Gonnae No Dae That
by Cally Phillips
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: Why ma voice stays in ma heid fae noo oan.
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: Why ma voice stays in ma heid fae noo oan.
On September 20th 2014 ah swore ah’d niver sing ‘Floor o’ Scotlan’’ again. The day afore that ah wis tae wabbit an’ scunnered even tae swear. The hoose hing wi’ a silence as we heard Alec, oor sometime champion o’ freedom, state that this hud been a yince in a lifetime’s opportunity tae grasp oor freedom wi’ oor ain han’s an’ hold ontae it that tight it wid niver flee again.
But as it turned oot, we wis tae wee, tae puir and certainly tae stupit tae tak’ that chance in a lifetime. We voted naw. Well, mony o’ us didnae, but enough o’ the parcel o’ rogues what mak’ up ma fellow citizens did and that put the kybosh on that dream.
Alec said ‘the dream will never die’ and Nicola took ower. Ah’m fed up o’ dreamin’. Ah wantit independence an’ ah’m no ashamed tae say it. Ah wantit it in 79 an’ ah wantit it in 2014 an’ ah still want it the noo. It’s nae aboot wealth or even stickin’ wan ower oan the English – it’s pairt o’ who ah am an’ naethin’ cun chainge that – no even 55 per cent o’ fowk tellin’ me ah’m wrang.
It was a sair fecht and certainly a sair blaw, got me richt in the guts it did, bit whit wis mair awefu’ than a’ o’ it wis hoo quickly fowks startit singing ‘Floor o’ Scotland’ again. They wis beltin’ it oot when we played Tonga juist a few weeks after. Ah couldna bear it.
Even though we’d hud the SNP conference juist afore it, an’ even though hunners o’ fowk hud joined up after the event – c’moan fowk, where wis ye when we needed ye? – there wis naehin’ in me as could tak awa’ the feelin’ that we wis bein’ gubbed by the Union ivery time ah steppit oot o’ the hoose. An’ stayin’ in listenin’ tae they numpties an’ rogues singin’ their wee herts oot ‘to be a nation again’. Nae fuckin’ chance, pal.
We hud wur chance. We’re no gonnae be a nation again. No wan that stands up against ony flippin’ airmy if we cannae even stand prood at the ballot box and tak’ whit’s richtfully oor’s just fer we’re feart oor economy micht tak’ a nose dive. Or because we listen tae the vows made by parcels o’ rogues wha wid hae been the first tae huv their noses in the trough three hunner years ago an’ then some. Acts of Union. Sale o’ the century. Scotland is open for business. It wid mak ye greet if ye could get tears oot past the bile risin’ up.
But hey, that’s history, richt? Democracy? Wrang. That’s no ma version o’ any kin’ o’ democracy – the best damned democracy money cun buy, eh? An’ it juist got worse. Well that’s nae a surprise.
Here’s ma post match analysis. It’s no aboot dreams nae dyin’. Ah’ve the best o’ respect fer Alec, and Nicola, bit it all looks a bittie like politics is king tae me. Ah’m nae intae politics as a career an’ ah’m nae intae dreams whither they live or die. Ah’m intae reality an’ the reality is that we choobs got robbed again. We let them chainge the goalposts oan us hauf way through the match. Again. Ah ken there’s plenty o’ us like me, but ah also noo ken there’s mair fowk in ma ain country wi’ dreams that dinnae include freedom or self determination or simply pride in yer ain identity. We’ve came oot, as a nation, as North British an’ prood. Tae fuckin’ puir, tae fuckin’ wee and certainly tae fuckin’ stupit even tae say YES.
Ah guess whit ah’m sayin’ is that come September 19th 2014 ah lost faith in ma fellow Scots. An’ that hung heavy. It wis the only faith ah hud left – that Scots, when it finally cam doon tae it, kent whit wis mair important. An’ mebbe they did. Mebbe you’re beezing the noo cause ah seem tae be accusin’ ye and ye were juist lik’ me an ye did shout YES frae the rooftaps. There was a power o’ us, ah ken. But we need tae wake up tae ane hing. There’s no enough o’ us. There’s mair fowk as wid be British than Scottish in wur ain country. That’s a sickener fer me.
