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peter.howden Posted 22nd Sep 2018, 12:53pm
  Best man Tale

Oatie and the whirlwind;

At one time long ago, Ben and Oatie (a playful nickname derived from his employment as a delivery driver for famed Nairn’s oatcakes) for a considerable time, shared digs situated within a Scottish city boundary. They both trotted the emotional journey, through thick and thin times, of female companionships. Without warning, in a fit of madness, Ben was asked to be best man for Oatie, who plighted his troth to a nurse, angelic face, rumoured taking evening classes, to graduate as a ‘nippy sweetie’.

Most people who knew her, thought she would pass with flying colours. It’s said, ‘Love is blind’, but with him… it was deaf as well. Oatie was away most of the week, delivering products of his firm, seeing, and hearing his beloved primsie nymph only at weekends.

With the nuptial ceremony booked for the end of the following week, arrangements were made on the hoof. Sort of following a stag night tradition, the very next night in the well kent hostelry, Oatie, his workmate, Ben, plus girlfriend, did partake in a few wee ‘Water of life’, till the last bell, to celebrate with empathy…. the future of Oatie, a kind and honest comrade…. ready to have his seeds sowed for him.

He invited the cosy company back to the small flat, boasting a grand job, having just finished decorating. His heaven for eternity, was on the top story, of a posh wally close, situated close at hand. Oatie categorically stated, his honey bunch was working night-shift. A decision was taken to buy refreshments, meagre though they be…quite a few refills taken till the final bell rang.

Leaving the drinking establishment, the company felt a tad hungry, crossing over to the crowded chippy, carry-out in hand. Ben stuck up a conversation with two fella’s he knew, who were off to a big party. The adequate fish suppers bought, the group left for Oatie’s abode, when he noticed Ben, carrying a brown carrier bag. Asking an obvious question, who’s purchase was this, “ours” came the quick reply…” No, I have ours, small as it is” replied Oatie, holding up another brown paper carrier bag.

Ben realized he had accidently picked up, the other company’s accommodating booze…and it was much more than theirs. Anyway, the boys were too far away… so…it stayed with him.

The happy group arriving in a high-class wally close, climbed four sets of stairs, to reach the rather uniquely designed miniature room and kitchen, plus bathroom with a sliding door, to save space. Carefully distributing portions of the fish& chips banquet, to each individual, before toasting the fine fellow Oatie...wishing him well…more in hope than anything else.

The cheery party were totally unaware…utter hell would break loose…without warning
peter.howden Posted 19th Sep 2018, 05:23pm
  The tales of Hector and ‘The Bruce’


When you give your word …you keep it, regardless the cost to yourself or someone else. It’s knowing when to give it…especially to yourself. Never let anyone tell you, what it is, for you should always know.

Hector and ‘The Bruce’ were fluky being teenagers, right from the beginning of the swinging sixties, with openness on sexuality and honesty. The reality was how just some people swung, while most of the world’s population just got on with making a living…some just scraping by surviving.

Most young people growing up around this decade, believed they were liberated from the apron strings of their parents…but more important, experiencing at first-hand what had not been known before. a feeling they alone were going to change the world…

Parents generally didn’t appreciate this deliverance within youthful minds, as their kids were naive to think everything revolved around them… and what they did. They danced, held rallies against the bomb, argued politics, parties and sex when they liked. Go to the cinema where the films were screen censored by initials ’U’,’A’, or ‘X’. French films with the ‘X’ meant sex scenes, or so some unexperienced teenager boy’s thought, the actual sexual act was more of a fumble.

Hector’s mainly learnt from French films, if being surrounded and outnumbered, have a fag in the mouth, when the leader of the gang challenges, spit the lit cigarette at his face, giving you the surprise edge…then grab them by the nether-regions, hold on tight… may come in handy as the years pass!

‘The Bruce’ was sadly no hit with the ladies, hampered by a stone face and being well kent, if feminine circles as a wet-blanket, (salivating wincher). Being his mate, Hector told ‘The Bruce’ the fact of the predicament to his annoyance and denial. Hector called for a test… sure enough when, ‘The Bruce’ osculated the glass mirror, it left a messy moisture stain.

