Scots Away
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: Just one man's ideas on what it is to be Scots.
_____________________________________________________________________
The temptation is to reminisce, to do as our elders did and speak fondly of the past, the good old days, regardless of how God-awful and wanting those times might have been.
I sat quietly and listened as my father, uncles and their many friends told stories about when they were young, especially if drink was involved, which it invariably always was; it would have been rude to interrupt. There was a melancholy atmosphere to many of these tales, most of them, while others lamented on just missing out on the war; National Service barely registering as being of much importance after peace broke out.
Reading between the lines, I was quite sure one or two of the narrators would have given their eye teeth to have been a part of it, just to say they had raised a gun in anger.
When it came down to national pride, to a man they were what you might call 'Devout Scots', although never having been abroad, they didn't really have anything to compare with. Their own fathers and uncles ventured farther afield of course, and many of them never came back, which in itself created a strange romanticism of sorts; and a certain amount of jealousy.
Still, I was fascinated by the revelations of coal stealing, working the ponies on the beach, and, whisper it, running 'errands' for the local Bookie.
History lessons at school tended to concentrate on heroic battles against our near-neighbours, the English, a country with which we, allegedly, share a common language. World War 1 was touched upon, World War 2's history was still being collated and textualised for educational purposes so the war against the 'Auld Enemy' was a staple for that time. Imagine then, the shock of discovering many years later that one of our most prominent heroes from those battles, one William Wallace, was in fact an Australian/American, with the strangest Scots accent anyone in God's country has ever witnessed.
I'm so glad I didn't pay much attention in History class, else I'd surely be even more confused than I am now. Those Yanks have a lot to answer for with their convenient re-write of history, and in that particular instance, Scottish history. Just because they own the country, well, a fair chunk of Aberdeenshire at least, doesn't mean they should be allowed to change the past to suit movie-going audiences worldwide.
Roll on fifty odd years from my opening remarks and my own stories differ greatly from those of the previous generation, if only for the fact that I at least have travelled abroad.
By the time I was nineteen I had been twice around the world. In each and every far-flung corner I visited, I met up with someone from my homeland. I found this strange at first, although there can be a lot of comfort drawn from hearing a familiar accent. Some, in fact, had lost most of their native twang but were quick to slip back into it when encountering a fellow Scot, finding an obvious pleasure in the excuse to do so. The very fact that they made the most of the presented opportunity managed to convince me that we Scots never lose that fierce pride in our birthplace, however far-flung we find ourselves.
The welcome can vary from open hostility to open arms and stages in between, depending mainly on the numbers involved. Three or more laddish Scots having a rare old time of it in anywhere but their native land can strike fear into the hearts of the locals, but, conversely, one solitary Scot might be considered to be fair game. Always a good idea to have a common factor, in my case a liking for fine music and some choice hash; they actually go hand in hand.
When I first found myself to be quartered in the north west of England, the first thing pointed out to me by the dude who picked me up at the station, the brother of a friend who had lived there for a time, was where to score. This information was related as a warning as to where to avoid, and became my first port of call for that very reason. It was a Friday night, the place was jumping, I could have got stoned on the atmosphere, and the music was sublime; I fitted in quite well and instantly made a number of friends, although I was carefully vetted as to my suitability regarding getting my hands on some hash. Rightly so, as I imagine happens with every new face making such enquiries; you can't be too careful.
A couple of weeks later I arranged to meet a good looking girl, with the double intention of getting to know her better and scoring some Lebanese Gold. She gave me easy to follow directions to the pub in question, a twenty minute journey away in another town; I was fair looking forward to having a high old time.
It was a Biker Bar, evident from the second I stepped inside, all eyes were on me and the place reeked of suspicion. I was young, full of bravado, or perhaps foolishness, either of which caused me to belly up to the bar. I had hair half-way down my back, the beginnings of a full-on beard and was dressed from head to toe in mismatched denim; I reckoned I could bluff it. As soon as I opened my mouth to order a pint, I could feel the daggered eyes on me, even more suspicion. The barman poured my pint and sat it in front of me, barely disguising his own curiosity. In the mirror behind the bar, I watched as a huge biker hauled himself to his feet, and had him marked down as the spokesman.
“What's a sweaty sock doing down round these parts?” he asked.
Before turning to face him, I wrapped my right hand around the base of the pint glass, wondering if I might get to neck the drink before having to use the container as a defensive weapon. Knowing I was heavily outnumbered, I decided on a charm offensive.