An’ ah hud hud ma wey, ah’d only hae let fowk wha cried theirsel’s Scots oan the last Census huv a vote. Ah mean, hoo could ye expect theym wha dinnae even ken whit it is tae be Scots tae vote for independence? They dinnae feel they’ve onyhing tae be free frae. They hink it’s aboot bein’ free ‘to’. Tae hold up wur heids wi’ the superpowers, tae mix it wi’ the big buoys n’ flash wur cash n’ nae coont the cost oan the community. Ah cannae blame them fer their views, an’ hoo mony white men stood up against Apartheid? Bit ah blame they Scots wha dinnae even see that we are an oppressed nation simply and purely because we dinna control wur ain destiny – an’ we’re no prepared tae stond up an’ be counted fer it – beyond puttin’ wur honds oan wur jumpers where oor herts micht be if we hadnae selt them doon the river – an’ sing fucking Floor o’ Scotlan’.
So that’s me. Ah’m no gonnae sing it. Ah wis a’ ready tae champion ‘Scotlan’ the Brave’ as wur new national anthum. But that cud niver be noo, eh? Brave as fuck? Na. Tae wee, tae puir, tae stupit. Tae small minded, tae aspirational an’ ignorant as fuck. That’s ma assessment o’ the Scottish nation as it stonds. No you pal, o’ course no you. No me either, but these are the fowk we stond aside in the queue at Tesco, or Aldi or Lidls. Fowk frae the food bank tae Marks n Spencers. Mair o’ theym in the latter than the former, richt enough. The distance atween fowk is huge. An’ that’s no because o’ the Independence Referendum. It didnae cause the divisions, it simply shone a licht oan theym. An’ that licht husnae goan oot. Bit they’re pissin’ oan it daily, pal, tak ma word fer it.
So whitiver happened next – an’ there’s aeways sumhing happenin’ next, we’re oan a path tae fuckin’ perdition, if ye ask me. We hae oor wee triumphs – sendin’ a’ oor best fowk doon intil the ‘mother of all parliaments’ tae learn hoo tae hoot n’ holler or be tret lik’ the Scottish ‘Nationalist’ Party. Whit pairt o’ ‘national’ isn’t ‘nationalist’ dae they naw get? See hoo words cun be yased tae prove whitiver ye want if ye’re the boss o’ the game. The Clearances took awa’ oor finest, did they? An’ noo Westminster will tak’ oor finest an’ gie them such a kickin’ as they’ll either gie in or gie up. Ah ken they’re a’ daein’ the best they cun doon there, bit whit a waste o’ talent, eh? Whit lessons will they learn? Oh why did I leave ma hame? They may hae a dream bit ahm feart that it will turn intae a nichtmare lang afore they cun cam hame. When will we see their likes again?
They aye miss the second verse oot in the song eh? ‘Those hills are bare now, and autumn leaves lie thick and still, o’er land that is lost now, which those so dearly held.’
That’s ma Scotlan’. An’ it feels fuckin’ post apocalyptic the day. Ah’m o’ the land. That’s whit Scotlan’ is tae me. It’s in ma guts, it’s unner ma fingernails an’ it’s a’ that ah see aroon me. Trees n’ fields n’ a’ that guid stuff. Nae people nae mair. Because, like the Proclaimers, ah cannae unnerstan’ why we let someone else rule oor land, cap in hand!
Ma identity is tied up wi’ the land. An’ ah’m no goin’ a’ Grassic Gibbon oan ye here. It’s a simple fact. Ah feel Scotlan’ in the air ah breathe, in the lan’ ah’ walk ower, in the mud an’ the wind an’ the rain. In the sky whither it’s blue or grey an’ the water whither it’s blue or green or grey or that Gaelic only word ‘gorm’ which is a colour a’ of it’s ain.
It’s aboot the land. An’ ye micht say it’s aboot the language. Wur mither tongue. That voice which is in ma heid an’ cannae get oot past the Englishy tone ah’ve been trained intil. Ma identity hus been taken’ from me time an’ again. Ah huv a speech impediment. Scots birls roon ma brain bit ah’m compelled tae translate afore it cams oot. Ah’m no alane in that, ah ken. There’s no a song ah cun sing that will free ma voice. An’ the stories are sma’. Ma voice is wee. It’s puir but it’s nae stupit. Unless.
Aye. It is. It’s wee, it’s puir an’ it’s stupit. That’s whit ah’m bein’ telt the noo. If ah gang oan social media, at least. Ah’m telt that we are fechting oor North British identity by huvin’ a renaissance (noo there’s a good Scots word, eh?) in our language. Sorry, forgie ma ignorance, ah mean oor ‘leid’. Ye huv tae cry it leid. These days the Scots language or is that langwidge, na it’s the Scots leid polis, are oot in force.
