Bob Servant (19 page)

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These following letters were indeed sent to the Football Associations of Scotland, England and Ireland in December 2007. Quite why they never responded I've got absolutely no idea.

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Luckily for my purposes, this application was returned to sender. Photo courtesy of Bob Servant's private collection, all rights reserved. Inscription on back of photograph reads: ‘Wogan's 68th Birthday, 3 August 2006. I gave Frank a tenner.'

When you get to my age there are loads of places you used to enjoy going to that you don't enjoy going anymore – places like Carnoustie, bouncy castles, and the toilet. The worst of all is going to the doctors. When I was a kid I used to love going to the doctor's because he had a big poster on his office wall of a naked woman. Well, I say that, it wasn't like a naked woman you get in jazz mags, it was more a drawing of a woman where you could see inside one half of her body and there were arrows pointing at her organs. But you could still see her outline OK and she had a nice eye.

The seventies were probably the golden age for going to the doctor. Back in those days there was a real ‘anything goes' approach to comedy in doctors' waiting rooms and although I completely accept that some of that material doesn't have a place in today's society it was still enjoyable at the time. Unfortunately though, with regards to doctors, I suffered a Hiroshima in 1982 and the result was that I didn't go back for twenty years.

It was all the fault of a real snake in the grass called Dr Wilkie. He had just opened up in Queen Street and Chappy (golfer's shoulder) and Frank (questions about time travel) had both been to see him with separate issues. They raved about him and I'd been meaning to go and see him, so he could have the chance to meet me as much as vice versa, but hadn't got round to it when one day I was in Safeways giving the Small Ads Board the respect of a quick glance.

Amongst the usual Broken Hoovers and Unwanted Gifts Brigade there was a real diamond in the rough – a tiny little card that said ‘Lovely Skirt', then a phone number, and then TWO kisses. I nearly
dropped my basket. Safeways have a notoriously tough line on the content of the Small Ads Board (which I discovered when I was looking for a black pal) but they'd obviously missed this belter so I grabbed it, stuck it in my pocket and walked out in a Nothing Going On Here manner.

I got home and called the number. Some woman answered and put on this husky voice and did all that ‘what time can you come round?' material and I thought here we go Bobby boy, here we bloody go. She lived in the Ferry, along in Long Lane, so I told her to give me twenty minutes and went to work. I had a bath, a shave, did my hair really nicely, went to town with the Cologne and stuck on my suit.

As I expected I got a bit of attention from the boo boys on my walk through the Ferry. A couple of kids said I smelt like their gran and I just gave it, ‘Well that's a compliment to your gran,' then outside Toshy's Hardware some Know It All pointed out that my trousers were inside out. I got changed in someone's garden in Union Street and then walked down Long Lane with a decent smile on in case the woman was watching from a window.

I found her house and rang the bell then leant back on the gate so I looked like I was here, yes, but at the end of the day there were other places I could be as well. The door opened and she was not too bad at all and said, ‘You must be here for the skirt?' I said, ‘You could say that,' and did the Sean Connery trick of raising my right eyebrow. She said, ‘Your wife's got good taste,' which was a pretty racy bit of flirting so I pushed myself off the gate, said, ‘Luckily for you I'm not married,' and sent my left eyebrow up as well to show that things were escalating, even though sometimes when you send up both eyebrows it can be misread as surprise.

She was staring down at my crotch area and looking a bit rattled and I thought, ‘Christ, we've got a live one here,' and I looked down to see that actually my trousers had been the right way round originally and the boo boy in Union Street hadn't been a Know It All but either short-sighted or a So-Called Comedian.

Before I had a chance to reply she produced a Safeways plastic bag and pulled out a tartan skirt and handed it to me. I was in shock. She told me I could have the skirt for free, she was just glad that it was going to a good home and closed the door in my face. I walked out the gate with my ears ringing with the terrible truth of the matter, turned round and, fuck my luck, Chappy and Frank were walking
up the road. They were too close for me to leg it so I panicked, put the skirt over my head and gathered it around my neck.

They asked what I was up to and, thinking fast as always, I said I'd just been to see this Dr Wilkie they'd been banging on about and he'd given me a special scarf to stop me from getting the mumps. Obviously Frank swallowed it whole but Chappy looked a bit suspicious so I said Dr Wilkie had also suggested that draught beer could help so it was Drinks On Me at Stewpot's.

We got up there and although I got a few stares and Stewpot said something about not knowing I was so patriotic, I managed to move the conversation on. Things were going not too bad at all when I heard Chappy say, ‘Hello Doctor Wilkie.' I couldn't believe my luck. I'd never seen the boy in my life and now slap, bang, wallop, he was in my pocket. I stared at the peanuts and then Chappy said, ‘Bob was just telling us about the mumps scarf.' I spun on the stool and gave a decent one-two, saying, ‘That's confidential, Chappy,' and then looking at the doctor in a very obvious ‘help me out here mate' look. They obviously don't teach Basic Looks at Doctor College because the moron said, ‘What's a mumps scarf?'

Chappy did a face that was exactly like a police dog catching the scent of a fugitive member of a prison chain gang in America's Deep South and pointed at the skirt. ‘Bob here said that you'd given him this to wear round his neck to stop him catching mumps.' I tried one last look to the doctor, a pretty clear ‘just go along with it' but the prick hit me with his own one-two. He said, ‘I did no such thing,' then came over, looked for the label and announced, ‘This is a woman's skirt.'

Chappy looked like he'd won the pools, he shouted for Stewpot to stop the music because he had an announcement to make. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of that so I stood up, pointed at Dr Wilkie and said with admirable politeness, ‘You have behaved like Adolf Hitler today,' then walked out with my head held high though, to be fair, I could hear them laughing till I was two streets away, even through the thickness of the skirt. Things were pretty tricky for a wee while after that. Chappy told everyone that things had got worse and I'd started wearing high heels on my ears and Tommy Peanuts said that I'd had tiny pairs of tights made for my fingers.