Seeing how self-conscious he was about the whole affair, Hector suggest each evening wipe his mouth with a towel, pucker his lips on his hand, approach on a pillow as a substitute for a female. The following Hector said with a straight face, “may raise your standard and technique…to be ready, willing and bloody able as a stoater of a lover, for the following weekend’s party at the notorious Ramsey’s.” these notorious revelries were held, on a regular basis, at the posh end of the city.

Whether ‘The Bruce’ wasted his efforts due to unsupervised exertions, not trying hard enough…or what, but once again he was alone at the ball of a party…minus any partner…making punch …drunk… peevishly muttering …it was all Hector’s fault…. but he was nowhere to be found…
peter.howden Posted 17th Sep 2018, 11:38am
  [b]The tales of Hecror and ‘The Bruce’;[/b]


The sum of Hector’s early years, filled with potential for learning, and making mistakes…but years alone… do not make you wise, if you fail to learn from these mistakes

Hector and ‘The Bruce’ were inseparable, at the time when mates were mates no matter what, though now these times have gone, while the reminiscences lingers in certain places. Memories do not hold any time limit, whereas the mind, in some cases, the brain. It can bunch all irreverent actions and conversation into one big happy plan, with mundane spaces blocking out reality… where some unhappy situation survives.

With two stints of closeness, firstly, school two buddies … lost contact in a short break, coming together again, forming the infamous four, already and willing for fun. It is not correct politically, morally today, however, ‘The Bruce’ one failing was… being a true-blue protestant bigot. In some ways congenitally raised, nurtured in this mould, but sometimes the hint was there that he accelerated his own make.

Hector had no such predispositions as an atheist, yet… in some way, he was just as bad, for it seldom bothered his inner being or indeed tickled his conscience or troubled him to evaluate any consequences. Prejudice was there, for unlike today’s mythology of correct intolerance, we accepted it as being part of life’s rich tapestry, dogmatists on both sides was rife in this age, especially in Glasgow.

Hector vaguely had first-hand experience how the vicious crippling virus, bigots on both sides, installed to a neighbourhood, in the guise of a cult reputed faith. It just made it very difficult at a party or dance, for ‘The Bruce’ open gambit with the opposite sex, was predictable. “Do you kick with your left foot?”. He truly believed it was wrong to be intimate, or even associate with the Catholic creed.

The strangeness was “The Bruce” had no prejudice against Arabs, Chinese Jews, any coloured person who found themselves brown or black, only Catholic. He had a jagged track record as you can imagine. He could be talking to a pretty girl on minute, then she would storm oft with embarrassment. Hector knew his gambit had struck once again.

When the Ramsey’s parties ran notorious weekend flings to die for, by the time Monday morning came, that’s what you believed you had done. ‘The Bruce ‘was not successful in the girl’s department, consoled himself with a mixture of alcohol, which was not a delicate cocktail Whatever kind of booze lying around, a fruit bowl or any apparatus at hand, mixing pot luck. A glass of this instant nectar, without fail blew the mind. So many times, we just became helplessly drunk and crawled into the empty night thinking they had a whale of a time.

The girl Helen came from a seaside hamlet, met Hector in the city. Both had a great couple of weeks, then the last night in the amusement arcade, she played over and over, the Ray Charles hit of that Summer “I can’t stop loving you”. Holiday romances are really hard on the couple who believe the pain from parting will last forever. Hector’s mistake was to use “The Bruce”, as an agony aunt.

Six months later Hector receive a letter from Helen, cursing my name, informing him their passion had indeed bore fruit. The letter continued, she did not wish her child to grow up labelled out of wedlock. The end of the scribbled correspondence threatened, if he did not take care of his responsibilities… then be it on his own head. Meet her at the main railway station the very next week, and if he did not… she would let her father and two big brothers, both amateur wrestlers, take it from there.

