International Man of Mystery Tom Mathews sat hunched in concentration over the Irish Times crossword. Domestic animal, three letters? His brow furrowed. Could be cat . On the other hand
We are about to begin our descent. Please fasten your seatbelts. And moments later as the plane taxied along the runway at Prestwick another descent commenced. The descent that all heroes make into a species of underworld, there to be tried in fire. Yes, reader, in the company of some other cartoonists Mathews was to weekend in bonnie Scotland at a cartoon conference in Ayr.
In Prestwick airport our International Man of Mystery decided to rinse the scotch out of his 101 lookalikes (off the back of a lorry, #20 no questions asked, Liberty Market). It was the work of a moment to locate the toilets and the work of another moment to read the sign saying: These toilets are closed for repair. We regret any inconvenience caused .
Other cartoonists like Jim Cogan and Bob Nolan urged IMOM to sneak into the disabled toilets but as a taxi arrived before Mathews had finished complaining that James Bond wouldn t be seen dead in a disabled toilet he decided to swop personae in mid trip. From here out Mathews was to play the role of Hard Drinking Cynical Man of Mystery. The sort of guy who arrives in the bar already smelling of whiskey.
The big exhibition was in the town hall and right across the road from the town hall was an even more enchanting spot, Billy Bridge s Bar. A very tall man who draws Judge Dredd bought the first round.
Another was arranged by local cartoonist Malky, a man who seemed to know a great deal about Alex Harvey. At this point Hard Drinking Cynical Man switched over from Guinness to pints of Heavy, a potion much revered in Scotland, and so it was that by the time the Civic Reception rolled around his memories of several colourful exchanges with the Provost and Councillors of South Ayrshire are at best vague.
All cartoonists on arrival at hotel received a gift pack containing: a miniature of scotch whiskey (Dewars), a packet of shortbread (Walker s) and a tinned haggis (Grants). When they stopped serving in the hotel along about 4.00am, these packs contained only haggis and shortbread.
So much for Friday. Saturday morning was spent for the most part coming down (walking up and down the esplanade thinking about death, sitting looking at cornflakes in bowl wondering why putting milk on them results in noise like Titanic striking icebergs, joining class of seven-year-olds in town hall for Judge Dredd drawing lesson and producing what was universally voted worst drawing of Judge Dredd ever, etc., etc.). Then it was back to Billy Bridge s excellent house (or hoose I guess) for more Heavy.
Here Hard Drinking Cynical Man met a very nice older gentleman who seemed extraordinarily generous. After a while however the conversation became a trifle esoteric and your reporter made his excuses and departed. Let s just say that once there was a man called Oscar Wilde and leave it at that.
Great Chieftain o the puddin race recited our jovial host at the Burns supper where with much skirling o the pipes and whatnot the haggis was piped in, to the accompaniment of a generous helping of neeps and tatties . (That s turnips and mash for you readers in the cheap seats.) All cartoonists donned traditional funny hats, much cock-a-leekie soup was ingested and the dear oul Lallans was heard on every side.
Hard Drinking Cynical Man attempted to represent himself once more as International Man of Mystery to beautiful lady cartoonist two seats away who explained that a liaison would be out of the question unless he was flying to New York the next day. Crushed, Man of Mystery turned to Cogan sitting on his left. Cogan, he explained, was his best friend, his dearest friend, following this statement with an impromptu version of You ll Never Walk Alone that at one time threatened to drown out the bagpipes.
Things became a little vague after this but shortly after 2am the Man of Mystery was to be seen wandering along the esplanade in the company of one of the local gendarmes who seemed disinclined to accept his statement that his name was Barney Rubble and place of residence The Town of Bedrock. Soon the little misunderstanding was sorted out, however, and the tired Man of Mystery being escorted for the second time to his room in the hotel by the patient Cogan. I seemed to get lost that first time, he explained to the now empty room before falling into a light coma.
Over the return journey (International Man of Mystery sets off alarm at airport, International Man of Mystery loses boarding pass, International Man of Mystery tries to get on flight to Paris), let a veil of Scottish mist be drawn. Aw too soon we were back on the rain-soaked tarmac of Dublin Airport and Mathews in the position of the Scot in the Haiku:
Nae hat
And the cauld rain
Fallin .