Even after matters died down, Dr Wilkie's vindictive behaviour meant I didn't see a doctor for twenty years to demonstrate that I
refused to be a whipping boy for their jokes. I had to go eventually when I had that thing with my belly button, and I'll pop in now and again these days, but I find it hard to drag myself along because they're such a bunch of drama queens. When you're sitting in a doctor's office and he's giving you the sad face and the Serious Lifestyle Issues routine just remember that about half of all doctors are failed actors and you'll suddenly understand why they're being so dramatic. Whenever one of them starts with the All Is Lost stuff I just smile patiently back and think that if they'd only got one cameo appearance in
Take The High Road
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then I wouldn't have to listen to this garbage.

I've got years ahead of me and I intend to enjoy them. But everyone dies once in their lives and on that front Bob Servant is no different to anyone else. Luckily, I've made arrangements. Not so luckily, they involve Frank.

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A
S
cottish Television soap opera (1980–1993) famous in later years for eccentric scripting that saw characters' personalities alter significantly on an ongoing, dayto-day basis.

‘Frank's in charge' is one of those phrases that just don't add up, like ‘dry ski-slope' or ‘well-known Aberdonian funny man' but with me being the last of the Broughty Ferry Servants I can't go down the normal funeral route of asking family to step up to the plate and start making phone calls once the Woe Is Me stuff is done.

I considered various pals to look after my Funeral Masterplan but in the end I realised that the most suitable person to be in charge was obvious. Me. So in order for me to be in charge I've told Frank that if I take the long walk into the sky before him (which would be a complete travesty for a start) then he's in charge. He got all excited and went down the It's An Honour and Won't Let You Down route and I just smiled to myself and thought, ‘If you only knew,' because the fact of the matter is that I've given him so many rules that he's nothing but a puppet.

I know what funerals can be like. Everyone's in their best gear and the nerves start jangling and someone throws in a gag to break the ice. Well, not at mine because I want more ice than the North Pole with people concentrating on the job in hand and not rolling about in the aisles because Chappy's made some stupid joke. Me being dead is no laughing matter and people should respect that.

I watched this documentary once about a funeral in India. They light a big bonfire, chuck the dead person on it, then everyone sits about
having a really good cry. In terms of the bonfire, I'd rather leave that to the professionals but I want to see some decent crying from the punters. Frank says that he can't see it happening because I know too many proud men and tough women but I tell him to remember about the music.

About ten years ago I was walking past Eastern Primary School when I heard a voice, stopped in my tracks and thought, ‘Call off the search we've found an angel.' Despite the fact that it's got me into trouble in the past
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I popped my head in the classroom window. The voice belonged to a little boy who was standing in front of the class singing ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow'. He had a funny wee face and little knobbly knees and my heart melted like chocolate. I drew up a contract on my hanky, waited until he came out for his break and right there and then signed him up to both my funeral and a management contract. He was eight years old and I was going to make him a star.

I gave up the making him a star bit after a knockback from Radio Tay and no reply from
Smash Hits
but I kept the funeral contract hanky safely filed away. A few months ago I was reviewing my Funeral Masterplan and decided to check up on my angel. I wish I'd never bothered.

Frank and I pushed the right questions into the right ears and we tracked down my angel to the fish and chip shop where he works. He doesn't work at one of the good ones like Maciocia's or Princess Friana's but at some chipper down near what was once briefly the Fatima Whitbread City Dump.
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‘This doesn't look too clever, Bob,' said Frank when we got there and it was hard to disagree.

We went in to find this fat guy standing behind the counter. I asked him if he knew my angel and he went all funny and said it was him. ‘You wish,' I said and then he pulled out his driving licence and I
had to swallow the bitter pill that my angel has grown into a donkey while Frank nearly ended himself with delight.

I told Frank to grow up and asked my angel what the hell had happened. He could see I was disappointed so insisted on loosening his apron and having a crack at ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow'. Fuck me, that was an experience. If the guy hit one note he did it by accident, Frank had to sit down because his legs went with the laughing and I thought I was going to die from embarrassment. I stared at the menu until he'd finished and then told him it was sad to see him like this, that he'd had the lot and thrown it all away and that I'd like a King Rib supper.

He said that was a bit much and how he's still only nineteen and I said that just made it even worse. It was a bit awkward after that because I had to wait ten minutes for my King Rib. Frank went out to the car to compose himself and I stared at my shoes. My so-called angel had a go at ‘Wooly Bully' but I just raised a hand until he stopped. When I took the King Rib supper he was crying and I nearly cried too when I got home and tried to eat the thing.

Anyway, after that disaster I just thought, ‘Keep it simple, no chances,' so I went and saw old Arthur Justice from the Broughty Ferry Amateur Dramatics Society. He agreed to put together what he called a Supergroup of the best singers from every Amateur Dramatics Society in Dundee. They're going to sing ‘Holding Out For A Hero' while dressed as members of the Emergency Services and some of them will be bandaged up with tomato sauce on their heads so it looks like they've just come from a major accident. Good luck finding dry eyes when they get going.

Arranged around the coffin I want to have those special flower letters like gangsters always have. On one side of the coffin I want flower letters saying HERO and on the other I want LEGEND. Frank says that people will think it's a gangster's funeral like when Fingers McConnachie died. That was the biggest funeral Dundee has ever seen because Fingers had everyone in his pocket including a certain newspaper editor.
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I told Frank that people know I'm not a gangster
and that my funeral will be better than Fingers' because it won't have the element of fear or the inconvenience of the metal detector.