Niver min’ the words as they cam’ oot o’ yer mooth in public, hooiver ye wricht (that should be scrieve) these days ye’ll be in fer a bashin’ fae theym. The self-styled establishment wha pit their hon’s oan their jumper where they wid cry it a ‘hert – or heirt – or hairt? – an’ gie ye gubbin’ fer no being pure or true in the wye ye spell or the words ye chaise. Niver min’ whit’s in yer hert, it’s whit cams oot oan the paper that matters tae theym.
Forum aifter forum an’ the bitter bile is spewed forth. There are those wha huv decided that Scots needs tae be ‘standardised’. Aye, fuckin’ homogenise us an’ that’ll help us get wur sense o’ freedom back, eh no? Tell us the wye we need tae speak and wricht (that’s scrieve o’ course) an whiles yer at it, gonnae tell us hoo we need tae hink an a? Ah’m jalousing an’ that’s a guid Scots word, ah’m jalousin’ that if we dae that we’ll nae be ony freer than a wee birdie in a golden cage. Bit then, maist o’ theym are singin’ fer their supper onywyes. There are those an’ such as those are makin’ a killin’ oot o’ tellin’ us hoo tae wricht. That’s scrieve, ya fucking ignorant bampot they micht shoot (but bampot isnae an ‘official’ word ah’m guessin’). Ah’ that’s ma problem.
Oor nation is no divided as much as diverse. Oor tongue the same. Aye, we cun argue foriver aboot whither it’s a’ juist some derivation or bastardisation o’ English – we’ve a’ been dipped till we droon in that tongue – bit wan hing is sure, oor leid (if ah must) is diverse. Fae Gallowa’ tae Caithness, fae the Kingdom o’ Fife tae the Gorbals, we dinnae a’ soon’ the same an’ we dinna a’ yase the same words or the same spellin’s an’ that’s a guid hing, no a bad yin. Fer me an’ mony mair like me, we wricht as we talk, nae hinkin’ aboot is it the Doric or Scots leid or Lallans or whither it will pass as pure by theym as huvnae a Scooby whit oor thochts consist o’, or hoo Scotland is tae us, or whit it means tae us. Land afore leid, ah say. The truth is in the land. The land cam first. The leid is the clobber an’ they want tae dress us up in fancy claithes an’ tell us we cannae gang oot in public withoot we wear oor finest.
Noo ah’m nae a champion o’ ignorance bit it hits me in the guts as there’s theym earnin’ a livin’ gang oot intae scuils (an’ smarmin’ their wye a’ roon the internet) teachin’ bairns, or weans, or chiels, or cuifs, hoo tae ‘scrieve’ Scots.
An’ this maistly consists o’ thrawin’ in some guid Scots words like couthy, or houghmagandie (no in primary scuils o’ course) or scunner or leid, an’ tellin’ theym that this is their leid an’ they must treasure it an’ dae it richt. An ken whit? The kids’r laughin’ fit tae bust aboot it when some boy comes in an tells theym hoo tae dae whit they a’ready ken. They dinna hae a reverence when it comes tae words like radge. They juist yase it when a pal’s being a bampot. Is that no richt, ya tube? Or is that choob?
‘Hoo wid ah spell that please?’ a latter day Oor Wullie asks wi’ a face that cun barely conceal the fact he’s rippin’ the pish.
‘Hoo dae ah spell choob in the Scots leid?’
An’ the guy will dootless gang back tae his forum an’ they’ll a’ hae a good wank ower it. ‘An this wee boy asked me…’
‘But he yased the word leid, at least,’ a comment comes in.
‘Should we allow the word choob?’
‘It’s dialect.’
‘It’s no a proper word.’
They can gang oan a’ nicht aboot the simplest o’ hings an’ dinnae get theym startit oan the grammar. Whit’s richt and wrang.
‘Michty me.’
‘Ye cannae scrieve michty me, it’s referential o’ Oor Wullie an’ he’s no the kin’ o’ Scots we’re needin’ tae promote.’
‘Fuck me.’
That’s the same in ony language (sorry leid), isnae it?
