‘The Club Song’ – any club song for that matter  –    should say a lot about that particular club. It’s history. It’s achievements.  It’s hopes and aspirations. It’s beliefs. It’s message of friendship and brotherhood. It’s progressive ethos. It’s principles. It is quintessentially all of these things…..and ours is no different…..

Fuck you matey, fuck you matey,  fuck you matey

Fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,  fuck you m-a-t-e-y

Fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,

Fuck you matey,  f-u-c-k  y-o-u  m-a-t-e-y.

The heroic and stirring, da capo & crescendo, of the first verse takes us back to the very conception of the Rannoch….from a handful of seed coming from an elite band of legendary men that were hard. Hard men chiselled from the very rhyolite that they pegged and scratched with their old hobnailers. Fine upstanding men. Fine stout men upstanding  in slings & etriers of outrageous climbing.  The Rannoch hammered the routes in those early days.

 Fuck you matey, fuck you matey,  fuck you matey

Fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,  fuck you m-a-t-e-y

Fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,

Fuck you matey,  f-u-c-k  y-o-u  m-a-t-e-y.

The dark, brooding, dolente & smorzando, second verse chronicles the lull of Rannoch activity (and it was chronic) after it’s glorious heyday. The magnificence of the early achievements now in sad decline. There was a need for new blood…. 

Fuck you matey, fuck you matey,  fuck you matey

Fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,  fuck you m-a-t-e-y

Fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,

Fuck you matey,  f-u-c-k  y-o-u  m-a-t-e-y.

Verse three, con brio, and strong youthful voices herald the Rennaissance period for the Rannoch. Virile and enthusiastic, they were plucked from the bars of the yoonies of Glasgow and Strathclyde. Keen to impress the Old Guard they were bullish. Eager to hold aloft and maintain the lofty standards of the Rannoch….they were full of bullshit. 

Fuck you matey, fuck you matey,  fuck you matey

Fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,  fuck you m-a-t-e-y

Fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,

Fuck you matey,  f-u-c-k  y-o-u  m-a-t-e-y.

The fourth verse, furioso & sostenuto, describes well the frenetic and rejuvenated activity of the next Rannoch era. A myriad vibrammed soles beating a path past the old and sadly dilapidated Jimmy Saville to the splendour and grandiloquence of the Glencoe Doss. So prolific was the activity during this period that more than once several unfortunate souls had to “Fuckin move up ya cunt - and make like a sardine.” And on what has become known in Rannoch folklore as Black Saturday….the disgraceful and scandalous affair when a New Blood was asked by one of the Old Guard to “Switch that fuckin alarm clock off or I’ll shove it up your fuckin arse.”  Shameful. A sad and pathetic way for comrades-in-doss to behave, and the end of an era in some respects.

Fuck you matey, fuck you matey,  fuck you matey

Fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,  fuck you m-a-t-e-y

Fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,

Fuck you matey,  f-u-c-k  y-o-u  m-a-t-e-y.

Verse five, bis sempre, shows remarkably how history repeats itself. For the new members of the Rannoch made the same mistake as the old by not recruiting new members. Such levels of activity just could not be sustained. The club was once more in decline mode.

Fuck you matey, fuck you matey,  fuck you matey

Fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,  fuck you m-a-t-e-y

Fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,

Fuck you matey,  f-u-c-k  y-o-u  m-a-t-e-y.

Verse six,  animato & ravvivando, and  the Rannoch discover  Hotrock. A strangely alien concept to those more used to the usually shite and often inhospitable Scottish climate. Annual trips to far flung paradise climbing venues such as Spain, France, Sardinia, Italy and the USA serve to revive flagging morale. Monthly curry meets replace the long forgotten historical weekly pub sessions. Our very own website rekindles some interest. Perhaps there is still some hope. 

Fuck you matey, fuck you matey,  fuck you matey

Fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,  fuck you m-a-t-e-y

Fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,

Fuck you matey,  f-u-c-k  y-o-u  m-a-t-e-y.

The Club Song – sing it with pride, sing it as a welcoming beacon in a cold wet bothy. Sing it to celebrate all that we hold dear about the Scottish bens & glens. Sing it from the heart to show our appreciation of sharing the climbing environment with all our friends. Just fucking sing it. 

Fuck you matey, fuck you matey,  fuck you matey

Fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,  fuck you m-a-t-e-y

Fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,  fuck you matey,

Fuck you matey,  f-u-c-k  y-o-u  m-a-t-e-y.