“The Bruce” did ask if there was anything worrying Hector, who put it down to concern, as he could not hide this emotion very well. For the whole week he tried to think of ways to get out of this terrible situation…to his shame, never once thought of the girl or her predicament.

Helen was right, he was a selfish bastard… while standing in the railway station, for three frightful hours, imagining almost every girl being her, as his mind was clogged with total confusion and fantasy. Hector returned to the café and just sat there. The man himself came in supporting a huge smirk on his face, a tale on his tongue. ‘The Bruce’ told Hector, he had written the letter; his father had posted it as he went through Dunbar, on business as a commercial traveller.

Hector was relieved, remained seated, releasing inside every emotion within trying desperately not to let it out. All stoned faced ‘The Bruce’ whispered “she was catholic…she would have made you marry her, point proved?”

He did not pull his punches
peter.howden Posted 16th Sep 2018, 10:47am
My Chronicles 16/09/2018;

Last week, taking a chance the weather forecast was true and reliable, I headed for the home Aunt Becky resides in. An inner sadness overcomes me, seeing so many older folks, in different stages of dementia, and other illnesses which alters their view of their surroundings. The common denominator is simply incomprehension of where, why, and what. This affects their reaction to either strangers, like me, or the carers, who sometimes are strangers to them, even though they have day to day contact. Rebecca and I feel fortunate Aunt Becky is seemingly content but confused by…where other poor souls are hurting and angry.

Taking her out for a hurl along Strathblane road. passing Ballagan Burn, she was in foot tapping mood, and at one stage singing along with the auld Scottish tunes, played quite loudly during every hurl. Returning to the home, we met up with one carer, she seems to respond with in a friendly nature. She is content with him because he stays in Possilpark, and he pays special attention to her. The carers have a difficult job with so many residents, fickle in their motions and wishes…but are safe under constant professional observation…

Her home had to be sold, to pay most of the fees for residing in the Dementia care-home, however, before the abode was bought, we asked Becky’s neighbours, if there was anything they could use since the house was to be emptied. They had been a vital help over the previous years to keep Becky in her own wee place.

Rebecca and I have a few souvenirs, holding varies memories down through the ages. Proudly, the main one is a hand wound, pendulum spring clock…tick-tock-ticking away since Uncle David’s time. it has always been admired by family and visitors, sentimentally more than in value.
It keeps faultless time, tick-tocks away…as long as I don’t forget, to move the hands on a couple of minutes each morning as I switch the telly on.

In our back green, a huge tree is growing which has some bird feeding wire holders hanging from it. Because one was almost empty, the lid lay at an angle. Yesterday, somehow a sparrow managed to get inside. I noticed a black cat was patiently sitting at the foot of the tree, looking up at the bird’s dilemma.

The very young kids next door, witnessing the caged bird, asked if they could have it, as a pal for their budge. I explained this was not practical, as wild birds need their own outdoor surroundings, which unexpectedly they understood Taking the now cage away, removed the lid, letting the terrified creature fly away.

This morning, believe it or not, a small sparrow flew towards me, landed on my finger…twisting its head from side to side, as if thanking me…lifted its tail…and shat all over my fingers…wonder what it was communicating?
peter.howden Posted 13th Sep 2018, 09:01am
  The black cat

A group of young people, smoking naughty forbidden cigarettes, loitering at the rear end of this main chapel of the spiritual town holding a catholic ‘All Saints Day’ mass. Unobserved, an exquisite black cat majestically strolled around classified holy statues as the cat stalked around the inner grounds, her coat sheen alerted in the changing candlelight, or any slenderest twitch of its darkest black perfectly groomed pelt, so deliciously smooth, it could be mistaken for silk.

Her exaggerated pupils set deep in tawny eyes, while stiff whiskers suggested military obedience of a successful predator.

