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Height - 6.00"
Waist - 32"
Leg - 32"
D.O.B- unknown (born in a field on Skye)
Occupation - Online tour guide (patter merchant)
Eyes - blue
Tartan - his own Donald from Skye (but we can wear it too)
Socks - from his grandmother (hand knitted, unfortunately no longer available)
Garters - his own (but available for us)
Boots - Woodlands
Sporran - handmade (his own but available for us in our own initial)
Belt - handmade (his own but available for us in our own initial and different colours)
Tshirt - never takes it off
DNA No 5544332211
Address - Isle of Skye
Passport No 99887766
License No - DON777SKUK888
Vehicle - "ERROR404 - unknown character on database"
The light was fading as Donald pulled up alongside the pier in Portree. He had been out fishing all day in ‘The Enola Hay’, his 45 year old trawler boat and all he had caught was a cold and a single crab, enough for a sandwich. He was fed up with fishing. It was originally his fathers boat and back in the old days, things were good. There were plenty fish, herring and mackerel, and ‘The Enola Hay’ was putting food on the table. Times had changed and Donald was fed up. He could hear the boys in the Pier Bar, they would cheer him up. Big Finlay the barman was his usual cheery self as Donald walked in, “well a’ Dhomhnall, de tha dol?”, which translated from Donald’s native Gaelic to “hello Donald, what’s doing?” “Ach, tha mi fed up” replied Donald, which translates to, “ach, I’m fed up”. When Donald first went to school, he had no English, not one word. Only the Gaelic.
As he grew older his language adopted and there were certain phrases that just sounded better in English so when Donald was amongst the locals he would use this half Gaelic, half English, language to full effect. Donald scanned the bar, the Hoogster was playing pool with Donnie ‘O, the Turnip was playing darts with Domnhall Mhor, Domnhall Beag was hustling a couple of tourists on the dominoes, the three MacFarrigal brothers were in the corner talking business like usual, Red Andrew was in staring at the horse racing which was on in the TV in the corner. The pale blue walls of the joint had this wonderful sea scene painting going across the back wall.
“The usual Donald?” yelled Big Finlay from the other side of the bar, stopping low to reach for the salt’n’vinegar crisps. He already had the can of coke in his hand from the fridge. It was a cosy place the Pier Bar, this is where the locals hung out. This is where it all happened. If anything was going down, you would hear about it here. The local Police drank there too, most of the time they were off duty and there was nothing they didn’t know. Donald didn’t like drink. He had watched on helplessly as his father lost his battle with the demon drink. He had witnessed things he wished he hadn’t. Coke was fine with him. He drank one can a day at the most, if the craic was good he could make it last for hours in the Pier Bar.
“Aye, it’s an old Ferguson TE20, totally knackered I heard it was, ready for the shore, he’s a right grumpy one, he refused to tow the windfarms for the Lewis job and they punished him by leaving him at the end of the Pier over in Callanish for months with no battery. The poor sod rusted away in a jiffy and he’s now in a barn over in Luskentyre, Harris, ready for the shore. Aye old Toromod the Post was over in Luskentyre at a funeral and he heard it there. Aye it’s a shame, you can’t beat a good one of those” Donald overheard the Turnip saying to Domhnall Mhor at the ockey. Donald ears perked up. “Did I just hear that right” he said to himself. “Hey Turnip, did you say a Ferguson TE20 there?” Donald shouted across the jukebox noise which had mysteriously fired into life by itself, fortunately milliseconds after the Turnip had finished his sentence. “Aye Donald, a TE20, but I wouldn’t go near it, it’s a wreck, with attitude”.
Donald shuffled slowly past The Hoogster as he just about to play a shot. You didn’t want to upset the Hoogster, he had hands like coal shovels and had to crouch going out the door. “Good shot TH” Donald whispered as The Hoogster sank the 9 ball. The Hoogster was the best on the island at pool, he even beat Earl the Pearl back in the 80’s when ‘The Pearl’ was at his peak. Earl the Pearl was from Plockton and was the best player on the mainland, as well as being the best pearl diver in the area. He drove a Porsche and really fancied himself as Gods gift. He was notorious for his bad temper but when he saw the size of the Hoogster, well, he soon shut his mouth.
