of some sort for the day to add to the attractions on offer. Round Tablers tended to start on the beers early on Gala Day and our man in charge of directing the exhibitors was no different. When the large articulated truck arrived the driver asked where he was to go. Our traffic controller was posted missing, presumably checking the portaloos so some local worthy told him to ‘just park over there.’ The driver then proceeded to go directly across the recently marked out football pitch leaving enormous ruts in the process. The sight of those youngsters running hell for leather and then going down as if suddenly shot was like a scene from a comedy classic.
mikejtucker007 