“A'v jeest came doon tae shag aw yur weemin' pal.....an' a'm no' quite feenished yit.”
The giant took a few seconds to digest my response, and I casually necked half of my pint. I was now facing him, facing his barrel chest, what with being at least a foot shorter than he was, and maybe four stone lighter in weight. Then, I saw teeth through his bushy beard; he was either smiling, or about to bite my head off.
The entire company relaxed. Tank, my new best mate, laughed his head off and bought me a fresh pint. I joined him at the table, and, when I explained I was after some draw, he gave another biker a shout and I was fixed up; not with Lebanese Gold as it happened but with best black, a real result.
When the girl I had arranged to meet turned up, Tank advised me to steer clear, she was nothing but trouble. I realised she had tried to set me up for a good hiding but before I could put the notion to her she fled the premises, her plan had backfired; I never saw her again, despite frequenting that particular establishment on a regular basis. Tank had accepted me and it followed that everyone else who drank there accepted me by association.
The gallus approach doesn't always work, there being a fine, delicate line between gallus and show-off arrogance. Bruises must be accepted, even traded. All part of the traveller's learning curve.
Accents, some lose their accents rather quickly but can easily revert as they approach the home border. Others, myself included, simply soften the mother tongue and slow it down a bit. This helps towards being understood and saves the speaker from having to endlessly repeat; a real stress-buster.
So! I was fifty four years of age when I finally finished shagging all the English girls and returned to my roots, being instantly accepted, although some did question my use of some words and phrases – some of it can't but help to infiltrate over such a long period of time – and I wasn't long in reverting to my gentle North Ayrshire burr.
With fancying myself as being something of a writer, an author no less, I took a great fascination in re-acquainting myself with words and sayings long forgotten, and of course how they should sound when uttered.
This is where you find me now, posting my thoughts and scribblings more in the vernacular than in the more acceptable English.
A Scot abroad can, in some ways, be more passionate about his native land than a home-based, home-loving Scot, for the very reason he'll possibly have more opportunities than most to defend it. Just my thinking on it, but then, I've experienced both examples of the conundrum in point.
I had a whale of a time on my travels but there's one sure fact I can verify. Being Scots means it's always so great to come home.
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: Just one man's ideas on what it is to be Scots.
_____________________________________________________________________
The temptation is to reminisce, to do as our elders did and speak fondly of the past, the good old days, regardless of how God-awful and wanting those times might have been.
I sat quietly and listened as my father, uncles and their many friends told stories about when they were young, especially if drink was involved, which it invariably always was; it would have been rude to interrupt. There was a melancholy atmosphere to many of these tales, most of them, while others lamented on just missing out on the war; National Service barely registering as being of much importance after peace broke out.
Reading between the lines, I was quite sure one or two of the narrators would have given their eye teeth to have been a part of it, just to say they had raised a gun in anger.
When it came down to national pride, to a man they were what you might call 'Devout Scots', although never having been abroad, they didn't really have anything to compare with. Their own fathers and uncles ventured farther afield of course, and many of them never came back, which in itself created a strange romanticism of sorts; and a certain amount of jealousy.
Still, I was fascinated by the revelations of coal stealing, working the ponies on the beach, and, whisper it, running 'errands' for the local Bookie.
History lessons at school tended to concentrate on heroic battles against our near-neighbours, the English, a country with which we, allegedly, share a common language. World War 1 was touched upon, World War 2's history was still being collated and textualised for educational purposes so the war against the 'Auld Enemy' was a staple for that time. Imagine then, the shock of discovering many years later that one of our most prominent heroes from those battles, one William Wallace, was in fact an Australian/American, with the strangest Scots accent anyone in God's country has ever witnessed.
I'm so glad I didn't pay much attention in History class, else I'd surely be even more confused than I am now. Those Yanks have a lot to answer for with their convenient re-write of history, and in that particular instance, Scottish history. Just because they own the country, well, a fair chunk of Aberdeenshire at least, doesn't mean they should be allowed to change the past to suit movie-going audiences worldwide.
Roll on fifty odd years from my opening remarks and my own stories differ greatly from those of the previous generation, if only for the fact that I at least have travelled abroad.
By the time I was nineteen I had been twice around the world. In each and every far-flung corner I visited, I met up with someone from my homeland. I found this strange at first, although there can be a lot of comfort drawn from hearing a familiar accent. Some, in fact, had lost most of their native twang but were quick to slip back into it when encountering a fellow Scot, finding an obvious pleasure in the excuse to do so. The very fact that they made the most of the presented opportunity managed to convince me that we Scots never lose that fierce pride in our birthplace, however far-flung we find ourselves.