So here’s ma point. Ah, ye wis wunnerin’ if ah wis iver comin’ tae a point, eh? Well ah am. And it’s no the point that asks ye if ye ken hoo Scots tell stories. Ah’m no chewin’ ower theym banes. The Scots short story form is no whit ye’ll fin’ in a’ they fancy magazines brother. Try an’ look in the kin’ o’ places where people write Scots stories (even in English) which tell o’ their experiences in the real world. Somewhere like McStorytellers. Somewhere fowk are no’ being attacked by the leid polis. Ma point?
Scots cannae be a pure form, we’re a mongrel nation. We’ve generations o’ huvin’ English dinned intae oor banes an’ we cannae let it oot hooever we cut wur wrists an’ believe me ah’ve tried. Ah’ve spilt plenty guid reid bluid oan a page in an attempt tae kill aff the English. An’ ah cannae dae it if I try. No mair as can you or maist Scots. We are maistly condemned tae an unconscious bilingualism. We wricht English an’ pit in some Scots words. Unless we wricht as we hink. Whit ah mean is, it’s only when ye stairt allooin’ yersel’ tae wricht yer Scots thochts freeform ontil a page, mediated o’ coorse by a computer these days, that ye stond a chance o’ getting’ the Scots oot. An’ then the English is ayeways lurkin’ there – is it the bottle imp, ah wunner?
Bit ma point is. A startin’ point (no, the startin’ point, ah’m no a polisman here) is tae juist let it a’ cam oot. Dinnae be fashin’ aboot the spelling fer wan hing. An’ when ye gie up oan the spelling ye’ll fin’ that the words start tae came tae the fore. Oor words. Oor syntax, n oor grammar. That’s juist a fancy wye o’ sayin’ the wye we speak. It’s no wrang tae say ‘ah went an’ seen the boy roon’ the bak’ o’ the chippie.’ Or ‘I’ve came doon here tae ask ye.’ Ye cud wricht it ‘Ah’ve’, ye cud wricht it ‘spier’ rather as ask… bit it’s hoo it soons in yer ain heid as matters. Nane o’ it’s wrang. We’re tae busy rendering tae Caesar that which is Caesar’s, an’ allo’ing the English tae infiltrate an’ coorse through wur brains an’ wur bluid, an’ that puts the breaks oan the deeper levels o’ oor identity. We need tae accept that English mediates juist aboot iverthing we dae. It’s an oppression juist the same. We need tae get back tae the land. Back tae afore the leid polis stairtit tae tell us whit is an’ isnae the wye tae spik, or speak or spell wur ain voice.
Bit ah cannae dae that noo. Ah cannae sing ‘Floor o’ Scotlan’ an’ ah cannae wricht in Scots wi’oot stickin’ ma tongue oot at the leid polis. It’s better than cringin’ when they cam intae view, ah suppose. Bit ah fin’ that until an’ unless we are left alane tae speak the voice as we hear it in oor heid and let that voice sing oot loud then the land is lost. And if the land is lost, whit’s the point o’ the leid?
So that’s hoo ah decided ah’m no gonnae wricht in Scots until ah cun dae it wi’oot the leid polis takin’ a reid pen till ma work. Microsoft spell checker is wan hing, but fowk being paid handsomely tae silence wur ain voices, tellin’ us we’re nae daing it richt– that’s tae British fer me. So ah’m no gonnae dae it. Ma voice stays in ma heid fae noo oan.
Pits me in mind o’ a joke – it wis wan o’ ma favourites in ma youth. Here gangs.
There was an Englishman an Irishman and a Scotsman. There was a cave. First the Englishman went in. He saw a pound note (those were the days). He picked it up. A ghostly voice said, ‘I’m the ghost of Auntie Mabel, this pound note stays on the table.’ He ran out of the cave. The Irishman went in. He saw the pound note, and picked it up. The ghostly voice said ‘I’m the ghost of Auntie Mabel, this pound note stays on the table.’ The Irishman also put the note back and left the cave. Lastly, the Scotsman went in. He picked up the pound note and swiftly put it in his pocket. The voice came ‘I’m the ghost of Auntie Mabel, this pound note stays on the table.’ The Scotsman replied ‘I’m the ghost o’ Davie Crockett, this pound note stays in ma’ pocket.’ And left the cave.
Make of that what you will. Laugh if you like. Or read sumhin’ intil it. It’s aye the same tae me. Like ah said, fae noo oan, ma voice stays in ma heid. Until Scotland is independent. An’ ah’m no holdin’ ma breath oan that yin.
