Crazy Katys House of Dreams or The Immaculate Conception or How Jack Docherty Nearly Ruined My Life

Man, I don’t know where to begin with Crazy Katy.  Probably by pointing out she wasn’t Crazy Katy at the beginning, merely Katy, the younger sister of one of my earliest drug buddies.  It’s probably wise to point out in this post Yewtree world that I was 14 and she was 13, so it doesn’t really count as cradle snatching.

Anyway, she was my first proper girlfriend.  I don’t count Louise who interrupted me stealing goosegogs in Merchiston Park one day and announced to all and sundry that I was her boyfriend now and that my goosegog stealing days were in the past.  Well she was 8 and I was 7.  Interestingly enough, she later became my third girlfriend.

Katy went to a posh fee paying all girls school darn Sarf so I only saw her in the school holidays when she came to Edinburgh to be with her brothers, aunt and uncle.  So no-one was more surprised than me when this very attractive girl arrived one summer claiming to be Katy.  She had matured, shall we say.  So we started knocking about (koff).

She then went back to school and came back at Christmas ripe and ready to earn the sobriquet Crazy.  See, I was a young lad and hadn’t full realised that I belonged to her in my entirety.  So the intervening three months had seen me utilising my newly acquired skills around the neighbourhood.  Crazy Katy heard this from her brothers and then proceeded to knock seven shades o’ shite oot an unfortunate girl I had briefly dallied with.  Lesson learnt.

And that lesson was to stay as far away from Crazy Katy as possible.

Fast forward a year and I still belong to her.  But I’ve left school and am plotting an escape to the gold paved streets of London Town.  Well a dormitory B&B in Wembley, sharing a room and shunky with nine other blokes off the building site I was heading off to work on.  Being a sensible chap I didn’t mention this to her.  She only found out when I foolishly agreed to flat share with her drug buddy brother on his gap year.  Something that never actually happened as I went off on a three day bender when the job finished and turned up in sunny Streatham to find him dead from an overdose.  Which didn’t endear me to her family who promptly packed her off to finish her senior years in the USA.

Fast forward a year and I’m back in Edinburgh when there is a chap on the door off my cooncil hoose in Wester Hailes.  (“Is yer granny in?  Naw, she’s away tae Arbroath”). Now this was Wester Hailes so I checked the peephole.  There was no-one there.  So I knew it wasn’t the mental punk who lived upstairs who, when he’d hit the glue, forgot where he lived and insisted on living with me.  And once tried to smash my door in with an axe because his key didnae fit my lock.  Which meant it was either auld Mrs McGlumpher who lived doon the stair.  Or my Mum.  Both were too short to be seen.  So, hoping it was auld Mrs McGlumpher looking for her invisible cat, I opened the door.  To a very pregnant Crazy Katy.

This was when she told me that we (we!) were having a baby.  Now, I didnae do biology at school but unless she was acting as a surrogate for an elephant, this had nothing to do with me.  And I knew she’d been tupping an insurance adjuster called Patrick as her remaining brother had told me this a few months earlier when he and some of his polis buddies gave me a kicking.

After a couple of hours of her ranting I managed to get her oot the hoose and took her to her aunt and uncles, where she was staying.  The following morning I double checked my merchant marine papers were being processed and buggered off on the boats.  And she vanished.

Eight years later I’ve had a few beers in the Old Shades with some colleagues.  As they head off to their trains I hit the Lord Moon of the Mall. I’m living off Fleet Street so am in no rush, and the Moon sold pints of what they called Tartan Bitter for 99p a pint.  So a few scoops of Special later I stagger oot the door.  I’m a wee bit worse for wear so decide to get a taxi.  Now the Moon is right next door to the Whitehall Theatre where Channel 5 film the Jack Docherty Show, a nightly chat show.  So when I hailed a taxi who should shove me out of the way and steal it but said Mr Docherty.  I may hate Graham Norton but I always say a silent thanks to him for killing the Docherty career.

So I have to hail another taxi and I’m just reaching to close the door behind me when a woman forces her way in.  I don’t recognise her at first but as soon as she starts talking it became very clear.  Crazy Katy was back.  And, apparently, my son (Thomas Xavier Aloysious) wants to meet his real Dad.  Now I don’t know who the real Dad is but it’s no fuckin’ me.

We’ve had to circle round Trafalger Square and head back doon Whitehall because of road works and have picked up a wee bit of speed.  But I know I have to get out. So in defiance of the laws of central locking I somehow wrenched the door open and jumped oot the moving cab, landing right in front of the Ministry of Defence.  Nowadays, I would have been shot on sight.  Back then I whipped my MoD pass oot the wallet and escaped into the sanctuary of high security.  Where I spent the night in the cafeteria.  When I finally left, she was gone.  Hopefully forever.

Me, back when I had security clearance (Katy not pictured, just an unsuspecting Tracy).