When Irish Eyes Are Smiling (Deviously) OR A Running Commentary On The Weasil Without His Knowing

18 March 2011

Story #509

R. Linda:

I had been sitting at an assignment discussion at work, and me mind tended to wander since it was a boring meeting and I was tired from me travels. One of the subjects was pulling the wool over someone's eyes, and the thought of something like that was drifting into me near-daydreaming mind.

Since me life be work-filled and there is nothing very humourous about travelling around after candidates running for office (usually), me usual wealth of stories is depleted. And, having yourself and two others at me for not writing as often as I do, I had to think about what to do about it. Never one to force a story, as I always base them on things that really happen and then throw in a bit of blarney to protect the guilty. I didn't know what to do until a few minutes ago when I was daydreaming.

After thinking back at some of the foolish situations I found meself in, me daydream was one of remembering a particular time in a pub in London when the Weasil was putting on a show for an appreciative female audience, and I was standing at the bar with Wolfie watching it all unfold as Wolfie commented upon what we were seeing. I remember being amused at Wolfie's quick quips at the Weasil's expense, and of course, the Weasil had no idea we were discussing him.

First, I had to take us back to the air flight, where we had shown up at the proper time, and Weasil was late. (For more on this trip, See ABROAD to Scotland! Me First Encounter With THE WEASIL 9 Nov 2009)

As we boarded Virgin Atlantic to fly to London, there was Wolfie and meself. We were waiting for the Weasil to appear, and at the last moment, he did, and in a big way. The laddie had adorned his body (you will recall) in kilt, long socks and brogues. He cut quite the figure he did, and the ladies on board were all atwitter. But not Wolfie. As the young whippersnapper came traipsing down the aisle, a big cheerful grin on his silly face, Wolfie leaned towards me and said, "Could it be the young lord coming our way has mistaken himself for a person of some importance?"

Yes, he did say that, and I had to chuckle to meself how true that statement seemed.

Then, once in London, we had an afternoon refreshment in a pub when Weasil spied on a bevvy of young ladies (obviously tourists) and decided to put on a show for them. He went over and chatted them up; they were all laughing, and there was a lot of "beg your pardon, I didn't get that, can you repeat what you said?" going on, and we were amused watching this because as you know, Weasil's command of the English language leaves much to be desired. Wolfie said, "He is full of high spirits, yet he somehow manages to murder the Queen's English with the utmost liveliness and good humour. I don't understand how he gets away with it." And he shook his head and turned back to his drink.

Then, a few minutes later, as things got more raucous and loud at the tourist table, we noticed Weasil had been invited to pull up a chair and join the ladies. This he did with a knowing nod in our direction, the prat. Wolfie looked over and said, "God, he is so full of himself. I'm surprised there's room in here for anyone else!" Which was the truth. The young blade was all about . . . himself! He had forgotten us entirely, except to ensure we were occasionally taking in his popularity with the young ladies.

This went on for a full 30 minutes of Weasil holding court, the young ladies vying for his attention, even if they couldn't understand a word he said. We had been silently watching this when I looked at Wolfie and said, "Well, at least they're all having a good time."

"Aye," he said, "what can you say? He is odd and creative, and obviously, that makes him a pleasing person to the fairer sex!"

I laughed. It was TRUE. They loved it, and every empty blond head was in attendance.

Just as he said that, there was a loud belly laugh from Mr. Weasil as the girls giggled at some joke he told them. I looked at Wolfie, but he beat me to it, "Pleasing, aye, I'm right in saying so, he is that, and he has the unmitigated brass, in a manner of speaking, to outrage all sense of decorum while he's in the pursuit of being charming, and at the same time murderously slaying the Queen's English into something quite unrecognisable. THAT, sir, takes talent." And we clinked glasses and toasted.

"Well, his Mam should have kept him at home longer," I offered, surveying the scene. "It seems he's been let out into the world too young, and I suppose THIS," I gestured at Weasil, "be what comes of it."

Wolfie looked at me in brief contemplation and said, "You are most unhappy because our friend over there is a man and not a hermit? Truly Gabriel, if he was still home with his Ma, can you imagine how awkward the young chappy would be compared to the self-absorbed eejit in a kilt who thinks he's God's gift, AND who is at this very moment entertaining us? He's all British male he is; just look at him pretending to be a Scotsman when it's been bred out of him to wit, and there he stands, a full-blooded Englishman if ever there was one without a hint of knowledge of the truth . . . such as it is." And we toasted each other again.

I must have looked somewhat surprised at that because he went on to say, "Have you recovered? Look at him; he's never lost his vanity, and usually, when one does, and when it returns, it comes as a shock. But not so with our laddie over there. Furthermore, friend Gabe Weas is the epitome of the Englishman on holiday. Completely and utterly occupied with himself!"

I had to laugh again. No truer words had been spoken. There was no sign of the Scotsman he was supposed to be. He was all Englishman on holiday.

One young thing had gone to the loo, and on the way back, her timing coincided with Mr. W, who had gone up to the bar where we were standing to get a refill. She stopped, looked at all three of us, and asked Mr. W if we were his older brothers. Yeah, right, we are.

"They be Irish, and where they're from is heaven on earth," the young reprobate said.

Wolfie looked befuddled and then said to him, not missing a beat, "Heaven's not exactly the place, Weas. I'm from Belfast." He took a sip of his Guinness, and Weasil looked taken aback but not long enough to come up with any healthy quip to offset Wolfie, so he did the best next thing: He escorted the young thing back to the group.

"We should buy him something in appreciation that he let her think we are his brothers and not his maternal and paternal grandda's," I said.

"How about . . . a large dictionary? Help him learn how to pronounce words found in the English language. Unless you think I'm crossing my mark here."

I nodded. Not a bad idea. "No, I think you are on to something."

I laughed so loud that I got "THE" tables' full attention. I gestured for them to pay me no mind, and they didn't!

As you can imagine, this gaiety took a toll on the young whippersnapper. When the "ladies" giggling and winking at him left (all giving him pieces of napkin with their names and phone numbers), he returned to us FAMISHED. Yes, he was peckish and needed sustenance to revive himself from such a show of charm! So, put forth by Wolfie to me privately later, slandering the English language does take a toll. Weasil had worked up, yes, it was work, a copious appetite from so much frivolity that once he had lunched he recreated himself and was ready to carry on, AGAIN.

After all the excitement and the renewed vigour lunch gave him, Weasil wanted some recreation, which meant leaving the pub we were in and going to another one!

When I thought back on this, I realised we had a very good time at the Weasil's expense, and he never knew. Well, now he does.

Gabe
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