Tales From The Kilted Crypt !

[Lachlan09]

It’s highly possible that this has been done before, but I’m newer here than a pair of boxed Ghillie brogues, so please humour me. Not just me, but let’s humour each other with true stories from the deepest recesses of our Celtic past !

I’d like to open the book with something that happened to me in 1986. In 1984, my wife and I had emigrated from Edinburgh down to London where I took up with a professional consulting company. Now, this alone was something unusual, as I was about the only Scot working in the London office and was a bit of a novelty. As well as that, the company partners were old-school English gentlemen and a lot of my colleagues were quite “posh” from “posh fee-paying schools” and posh backgrounds, so I was different, coming from a working-class Scottish background and community schooling. But I had reached the same professional qualifications as my colleagues.

Every Christmas, the company held a lavish ball at the Grand Ballroom of the prestigious star Grosvenor House Hotel in London’s Park Lane, a very top swish location ! Everyone was in evening dress and ball-gowns of course and all looked like a million dollars. The first couple of years, trying to fit in, I wore a DJ (black evening suit & bow-tie), I think you call it a tux. But the 3rd year, I decided to air my own Gow kilt at long last – a MacTux ! (My owned kilt-wear is daywear only)

You know how smart it always looks of course and I was in my hired Prince Charlie outfit and lovely sealskin sporran (yup ! the real thing !). Remember, getting a sealskin hire sporran is a bit like going to a puppy pound – you want to choose the cute, fluffy one. And the black ghillies – avoid the tired, wrinkly ones !

So we rolled up to the Grosvenor House Hotel and my appearance caused quite a stir and loads of admiration and I was loving it. I was strutting my stuff on the dance floor and my female work colleagues were amazed by the transformation a kilt makes. But you guys know that already ! Then the night started to kick in.

I was standing with a small group of friends in a carpeted ballroom lobby, drink in hand, with other groups dotted around. Suddenly, I became aware of a sense of airiness around my lower regions, like someone had opened double doors from the outside. I turned around slightly to find the mega-senior partner’s wife, in ball-gown, jewellery etc, turning away from me and letting go a clump of my kilt-pleats. She was with a group of her pals, all wives of the most senior partners in the firm ! They were all looking at me and smiling. Obviously, they were discussing my kilt and whether I wore anything under it. They obviously decided to find out and found my bare bum (possibly covered by the tail of my evening shirt, but perhaps not) and all was this done very matter-of-factly without them giggling or anything, in fact just like lifting a bain-marie lid to see what hot food’s inside. Once their curiosity was satisfied, they went back to their general conversation again ! Can you imagine lifting a woman’s dress like that, without fear of a black-eye ? I was astounded ! Why do women always lose control around kilts ? 


The next event took place soon after. I was standing, with legs apart in manly kilt-wearing pose, with a pal near the bar when I became aware of something not quite right. I looked around and behind and saw nothing. But something felt not quite right. I happened to look toward my feet to find an Irish secretary down on her hands and knees on the floor, head between my feet, a big grin and looking right up my kilt ! Unbelievable ! I should have pee’ed in her eye !

The third event of the evening was when I went to the gents toilets. Most of us had had a fair to reasonable amount to drink and as soon as I got into the toilets, some of my colleagues (the bigger, rugby ones) up-ended me by the ankles and my kilt fell over me like a lamp-shade. My clan treasures were on full view ! A clan ball – two in fact !!

As it came time to leave at the end of the ball, a few of us decided the night was still young and we soon were off to a night-club/disco in Shaftesbury Ave. We piled into taxis and off we went. As we were going into the disco entrance, one of the big tux-dressed doormen (bouncers), stopped me and said “Can you hand over your sgian-dubh please Sir ?” in a thick London accent, like Jason Statham or Vinnie Jones. I looked at him agog and he smiled and said “It’s awright mate, I used to work in a night-club in Glasgow”. So I handed it over and we went into the disco.

Amazing – the kilt - I love it - Thank you God !!! It’s babe-magnet supreme !! On the dance-floor girls are giving you the eye and watching your moves etc. If I had been a single man …….. or a naughty married one ………. .

So it was my turn to go to the bar to get a round for my pals and our wives and I was standing at the bar waiting to be served, when this jaw-dropping, man-killing blonde appeared at my elbow. She was just about wearing her spray-on shimmery long red dress and no bra – definitely. She started to talk to me. I don’t think she was overloaded with brains, as she started asking me about Ireland !   But whatever, next thing she said something which I couldn’t hear right, due to the music. I thought she said something about did I come to this disco often, so I said no. She looked at me with surprise and dismay and I thought “Oh crap – she must have asked me if I would buy her a drink and I said no”. So I thought “I better not say “no” again”. Then she said something else which I couldn’t hear, so I made a point of smiling, nodding and saying a big smiling “Yes !”. This time she looked daggers and stomped off into the dusk of the disco. She must have said “Do you want me to leave ?” and I had said Yes ! Damn ! not even a phone number !!