But as it turned oot, we wis tae wee, tae puir and certainly tae stupit tae tak’ that chance in a lifetime. We voted naw. Well, mony o’ us didnae, but enough o’ the parcel o’ rogues what mak’ up ma fellow citizens did and that put the kybosh on that dream.
Alec said ‘the dream will never die’ and Nicola took ower. Ah’m fed up o’ dreamin’. Ah wantit independence an’ ah’m no ashamed tae say it. Ah wantit it in 79 an’ ah wantit it in 2014 an’ ah still want it the noo. It’s nae aboot wealth or even stickin’ wan ower oan the English – it’s pairt o’ who ah am an’ naethin’ cun chainge that – no even 55 per cent o’ fowk tellin’ me ah’m wrang.
It was a sair fecht and certainly a sair blaw, got me richt in the guts it did, bit whit wis mair awefu’ than a’ o’ it wis hoo quickly fowks startit singing ‘Floor o’ Scotland’ again. They wis beltin’ it oot when we played Tonga juist a few weeks after. Ah couldna bear it.
Even though we’d hud the SNP conference juist afore it, an’ even though hunners o’ fowk hud joined up after the event – c’moan fowk, where wis ye when we needed ye? – there wis naehin’ in me as could tak awa’ the feelin’ that we wis bein’ gubbed by the Union ivery time ah steppit oot o’ the hoose. An’ stayin’ in listenin’ tae they numpties an’ rogues singin’ their wee herts oot ‘to be a nation again’. Nae fuckin’ chance, pal.
We hud wur chance. We’re no gonnae be a nation again. No wan that stands up against ony flippin’ airmy if we cannae even stand prood at the ballot box and tak’ whit’s richtfully oor’s just fer we’re feart oor economy micht tak’ a nose dive. Or because we listen tae the vows made by parcels o’ rogues wha wid hae been the first tae huv their noses in the trough three hunner years ago an’ then some. Acts of Union. Sale o’ the century. Scotland is open for business. It wid mak ye greet if ye could get tears oot past the bile risin’ up.
But hey, that’s history, richt? Democracy? Wrang. That’s no ma version o’ any kin’ o’ democracy – the best damned democracy money cun buy, eh? An’ it juist got worse. Well that’s nae a surprise.
Here’s ma post match analysis. It’s no aboot dreams nae dyin’. Ah’ve the best o’ respect fer Alec, and Nicola, bit it all looks a bittie like politics is king tae me. Ah’m nae intae politics as a career an’ ah’m nae intae dreams whither they live or die. Ah’m intae reality an’ the reality is that we choobs got robbed again. We let them chainge the goalposts oan us hauf way through the match. Again. Ah ken there’s plenty o’ us like me, but ah also noo ken there’s mair fowk in ma ain country wi’ dreams that dinnae include freedom or self determination or simply pride in yer ain identity. We’ve came oot, as a nation, as North British an’ prood. Tae fuckin’ puir, tae fuckin’ wee and certainly tae fuckin’ stupit even tae say YES.
Ah guess whit ah’m sayin’ is that come September 19th 2014 ah lost faith in ma fellow Scots. An’ that hung heavy. It wis the only faith ah hud left – that Scots, when it finally cam doon tae it, kent whit wis mair important. An’ mebbe they did. Mebbe you’re beezing the noo cause ah seem tae be accusin’ ye and ye were juist lik’ me an ye did shout YES frae the rooftaps. There was a power o’ us, ah ken. But we need tae wake up tae ane hing. There’s no enough o’ us. There’s mair fowk as wid be British than Scottish in wur ain country. That’s a sickener fer me.
An’ ah hud hud ma wey, ah’d only hae let fowk wha cried theirsel’s Scots oan the last Census huv a vote. Ah mean, hoo could ye expect theym wha dinnae even ken whit it is tae be Scots tae vote for independence? They dinnae feel they’ve onyhing tae be free frae. They hink it’s aboot bein’ free ‘to’. Tae hold up wur heids wi’ the superpowers, tae mix it wi’ the big buoys n’ flash wur cash n’ nae coont the cost oan the community. Ah cannae blame them fer their views, an’ hoo mony white men stood up against Apartheid? Bit ah blame they Scots wha dinnae even see that we are an oppressed nation simply and purely because we dinna control wur ain destiny – an’ we’re no prepared tae stond up an’ be counted fer it – beyond puttin’ wur honds oan wur jumpers where oor herts micht be if we hadnae selt them doon the river – an’ sing fucking Floor o’ Scotlan’.