The white-cassock robed youngsters were members of the chapel choir and caretakers of the consecrated relics during the service. One innocent lad stared and pointed while calling to his peers; ‘Look… Cats hold luck’. Crunching a very unchristian couple of words, the biggest of the boys, a tormenting bully deliberately flicked his red-hot burning cigarette right at the cat’s jet-black pelt, which not only brutally scorched the flawless coat but cause severe pain for the unfortunate beast. Her eyes piercingly flashed as her ear-piercing squeals of agony was only inaudible by the music coming from the massive organ in the chapel. The cruel sneering boy sniggered before he entered the holy place to prepare for his religious duty.

The dutiful service followed its strict code of practice, performed and conducted by the visiting bishop, wearing Dalmatic garment, from the chasuble alter, reading from the Roman Missal in celebration of the Eucharist. Meanwhile, due to the pious obedience from the awaiting congregation, no one noticed the black cat prowling stealthily towards the sacred tabernacle area of the all-embracing Church. As a wild hunter, she used the pews shadowing her existence of purpose as if stalking a particular prey. The only detection was the distasteful lingering odour of damp singed fur.

The tormenter of a lad was the main solo singer, stationed just under the Sanctuary lamp, awaiting his celebrity appearance and recital. It was justly noted he had the voice of an angel and would be a professional chanter in later life. Each other adolescent was prepared for the holy order, with Chalice paten and Purificator while the dark cat crept accurately closer to the stone alter… as if on a deliberate hunt.

The young boy stood up to sing directly under the ‘Tabernacle Lamp’ looking ever inch angelic in his white cassock robe when… out of nowhere… leapt the frenzied cat, knocking the oil full lamp from its safety on the stone wall. It unceremoniously fell from its insecure holding as the contents of inflammable oils spilled unrehearsed onto the boy’s head, then splattered across and through his bright white robe, instantly igniting into uncontrollable flames throughout the now petrified boy’s attire.

There followed screaming bedlam, echoes of excruciating screeching within the old walls of the medieval chapel shaking its foundations. The cat just sat sedately quiet… watching the mayhem her actions had created, while she licked her coat of jet black. The alert priest had the presence of mind to rap the statue-standing petrified lad in blankets, to stifle the flames which saved the lad from first degree burns all over his body.

The boy never sung another note, due to the injuries to his vocal cords, endured while almost becoming a horrific human torch…and the cat…. never seen again after it casually strolled out of the chapel…
Cats can bring luck…. but what kind?[size="4"][/size]
peter.howden Posted 12th Sep 2018, 05:35pm

Modern technology is the ‘Bees knees’ to most folks, unquestionably essential to commerce & banking and almost every single enterprise, science, medicine, you name it, it depends almost entirely on computers. This is an everyday fact for the up-to-the-minute generations right around the entire world…except Wee Malky!

The speed of the internet’s development has taken most of the populace by surprise, even the boffins of our lands where caught, ‘on the hop’… but narrowing down quite a bit to an individual … such as a man named Malky. up-to-date scientific knowhow completely boggles Malky, although he can just about use his phone for functions other than just answering it like a land line. Usually bewildered, dumbfounded, disappointed, for sometimes, modern apparatus can’t achieve what it states on the box.

Malky and spouse, are now of the age memory plays unfair tricks on them and simple day to day actions, did not bring enlightenment, due to now possessing a memory like a sieve. Trying to find lost keys caused confusion, sometimes a hot exchange of a word or two slightly emphasised between the loving couple.

His daughter decided to purchase colour coded battery-operated bleepers alarms, fitted on each of their keyrings. Stress free main button controller homing device placed in a convenient part of the home. One morning, the lady of the house, called up to Malky, to find this finding gadget…as her keys had been misplaced Malky physically acted immediately…nevertheless a wasted effort as his brain cells weren’t even awake. The brass fact was he could not remember where he had put the slim-lined device

Malky’s brain jolted, thinking he should search for his keys, more than likely they were close by to each other. Such a sharp thought for first thing in the morning…but no dice, Malky could not evoke where any keys were, Yale or otherwise, never mind the location of the battery locator. Now strongly urge to look everywhere for the practical apparatus… which eventually did bring moderate success. He found the slimline article…but the wee circular batteries were debunked.