A turnip is the only swede that’s not from Sweden. The Turnip, what a legend. This guy lived and breathed tractors, he had hundreds of them over the years, he was an old man now, in his 70’s but could still fling a mean arrow. “Sorry Turnip, I’m going to have to interrupt your game, I’ve been desperate to get a new renovation job, the girls just aren’t looking my way since I’m back on the two legged mode of transport and I’m just not getting out to meet any. I just know that if I can get a cool tractor, I might meet the girl of my dreams. This dream of mine is more like Groundhog Day, a hamster stuck in a wheel. I’m getting desperate now.” “I wouldn’t touch this one, that’s not all they were saying at the funeral Donald” replied the Turnip. “Oh” Donald exclaimed alarmingly.
“Aye, he’s been in a right load of trouble this character, he’s had his chassis number scrapped off and that can only mean one thing, he’s been up to no good.” “Aye, what else were they saying at the funeral?” added Donald. “Well”, the Turnip started, himself a great storyteller once he got going, “Fergie is his name, he’s been called that since 1929 when he was born, they said he originally came from Aberdeenshire and he didn’t do much in his early days after the war, ploughed the odd field here and there, he just wasn’t keen on working at all, didn’t see the point in it. He was more into his football and was a regular at Pittodrie and you could say he’s a late developer, he caused more trouble the older he got. They said he was a big pal of Alex Ferguson and if Alex ever got his car stuck anywhere, Fergie would pull him out. They say that’s where Fergie got his nickname, from the tractor. He ended up going all over Europe in the 80’s, causing absolute havoc at away games, he got arrested in London for something and was caught speeding in Hamburg, he heard Germany had no speed limits and he thought the ‘autobahn’ meant the road. He eventually got caught doing 90mph in the centre. He claimed in court he saw a sign saying 90 somewhere on the way into the centre, but he didn’t realise they were working in kilometres out there. He got fined anyway and told never to come back unless he had converted his speedometer as nobody is really that good at the 1.6 times table, especially backwards. He moved to Glasgow sometime after Alex left Aberdeen, he didn’t fancy Manchester. He got a job working for Big A, the gold digger from Glasgow. Aye he was running Glasgow then, you couldn’t start an engine with out Big A’s say so. Big A would just run you out town with his fleet of taxis if you ever tried to pull a fast one. He ran around with Mr Weepy, the famous ice cream van from down there, they used to go to Arran pretty regularly, so he’s well used to island life” “Och that’s a good plus he’s got there Turnip, he’s used to island life” Donald says excitedly. “What on earth was he doing hanging around with an ice cream van?”. “Who knows Donald, they must be keen on ice cream in Glasgow. Well allegedly he ended up eloping to Morocco with a pretty wee thing, a Fiat Uno with go faster stripes and alloy wheels. He said he was doing crop work, watering and stuff like that, he was quite vague about his time there. This was the late 90’s by now. He then went to Spain after the morocco job, had a villa in Marbella, must have paid well the Morroco job. He was married by then, it was only later we found out who to, to Big A, the gold diggers, niece. She cleaned him out soon after the divorce. Och, he was way too old for her anyway despite the fact she had way more mileage on the clock than him. He just couldn’t keep at the end, a right high revving engine, it would wear anybody out trying to keep up with that. And then he ended up in Lewis after sneaking on a ship from Gibraltar. He had no idea where that boat was going, it was pot luck he landed over there. Aye his luck ran out for sure, his glory days are over.” “He sounds a right character right enough, I’m going to head over and try and rescue him” exclaimed Donald. “Are you mad?” Piped in Domhnall Mhor, “did you not hear what he said, that tractors big trouble, be careful with him Donald”. It was too late, Donald had been single for long enough and this tractor was going to help him find what was missing from his life, a wife.