So that’s me. Ah’m no gonnae sing it. Ah wis a’ ready tae champion ‘Scotlan’ the Brave’ as wur new national anthum. But that cud niver be noo, eh? Brave as fuck? Na. Tae wee, tae puir, tae stupit. Tae small minded, tae aspirational an’ ignorant as fuck. That’s ma assessment o’ the Scottish nation as it stonds. No you pal, o’ course no you. No me either, but these are the fowk we stond aside in the queue at Tesco, or Aldi or Lidls. Fowk frae the food bank tae Marks n Spencers. Mair o’ theym in the latter than the former, richt enough. The distance atween fowk is huge. An’ that’s no because o’ the Independence Referendum. It didnae cause the divisions, it simply shone a licht oan theym. An’ that licht husnae goan oot. Bit they’re pissin’ oan it daily, pal, tak ma word fer it.
So whitiver happened next – an’ there’s aeways sumhing happenin’ next, we’re oan a path tae fuckin’ perdition, if ye ask me. We hae oor wee triumphs – sendin’ a’ oor best fowk doon intil the ‘mother of all parliaments’ tae learn hoo tae hoot n’ holler or be tret lik’ the Scottish ‘Nationalist’ Party. Whit pairt o’ ‘national’ isn’t ‘nationalist’ dae they naw get? See hoo words cun be yased tae prove whitiver ye want if ye’re the boss o’ the game. The Clearances took awa’ oor finest, did they? An’ noo Westminster will tak’ oor finest an’ gie them such a kickin’ as they’ll either gie in or gie up. Ah ken they’re a’ daein’ the best they cun doon there, bit whit a waste o’ talent, eh? Whit lessons will they learn? Oh why did I leave ma hame? They may hae a dream bit ahm feart that it will turn intae a nichtmare lang afore they cun cam hame. When will we see their likes again?
They aye miss the second verse oot in the song eh? ‘Those hills are bare now, and autumn leaves lie thick and still, o’er land that is lost now, which those so dearly held.’
That’s ma Scotlan’. An’ it feels fuckin’ post apocalyptic the day. Ah’m o’ the land. That’s whit Scotlan’ is tae me. It’s in ma guts, it’s unner ma fingernails an’ it’s a’ that ah see aroon me. Trees n’ fields n’ a’ that guid stuff. Nae people nae mair. Because, like the Proclaimers, ah cannae unnerstan’ why we let someone else rule oor land, cap in hand!
Ma identity is tied up wi’ the land. An’ ah’m no goin’ a’ Grassic Gibbon oan ye here. It’s a simple fact. Ah feel Scotlan’ in the air ah breathe, in the lan’ ah’ walk ower, in the mud an’ the wind an’ the rain. In the sky whither it’s blue or grey an’ the water whither it’s blue or green or grey or that Gaelic only word ‘gorm’ which is a colour a’ of it’s ain.
It’s aboot the land. An’ ye micht say it’s aboot the language. Wur mither tongue. That voice which is in ma heid an’ cannae get oot past the Englishy tone ah’ve been trained intil. Ma identity hus been taken’ from me time an’ again. Ah huv a speech impediment. Scots birls roon ma brain bit ah’m compelled tae translate afore it cams oot. Ah’m no alane in that, ah ken. There’s no a song ah cun sing that will free ma voice. An’ the stories are sma’. Ma voice is wee. It’s puir but it’s nae stupit. Unless.
Aye. It is. It’s wee, it’s puir an’ it’s stupit. That’s whit ah’m bein’ telt the noo. If ah gang oan social media, at least. Ah’m telt that we are fechting oor North British identity by huvin’ a renaissance (noo there’s a good Scots word, eh?) in our language. Sorry, forgie ma ignorance, ah mean oor ‘leid’. Ye huv tae cry it leid. These days the Scots language or is that langwidge, na it’s the Scots leid polis, are oot in force.
Niver min’ the words as they cam’ oot o’ yer mooth in public, hooiver ye wricht (that should be scrieve) these days ye’ll be in fer a bashin’ fae theym. The self-styled establishment wha pit their hon’s oan their jumper where they wid cry it a ‘hert – or heirt – or hairt? – an’ gie ye gubbin’ fer no being pure or true in the wye ye spell or the words ye chaise. Niver min’ whit’s in yer hert, it’s whit cams oot oan the paper that matters tae theym.