Bearing in mind, Malky purchased spares quite a while ago but just could not put his finger on where he put them, nagging him while his wife echoed the same, inducing amnesia. Time cometh the man…with a ‘Will of steel’ Malky decided to rush to the shops, purchase new wee batteries… and be back in a jiffy

Perhaps not a jiffy, Malky exulted… returned home with vital batteries, feeding the slimline apparatus but no sound rebounding from the lost keyrings. The lady of their abode, murmured in hearing range, “lost my keys as well as your own” …it was more a statement than an innocent question. Leaving the abode, she added, “you’ll need to stay in”, shutting the door behind her.

Whiling away the time confined within, Malky made half efforts in finding both sets of keys. They turned up in one of his wife’s shopping bags…further investigation indicated, with flat batteries. Malky felt it was prudent not to communicate data to his wife…for unity reasons. [size="4"][/size]
peter.howden Posted 9th Sep 2018, 10:20am

Locating cabin

Gaining consciousness, recalling my name was Dan, then, it was obvious pre-conditioning for a considerable time, before entering the gateway to anywhere in our conception of the entire universe. The experimental ‘Arch’, dubbed ‘Igloo’ for obvious reason, inducing dormant hibernation condition, nearly the entire trip into unidentified vast vacuum of space, towards the limits of our knowledge; ‘the last indefinite frontier’… even Earth’s computers cannot phantom.

Almost immediately, my awareness of duties, needed accomplished within this experimental craft, was first and foremost. This came instinctively, due to months of extensive training in a testing simulator, exact to the letter of the outward-bound greatest space vessel of our age. Now, how could I… dare I say it…’go where no man had gone before.

All responsibilities completed, now aware of the purpose, and why, this hazardous mission, desperately urgently complied by the nation presiding force of Earth. For more than many decades, uncontainable catastrophic atmospheric happenings, in weather, seas and air, the vital soil for sustenance, changing the life as we know it…our basic survival is dubious. Or beyond our minds.

The main function of the ship’s processers, being programmed to search for a substitute planet, in other galaxies, for the whole population of Earth to evacuate. Now, info from the ship’s supercomputers was… some 46.6 billion light years away from the planet. This would place, as far as I could calculate…at the very edge of the entire visible universe.

All systems go, the data collected, the findings on the computer, although in forward thrust, the capsule immobilized by invisible foreign energy. Looking through the observation screen, total torpor emptiness ahead, though familiar interplanetary combinations behind the craft.

Data warnings on the screen, invisible membrane detected… indestructible… unable to penetrate… Ribosomes comprising D.N.A…inner nucleus rouge cells… source infested beyond standard repair…must delete… further information…waiting for response…data… behind forward barrier… self-contained protected organisms exist,

The grim reality of the status quo, no matter how incredible it may be…I…and the total existence of the world, based inside an additional alive unconceivable entity.

I awoke, in a state of saturated chilled sweat, wondering if this was a terrible nightmare … an omen…or possibly so…?

or simply, before sleep...reading Annual 1953 ‘Pilot of the future’
peter.howden Posted 6th Sep 2018, 09:45am
  My Chronicles 06/10/2018;

Last week I drove to the dementia Old Folks home wondering how, if at all, Aunt Becky would recognize me or wish to step outside and go for a hurl in my old jalopy. She did come down by the elevator, supported by one of the dedicated carers, wide eyed as if she wanted to see everything at once. I’m not sure if she did identify me, however, she was keen to take my arm after telling her, ‘I’ve knocked a car, so we can see the hills!’. Perhaps there is still a bit of devilment within her…she smiles accepting my arm

Inside our wee banger, she usually taps her feet to the usual Scottish music, sucking away with a sweet, then sing along in a very low voice. I must try to be firmer in accepting how things are circulating in Aunt Becky’s mind and deeds, dictated by the illness named dementia, causing unknown stress which she can’t relate to us. Now and again there are minute verbal droplets into the past which connect in her mind but hard to decipher. I do enjoy our trips to the Kilpatrick hills, especially when seemingly Becky’s eyes sparkle watching out for cuddies…and walking lamb chops.