The welcome can vary from open hostility to open arms and stages in between, depending mainly on the numbers involved. Three or more laddish Scots having a rare old time of it in anywhere but their native land can strike fear into the hearts of the locals, but, conversely, one solitary Scot might be considered to be fair game. Always a good idea to have a common factor, in my case a liking for fine music and some choice hash; they actually go hand in hand.
When I first found myself to be quartered in the north west of England, the first thing pointed out to me by the dude who picked me up at the station, the brother of a friend who had lived there for a time, was where to score. This information was related as a warning as to where to avoid, and became my first port of call for that very reason. It was a Friday night, the place was jumping, I could have got stoned on the atmosphere, and the music was sublime; I fitted in quite well and instantly made a number of friends, although I was carefully vetted as to my suitability regarding getting my hands on some hash. Rightly so, as I imagine happens with every new face making such enquiries; you can't be too careful.
A couple of weeks later I arranged to meet a good looking girl, with the double intention of getting to know her better and scoring some Lebanese Gold. She gave me easy to follow directions to the pub in question, a twenty minute journey away in another town; I was fair looking forward to having a high old time.
It was a Biker Bar, evident from the second I stepped inside, all eyes were on me and the place reeked of suspicion. I was young, full of bravado, or perhaps foolishness, either of which caused me to belly up to the bar. I had hair half-way down my back, the beginnings of a full-on beard and was dressed from head to toe in mismatched denim; I reckoned I could bluff it. As soon as I opened my mouth to order a pint, I could feel the daggered eyes on me, even more suspicion. The barman poured my pint and sat it in front of me, barely disguising his own curiosity. In the mirror behind the bar, I watched as a huge biker hauled himself to his feet, and had him marked down as the spokesman.
“What's a sweaty sock doing down round these parts?” he asked.
Before turning to face him, I wrapped my right hand around the base of the pint glass, wondering if I might get to neck the drink before having to use the container as a defensive weapon. Knowing I was heavily outnumbered, I decided on a charm offensive.
“A'v jeest came doon tae shag aw yur weemin' pal.....an' a'm no' quite feenished yit.”
The giant took a few seconds to digest my response, and I casually necked half of my pint. I was now facing him, facing his barrel chest, what with being at least a foot shorter than he was, and maybe four stone lighter in weight. Then, I saw teeth through his bushy beard; he was either smiling, or about to bite my head off.
The entire company relaxed. Tank, my new best mate, laughed his head off and bought me a fresh pint. I joined him at the table, and, when I explained I was after some draw, he gave another biker a shout and I was fixed up; not with Lebanese Gold as it happened but with best black, a real result.
When the girl I had arranged to meet turned up, Tank advised me to steer clear, she was nothing but trouble. I realised she had tried to set me up for a good hiding but before I could put the notion to her she fled the premises, her plan had backfired; I never saw her again, despite frequenting that particular establishment on a regular basis. Tank had accepted me and it followed that everyone else who drank there accepted me by association.
The gallus approach doesn't always work, there being a fine, delicate line between gallus and show-off arrogance. Bruises must be accepted, even traded. All part of the traveller's learning curve.
Accents, some lose their accents rather quickly but can easily revert as they approach the home border. Others, myself included, simply soften the mother tongue and slow it down a bit. This helps towards being understood and saves the speaker from having to endlessly repeat; a real stress-buster.
So! I was fifty four years of age when I finally finished shagging all the English girls and returned to my roots, being instantly accepted, although some did question my use of some words and phrases – some of it can't but help to infiltrate over such a long period of time – and I wasn't long in reverting to my gentle North Ayrshire burr.
With fancying myself as being something of a writer, an author no less, I took a great fascination in re-acquainting myself with words and sayings long forgotten, and of course how they should sound when uttered.
This is where you find me now, posting my thoughts and scribblings more in the vernacular than in the more acceptable English.
A Scot abroad can, in some ways, be more passionate about his native land than a home-based, home-loving Scot, for the very reason he'll possibly have more opportunities than most to defend it. Just my thinking on it, but then, I've experienced both examples of the conundrum in point.
I had a whale of a time on my travels but there's one sure fact I can verify. Being Scots means it's always so great to come home.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing. He has a number of publications to his name, including Coont Thum and Tattie Zkowen's Perfect Days, both of which have been published by McStorytellers.