Forum aifter forum an’ the bitter bile is spewed forth. There are those wha huv decided that Scots needs tae be ‘standardised’. Aye, fuckin’ homogenise us an’ that’ll help us get wur sense o’ freedom back, eh no? Tell us the wye we need tae speak and wricht (that’s scrieve o’ course) an whiles yer at it, gonnae tell us hoo we need tae hink an a? Ah’m jalousing an’ that’s a guid Scots word, ah’m jalousin’ that if we dae that we’ll nae be ony freer than a wee birdie in a golden cage. Bit then, maist o’ theym are singin’ fer their supper onywyes. There are those an’ such as those are makin’ a killin’ oot o’ tellin’ us hoo tae wricht. That’s scrieve, ya fucking ignorant bampot they micht shoot (but bampot isnae an ‘official’ word ah’m guessin’). Ah’ that’s ma problem.
Oor nation is no divided as much as diverse. Oor tongue the same. Aye, we cun argue foriver aboot whither it’s a’ juist some derivation or bastardisation o’ English – we’ve a’ been dipped till we droon in that tongue – bit wan hing is sure, oor leid (if ah must) is diverse. Fae Gallowa’ tae Caithness, fae the Kingdom o’ Fife tae the Gorbals, we dinnae a’ soon’ the same an’ we dinna a’ yase the same words or the same spellin’s an’ that’s a guid hing, no a bad yin. Fer me an’ mony mair like me, we wricht as we talk, nae hinkin’ aboot is it the Doric or Scots leid or Lallans or whither it will pass as pure by theym as huvnae a Scooby whit oor thochts consist o’, or hoo Scotland is tae us, or whit it means tae us. Land afore leid, ah say. The truth is in the land. The land cam first. The leid is the clobber an’ they want tae dress us up in fancy claithes an’ tell us we cannae gang oot in public withoot we wear oor finest.
Noo ah’m nae a champion o’ ignorance bit it hits me in the guts as there’s theym earnin’ a livin’ gang oot intae scuils (an’ smarmin’ their wye a’ roon the internet) teachin’ bairns, or weans, or chiels, or cuifs, hoo tae ‘scrieve’ Scots.
An’ this maistly consists o’ thrawin’ in some guid Scots words like couthy, or houghmagandie (no in primary scuils o’ course) or scunner or leid, an’ tellin’ theym that this is their leid an’ they must treasure it an’ dae it richt. An ken whit? The kids’r laughin’ fit tae bust aboot it when some boy comes in an tells theym hoo tae dae whit they a’ready ken. They dinna hae a reverence when it comes tae words like radge. They juist yase it when a pal’s being a bampot. Is that no richt, ya tube? Or is that choob?
‘Hoo wid ah spell that please?’ a latter day Oor Wullie asks wi’ a face that cun barely conceal the fact he’s rippin’ the pish.
‘Hoo dae ah spell choob in the Scots leid?’
An’ the guy will dootless gang back tae his forum an’ they’ll a’ hae a good wank ower it. ‘An this wee boy asked me…’
‘But he yased the word leid, at least,’ a comment comes in.
‘Should we allow the word choob?’
‘It’s dialect.’
‘It’s no a proper word.’
They can gang oan a’ nicht aboot the simplest o’ hings an’ dinnae get theym startit oan the grammar. Whit’s richt and wrang.
‘Michty me.’
‘Ye cannae scrieve michty me, it’s referential o’ Oor Wullie an’ he’s no the kin’ o’ Scots we’re needin’ tae promote.’
‘Fuck me.’
That’s the same in ony language (sorry leid), isnae it?
So here’s ma point. Ah, ye wis wunnerin’ if ah wis iver comin’ tae a point, eh? Well ah am. And it’s no the point that asks ye if ye ken hoo Scots tell stories. Ah’m no chewin’ ower theym banes. The Scots short story form is no whit ye’ll fin’ in a’ they fancy magazines brother. Try an’ look in the kin’ o’ places where people write Scots stories (even in English) which tell o’ their experiences in the real world. Somewhere like McStorytellers. Somewhere fowk are no’ being attacked by the leid polis. Ma point?