My own memory wanders off now and again, like blotting paper, smudging my ability to remember names of friends, acquaintances, films and T/V, though at the moment it can be an advantage watching programmes and our old D.V. D’s. I can’t recall them until well into the episode…and still incapable to grasp the endings.

A short time ago, ‘She who must be obeyed’ wished to visit a store, which I deem being an updated Swedish Viking mental torture establishment, adapted totally to wipe everything from a sane mind…then transfix only on Ikea goods. Two and a half hours, to buy one thing, trooping around a strict arrowed zig-zagged path through modified enclosed windowless unconceivable experience which would crumble the strongest of men’s resistance.

Worse to come, once down stairs you travel through a Woolworths style area, full of knickknacks, the now mind conquered punter makes up feeble unqualified reasons why to purchase unwanted items. The real torture is uncertainty…there are no exit signs…until past the pay desk.

Tuesday’s journey down to Ayr, for a selected appointment with Jim Hendry, was more than pleasant whizzing past some outstanding countryside, plus famed golf courses. A once majestic hotel, closed for some years now, is incorporated in the railway stations operations. The building is a danger of collapsing, forcing trains to terminate on two platforms and a ban on through trains journeying to and from Stranraer.

Although we are ‘chalk and cheese’, china Jim Hendry and I regularly met up for a slight refreshment, shooting the old breeze. It is good to loosen up. Jim has straight paths, while I jump from one thing to another…but we laugh a lot…mainly at ourselves.

On the return home by train, the whole couch became witnesses to the troubles and woes of a young girl around 25, travelling to met up with a ‘Martin’ whom she kept phoning a deteriorating progress report, when arriving at each station from Irvine and Central station. I could not tell if she was slightly tipsy, but with her trust mobile and her loud, loud voice, the whole carriage was well aware of her fate. It seemed ‘Martin’ had promised a romantic tryst at the end of the journey, however by his tones, the girl became increasingly anxious she was being deceived. At one stage, attempting her makeup and lipstick, while hanging on to every word ‘Martin’ was spouting looked really awkward to say.

Repeatedly the maiden said with increasing tension…’But Martin, that was not the plan…I’ll get lost’ and threatened to return home. Obviously, uncaring Martin was not moved by her pleads, as he was giving instruction where she should go after she enlighten from the train. The last I saw of the girl, she still had her ear glued to her phone, struggling to make her way through the jostling crowd.

In my courting days, we had no means of instant communications…so we headed for the infamous ‘Boots Corner’ …to see if we were lucky…or had a dizzy…. that’s progress for you…
peter.howden Posted 2nd Sep 2018, 06:39pm
  Anecdotes from the auld Steamie

At the end of 19th century, and the very beginning of the 20th, many purposely built Victorian structured amenities, giving much needed aid, and social comforts, to the working-class peoples, experiences extreme crowded living conditions existence around shipbuilding, heavy engineer, foundries, massive warehouses throughout cities and towns, in the industrial expanses of Scotland,

These specialized buildings, consisted of wash-house facilities, locally known simply as ‘The Steamie’ also extra attractions, and functions, due to the massive steam produced by large boilers housed within. Such extras were Horse driers, Swimming pools, Hot baths, and the suave Turkish suites, to rid the industrial oils from the skins of working man. In one such premises, in one such area, of one such metropolis, an attendant named Alex was employed as a bronze medal swimming attendant.

Alex’s generous brother-in-law, having just aquirred a wee ‘But and Ben’ by the sea, offered him, and family, to have a holiday the following week, although previous occupant had striped the abode entirely. His Brother-in-law furnished the abode with bedding and the like… the only fly in the porridge… the lack of cooking facilities. There is something special about a ‘Butt and Ben’ holiday…or was it being free which urged in Alex one prime objective, the necessity for a stove…

Time was the essence and he was no slouch…. So, a quick gander around the premises store room, a solution was just sitting there… an extra unused baby belling, a small type of oven/grill and hotplate. On his day off, very early in the morning entered in the building, told the acting inexperienced manager, he was picking up the cooker to take it elsewhere…the raw gaffer assumed it was to another area, although in reality he was taking a loan of it for private use. These baby belling’s are reputed to be portable, however, carting it for some thirty-five miles, Alex found is bloody hard work, very sore on the arms.