Eventually, all danced-out etc, it was time to go home. Us husbands went to get the coats for wives, GF’s and our own, while the wives and GF’s went to the ladies powder room. So there we were, the four of us guys standing in the queue and with a group of London lassies behind us in the queue. They started chatting and laughing then one smiled and said to me “Can I find out what’s under your kilt ?” and, having had a few drinks too, I replied “Yes you can, as long as I can find out what’s under your skirt”. Next thing, she put her hand right up my kilt, feeling my legs right up to my wee set of bagpipes. Hee hee ! Then it was my turn. My hand up her skirt ! “OMG she was wearing the kit – sussies and stockings ! I ventured as far as she had with me ;)

After that, the wives returned. We were on our way out and I was looking for my sgian dubh. A bouncer noticed me looking for the right guy to get my sgian dubh back from and he came up and with a rough Cockney voice said “If you go to that doorman over there, he’ll give you’re your blade back”. I thought “BLADE ???” Maybe they had a BLADE-check counter with a collection of stored butterfly, flick and switchblade knives – and my sgian dubh ! Mac The Knive indeed !

So off home to sleep soundly and wonder what next year’s Christmas Ball would be like !!

[Bugbear]

Hmmm, X Marks the Scot folklore.

And believe me, I could analyze this one... but I won't...

[dfmacliam]

The power of the kilt.... fact or fiction...LOL.. its a very good story... to be relived in every clime and place, good men dare to wear the kilt...LOL... Thanks for the story... I can picture everything, even the accents..

[MacLowlife]

Funny, isn't it? You first had to tolerate the prying curiosity of the partner's wife. You were almost used to the idea by the time the secretary get her eyeful. The roughousing in the gents completed your initiation and left you ready to swap squeezes with the cuties in the coat line. I'd call it a classic example of the slippery slope.

[MacLowlife]

In any case, it's exactly why your Auld Grannie warned you to stay away from London, better known as Babylon-on-Thames.

[Bugbear]

Oh, but MacLowlife, don't forget the part about having to leave the sgian dubh with the English doorman, and the later miscomunication with the young lady... Even the name of the area where the disco is located. Classic.

[MacLowlife]

Sometimes a sporran is just a sporran, MacBug

[Highlander31]

Nice story.

I've had a few things happen. The one that stands out the most is what happened at a party my wife and I hosted. When we lived in San Jose, we would host several parties a year. One party had a Renaissance theme. Costumes were required and we hired a quartet to perform period music. We also supplied a buffet with appropriate foods, i.e. turkey legs, spare ribs, roast beef, assorted vegetables, puddings and other desserts. Of course every feast has to have copious amounts of ale, mead, and wine.

A couple of hours into the evening, three of the women, after having sampled large amounts of the aforementioned alcoholic beverages decided they would find out what someone wears under a great kilt. Over the course of twenty minutes, I had two digital cameras and a video camera thrust under my kilt. These women discovered, much to their delight, that my boots were the only items worn under the kilt. Everyone had a good laugh and the party continued without further explorations for the rest of the evening.

The next morning, my wife called each of the three to discuss their photographic techniques. From where I sat with my book and coffee, she appeared to take great pleasure in hearing the embarrassment in their voices as they remembered how much drink they had consumed and what they had done in full view of the other guests.

When my wife is asked what she thinks of all this fuss over kilts. She simply smiles and says "Kilts are like catnip to women." Did I mention, my wife is a wise woman?

[Bugbear]

Sometimes a sporran is just a sporran, MacBug

Fair enough, MacLowlife, but as the story points out, sometimes a kilt is just a lampshade... I have been wondering where the sporran ends up in that up-side-down business.

[Lachlan09]

Haha ! great crack lads, keep it coming ! I swear on my Heart of Midlothian that the story I recounted was 100% true and happened all to me on the same night, in that order, just as shown. I've had other interesting occasions, but never like that one !!! Yes, it does seem unbelievable, or a stitch-together of different events, but it really was all on that one funny crazy night in December.

I should also mention that just before we arrived at the ball, some Arabic or Mediterranean gentleman was walking past as we got out our taxi and he started to laugh at my appearance, laughing at the kilt. I was all for filling the slimy b*****d’s face in, but my wife talked me out of it. I let it pass and had an amazing night instead.

The next year I wore my kilt to the ball, but apart from admiration, there were no crazy moments as my colleagues had seen me in the kilt the year before, so there was no surprise. We also didn’t go to the disco afterwards ! Straight home James !