Scots cannae be a pure form, we’re a mongrel nation. We’ve generations o’ huvin’ English dinned intae oor banes an’ we cannae let it oot hooever we cut wur wrists an’ believe me ah’ve tried. Ah’ve spilt plenty guid reid bluid oan a page in an attempt tae kill aff the English. An’ ah cannae dae it if I try. No mair as can you or maist Scots. We are maistly condemned tae an unconscious bilingualism. We wricht English an’ pit in some Scots words. Unless we wricht as we hink. Whit ah mean is, it’s only when ye stairt allooin’ yersel’ tae wricht yer Scots thochts freeform ontil a page, mediated o’ coorse by a computer these days, that ye stond a chance o’ getting’ the Scots oot. An’ then the English is ayeways lurkin’ there – is it the bottle imp, ah wunner?
Bit ma point is. A startin’ point (no, the startin’ point, ah’m no a polisman here) is tae juist let it a’ cam oot. Dinnae be fashin’ aboot the spelling fer wan hing. An’ when ye gie up oan the spelling ye’ll fin’ that the words start tae came tae the fore. Oor words. Oor syntax, n oor grammar. That’s juist a fancy wye o’ sayin’ the wye we speak. It’s no wrang tae say ‘ah went an’ seen the boy roon’ the bak’ o’ the chippie.’ Or ‘I’ve came doon here tae ask ye.’ Ye cud wricht it ‘Ah’ve’, ye cud wricht it ‘spier’ rather as ask… bit it’s hoo it soons in yer ain heid as matters. Nane o’ it’s wrang. We’re tae busy rendering tae Caesar that which is Caesar’s, an’ allo’ing the English tae infiltrate an’ coorse through wur brains an’ wur bluid, an’ that puts the breaks oan the deeper levels o’ oor identity. We need tae accept that English mediates juist aboot iverthing we dae. It’s an oppression juist the same. We need tae get back tae the land. Back tae afore the leid polis stairtit tae tell us whit is an’ isnae the wye tae spik, or speak or spell wur ain voice.
Bit ah cannae dae that noo. Ah cannae sing ‘Floor o’ Scotlan’ an’ ah cannae wricht in Scots wi’oot stickin’ ma tongue oot at the leid polis. It’s better than cringin’ when they cam intae view, ah suppose. Bit ah fin’ that until an’ unless we are left alane tae speak the voice as we hear it in oor heid and let that voice sing oot loud then the land is lost. And if the land is lost, whit’s the point o’ the leid?
So that’s hoo ah decided ah’m no gonnae wricht in Scots until ah cun dae it wi’oot the leid polis takin’ a reid pen till ma work. Microsoft spell checker is wan hing, but fowk being paid handsomely tae silence wur ain voices, tellin’ us we’re nae daing it richt– that’s tae British fer me. So ah’m no gonnae dae it. Ma voice stays in ma heid fae noo oan.
Pits me in mind o’ a joke – it wis wan o’ ma favourites in ma youth. Here gangs.
There was an Englishman an Irishman and a Scotsman. There was a cave. First the Englishman went in. He saw a pound note (those were the days). He picked it up. A ghostly voice said, ‘I’m the ghost of Auntie Mabel, this pound note stays on the table.’ He ran out of the cave. The Irishman went in. He saw the pound note, and picked it up. The ghostly voice said ‘I’m the ghost of Auntie Mabel, this pound note stays on the table.’ The Irishman also put the note back and left the cave. Lastly, the Scotsman went in. He picked up the pound note and swiftly put it in his pocket. The voice came ‘I’m the ghost of Auntie Mabel, this pound note stays on the table.’ The Scotsman replied ‘I’m the ghost o’ Davie Crockett, this pound note stays in ma’ pocket.’ And left the cave.
Make of that what you will. Laugh if you like. Or read sumhin’ intil it. It’s aye the same tae me. Like ah said, fae noo oan, ma voice stays in ma heid. Until Scotland is independent. An’ ah’m no holdin’ ma breath oan that yin.
About the Author
Cally Phillips has written fiction and drama in English and Scots, much of which is published through HoAmPresst. She also currently works as editor for Ayton Publishing Limited and runs a number of online projects, including The Galloway Raiders, which is the online hub for Scots writer S. R. Crockett. Her latest project to hit the virtual shelves is the #tobelikeche serial, which started in October 2016.
For the archive of Cally’s fiction and drama, follow this link.
For the archive of Cally’s fiction and drama, follow this link.