Picture, if you will, a tartan lampshade with two hairy white pipe cleaners hanging from it…


Today I am at my son’s wedding. This post is timed to appear just as the ceremony begins.

Relatives and friends have been arriving for this mighty gathering, which is the current reason why you haven’t heard much from me in the last day or so. The other reason, the darker one, takes a back seat for the day.

I decided not to post any wedding photos, unless there are some really incredibly funny ones, as it wouldn’t be fair on the other guests. There might be some who have strong objections to being splashed all over the internet and I am not going to get a signed release form from every single one of them. So no wedding photos here.

Anyway, they’d take some time to come back as my son and his wife-in-half-an-hour-from-now will be heading for honeymoon on Monday. Unfortunately they have chosen to go to Greece but then, like father like son…

At least he can’t get blamed for the collapse of his honeymoon country. “It was like that when I got there” will be his response in future.

My honeymoon was in Yugoslavia, when it was still intact and peaceful 😉

Nevertheless, I promised photos of a kilted Underdog and photos you shall have. This is my first time in a kilt so have your barf bags ready, put the children in front of the TV and remove all easily-horrified pets, spouses and maiden aunts from the room before proceeding further.


I am in full Scottish regalia, including the traditional dour expression, in the pic that is to follow.


(Clicking photos should make them bigger. You have been warned)

This was the first try-on of my hired wedding dress. Some bits will need adjustment tomorrow before finally heading to the wedding. Especially the sporran. Those things are heavier than I expected even when void of whisky and cigarettes. Scottish dancing is energetic and a bit mad and having that thing repeatedly pounding the wrong bits could bring tears to even an underdog eye.

I didn’t get issued with a real sgian-dubh, just a dummy one. I suspect my son had a hand in that as he has also decided I won’t give a speech and has vetoed every single one of my hats. I am also not allowed a claymore, which I consider a natural part of Scottish national dress. Well, I suppose I can be thankful I didn’t raise a gullible idiot.

The picture above will be, after fine-tuning, how I will appear at my son’s wedding.

The picture below is how I would like to have appeared. As a battle-ready underdog.

mcunderdogGuess what? Not allowed.

By the time you finish reading this my son will be married or very close to it. I wish him and his new bride well and hope it turns out so much better than my one attempt at this.

It could hardly turn out worse…



30 thoughts on “McUnderdog

    • Michael McFadden, I would have thought better of you. I am sure that your ridiculous question was a minor aberration that I have never ever even thought about. And why should I?
      They might have come screaming down from the mountains waving their dicks about some three hundred years ago, but I doubt that their dicks are any better now than they were then. And I really don’t want to think about it anyway.

      Liked by 1 person

        • Why else do you think they weren’t wearing Kelvin Klein Y Fronts? They were trying to scare everyone half to death. Especially the women. Lord help me. That I should have been so abused. What a horror story. Snort.
          But then I am a Celt.. And the strangest thing of all is that the Celts never underestimated their women.
          I somehow lost this in the process of growing up. I forgot who I am, if I ever knew in those days. But I bloody well do know now. But only for me…

          You see, it is hard to explain that some people don’t know who they are. Has anyone ever tried to give these horrible little arseholes some sense of where they come from?
          Half of the horror stories are probably Celts, if only they knew.

          Anyway, this wasn’t what it was all about. Although it might have been. Celts have a nasty habit of blaming themselves for everything that ever went wrong. I swear to God that they even want to.

          En Y Var.

          Liked by 1 person

  1. Yes, very dapper, LI. You actually scrub up quite well.

    Is the happy groom a smoker? If so, he’ll appreciate the Greek approach to smoking bans when he’s on his honeymoon. They tend to comply with the diktat of putting ‘No Smoking’ signs on the walls, but then they put ashtrays on the tables. I think it’s called ‘paying lip service’. I hear that certain parts of central Athens they comply (under duress) with the bans, and I did wonder when I bought a place to do up in Patras (3rd largest city in Greece) what the situation would be there. So I went to several bars and restaurants in central Patras (all with ‘No Smoking’ signs prominently displayed). This was in the winter, so it was all inside drinking / dining. Every place I went, when I sat down, I’d put my tobacco and lighter on the table next to me. As soon as the waitress came to the table and spotted my smoking accoutrements, an ashtray would be brought.

    The Greeks might not be very good at economics, but they certainly know how to treat people in a civilised manner. What part of Greece is your son going to?

    I travelled through Jugoslavia a few times way back when. Lovely country, although the difference in wealth was stark between Ljubljana in the north and Skopje in the south. Like two different countries. (Which of course they are now.)

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I very much doubt that our host will see much of what we write today, but obviously I’m not alone in wishing him great happiness, which he can acquire not only vicariously from his son’s big day, but from what is happening later this week.
    Let us then toast the bride and groom. To some of you it might seem a little early, but I awoke fully-clothed on my bed this morning and feel as though someone has injected rat dung into my brain.

    Liked by 1 person

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