GO AHEAD, CALLER - MAKE MY DAY...

Copyright relevant owner

Here's a tale I alluded to quite some time back, saying that one day I'd eventually get around to telling it.  Well, that day is finally upon us.  I should probably keep it to myself, but what the hell - it'll fill some space and hopefully amuse you.  First of all though, it behoves me to give you a little background detail so that you more fully understand the event I'm about to relate.

My father's family were from the East End of Glasgow and my mother's family were from a then-posh (relatively-speaking) area of Rutherglen.  As the hybrid offspring of two different 'classes', it seemed to me that my brother and myself were considered socially inferior by my mother's relations, and the objects of inverted snobbery by my father's clan.  Less so my brother, due to his ingratiating nature and being more socially adept than I, and, later, being a mechanic and therefore a tradesman whose good side was worth cultivating in the event of car breakdowns.

My interests in toys, comics, and doodling didn't lend themselves to being so readily exploited however, and thus cast me in the 'less useful to know' category.  Add to that the events recounted here and it seems obvious why my father's immediate family regarded me with a certain amount of antipathy, whereas my mother's relatives were largely indifferent to me.  Their attitude probably wasn't helped my my father's tendency to tell everyone that when I was born the hospital had "thrown the wrong bit away" (a joke I assume, but who knows?), and it was always obvious to me from an early age that my brother - the firstborn - was the favoured son.

What makes me think that?  He always had more money spent on him when we were young, and most of my clothes were his hand-me-downs.  Also, in my teens, I once found in a cupboard at least half-a-dozen copies (maybe more) of the Rutherglen Reformer containing his birth notice, but none containing mine.  When I enquired of my mother about it, a couple of days later she produced a scrap of paper containing the announcement of my birth.  No multiple complete copies preserved for posterity in my case, only a scrap torn from the newspaper as though it had been an afterthought.

Anyway, in the fullness of time I achieved modest success as a comics calligrapher, and one day decided to invest in an answering machine as my parents often forgot to pass on messages and had difficulty understanding the English accents of editors at IPC and Marvel 'phoning me about work.  I later got a pal who did a pretty passable imitation of Clint Eastwood to say something like "This is Inspector Harry Callahan... leave a message after the beep.  Go on, make my day!"  I didn't think this would be considered at all odd, as comedy answer-tapes were all the rage at the time, and it lent an element of humour to leaving a message.

However, whereas younger people readily participated in the procedure, older folk tended to regard such things as "vulgar" (one insurance agent even left a message saying so), and my father's siblings, who were never the sharpest tools in the box anyway, took umbrage at its installation as if it was an affront to all that was normal or decent - emphasis on normal.  The volume was always left up so that my parents could hear when a call was for them, and calls for me were recorded when I was unavailable.  On the latter occasions my folks no doubt listened intently, trying (and failing) to decipher the 'exotic, alien' tones emanating from the speaker.

Eventually, I took over the number for myself and my parents got another one, resulting in us having separate telephones, but before that happened, two of my father's sisters (my aunts) 'phoned one day to speak to my mother.  I happened to hear the message later and they were scathing about me, saying that I needed "looked up" for having someone called "Inspector Kelly" (yeah, their hearing obviously wasn't very sharp either) answer their call.  "Tell Inspector Kelly that this is the Pink Panther!" said one in a voice loaded with contempt and sarcasm, and when my mother answered (having recognized the voice), they cast doubts on my sanity to her 'til they were good and through.

And then they made a mistake.  When the call was finished and my mother had replaced the receiver, they didn't, and the machine continued to record the conversation between themselves, all of which was a vicious, malicious, and slanderous attack on me.  (As they spoke, I could hear one of them pressing the numbers to make another call, but as she hadn't hung up, her attempts were in vain.)  At this point, I should perhaps mention that I have absolutely no criminal record of any kind (not counting Charlie Drake's 'My Boomerang Won't Come Back'), and, as far as I'm aware, have never been the subject of any official suspicion regarding my character, behaviour, or morality.  (I've only been in court once in my life, and that was an appearance I requested, but that's a story for another day.)

Now, around this time (early '90s), it had recently been reported in my local newspaper that someone was 'phoning people at home, pretending to be either a doctor or some kind of medical researcher, and asking them personal questions.  I no longer recall the exact details (I'd only glanced at the story), but I assume they were of a sexual nature.  Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard one aunt say, in regard to myself, "I bet it's that bastard who's been 'phoning people, pretending to be a doctor."  The other aunt agreed, and there was more effin' and blindin' between the two, with me as the target.  It ran for some minutes.

As you can imagine, I was stunned (and angry - still am to this day) by the enormous jump from being the owner of an answering machine to being a telephone pervert, but it left me in no doubt as to what they thought of me.  (And I should emphasize that there was [and is] nothing in my history which would warrant such an assertion - I'm squeaky clean.)  I played the tape to my parents, my father evincing shock more at their bad language than their assassination of my character ("I never knew my sisters swore like that!" he said), but they both went over to see the offending pair and upbraid them for their 'earthy' utterances and unfounded and frightful assessment of my good self.   

A couple of weeks later, one aunt had the cheek to drop in for a visit as if nothing had happened, but I was having none of it and duly informed her that she wasn't welcome and to leave at once and never come back.  (Well, do you blame me?)  And she never did.  I later played the tape to the pal who'd voiced the answer-message and he described it as being akin to a 'piece of theatre'.  I suppose he thought it sounded like something that belonged in 'The Steamie' (though there was no singing).

Over the years I was often featured in the local newspaper regarding my comics career, with photos of me with Stan Lee and Bob Hope (separately), and I even appeared on a couple of TV shows in connection with my vast array of toy collectables.  'Fame' of course is fleeting (even extremely minor fame of the kind I experienced), but it's enough to turn some people's heads.  A group of my father's family (containing the same two aunts) were sitting at a table in the local Bingo Hall one day (around 20 years ago), when I popped in to use the toilet.  (I was looking after someone's stall just below the hall.)  On my way out, they all started waving and beckoning to me, but I simply ignored them and continued on my way.

Well, like I said - do you blame me?  Things might've been different had they the decency to apologize not long after their transgression, but it was all too obvious that, years later, they were merely wanting to bathe in the reflection of my local, limited, minor and momentary 'celebrity' status - but I was having none of it.

So tell me, Criv-ites - what would you have done?  Forgiven and forgotten?  Or would you have reacted the same as me?  Feel free to contribute in our free-to-enter comments section.  And if anything similar has ever happened to you and you wish to share, then I'm here to listen.  (Or read, to be precise.)  Go on - make my day!