Uncle Benny was a kind, quiet man. As my older sister and I were soon to find out, he was also very determined. The pair of us were assigned by my mother to accompany him on a trip into Edinburgh. We duly traipsed round the city with him, going to all the usual sights, like the Castle, but somehow in the afternoon we found ourselves in Murrayfield Park, where some sort of athletic event was in full swing. Which was all very well, except that Uncle Benny was in possession of an autograph book and he was determined to have it filled with the signatures of the stars of track and field competing that day, using me as his agent.
It worked this way. After Uncle Benny pointed out a particular athlete, I would fly down into the field like one of those annoying hornets, my Burberry coat flapping behind me, with a mission to secure the target’s signature. It didn’t matter if the chosen athletes were winners or losers. It also didn’t matter what they were actually doing at the time. Like the wrestler, pinned down on the canvas by his opponent, who managed to smile at me and wheeze: “Normally, it wid be nae bother, son. But as ye can see I’m a bit tied up the noo.” Or the woman sprinter, still puffing and peching after winning the 100 metre dash, who threw the autograph book back at me. Bloody prima donna!
As night fell, Uncle Benny made up for his obsession with autographs by treating us to a right royal high tea in the Deep Sea Fish Restaurant on Leith Walk, where his thick brogue charmed the waitresses, who still wore black uniforms and those frilly white hats and aprons.
Oh, he was a grand fella was Benny Lynch, but, sure, I was glad to see the back of him after that day.