The grand holiday over as a couple of months passed by, with Alex intentions returning the said cooker unfulfilled, Alex learned, through the grapevine, of an inspection by Area superintendent Kirker, and the teensy snivelling sneak Andy Pandy, was planned before the end of the week, included scrutinizing the store room. Alex was left with one prime objective…return the stove post haste….and it would not be as easy as obtaining it.

That very night, he made his way to the ‘But and Ben’, stayed through a chilly night, returning by the first train to arrive, just as the boiler man entering through the building’s back door. Taking the now ‘dead weight’, through to the store brought Alex a unfortunate surprise…Kirker and the nyaff Andy Pandy were at the end of the passage…with clip-boards.

Nark Andy Pandy noisily pronounced with intimate glee; ‘I knew I would catch him trying to steal something’. Alex just stood there, unable to speak when unexcitingly Kirker moaned; ‘don’t be an arse, I asked Alex to collect the extra cooker from the staff room’. It was obvious, the shifty wee man was pure vexed about this statement but could not retort such a senior figure’s account.

Andy Pandy slinked away in the huff as the superintendent whispered to Alex…
‘When we are finished…take that useless bit of junk back to where it came from this morning …but bloody ask the next time…I was in here yesterday…alone?’
peter.howden Posted 31st Aug 2018, 09:51am
  Northern Dialect

It has been quoted, each area of the British Isles speaks English, however, not with the same vernacular termed as the Queen’s English by the old B.B.C.…thank god…. Who wants to speak with a load of jorries wobbling around the mouth, as if someone made up a speech a few hours earlier? Speaking and listening, should be relaxed, a pleasurable affair while giving or gaining information… or just passing the time of day. The dwellers around the islands of Scotland, speaking the English have a special unique attractive pronunciation, clear…almost singing.

In years gone by, Scotland had a reputation of uttering words that England demanded, with preciseness, though now it may be different. Having travelled up to Dundee and Aberdeen, all I can say… it was my experience having to cock an ear more to listen attentively what a Dundonian was saying. Then travelling north, this proved practically impossible with people who truly was born in Aberdeen, known as Aberdonians. What a transformation 66 miles makes… Not route 66 which the Stones sing

If asking the way to ‘Union St’, they smile broadly, proceeding with Doric dialect which they guttural express in great haste, losing, or switching peculiar vowels in confusion, for five odd minutes or so, when you suddenly realize it was directions all the time they were trying to convey.
Weird words such as ‘Rummlieguts’ Clart; Thrawn Fa's, or ‘Bydand’ which means ‘Steadfast’ the proud motto for the ‘Gordon Highlanders’.

I do recognize, ‘deoch-an-doruis’ having enjoyed Aberdonian company with a glass or two. At a certain select soiree, oddly my powers of understanding the local tongue grew easier the more whisky I consume. My host proved to possess a charming dry wit, as the refreshments freely flowed… while this tale he told… straight faced.

A lowlander came to Aberdeen, set up a general grocer across the road from a general store. Out came the traditional blackboard and written with chalk was ‘Sugar 2/- a bag’. Seeing this the Aberdonian put out his blackboard, then wrote in chalk ‘Sugar 1/-11d a bag. This spurred the new arrival to wipe his board and scribble in chalk, ‘Sugar 1/-9d a bag’ Each time the stranger placed his price ,the Aberdonian lowered his further …this procedure carried on until later on in the day, when eventually the stranger marked up in big letters , in chalk; ‘ Free Sugar’.

With a smirk on his lips, the lowlander wandered across the road and said to the Aberdonian …’you can’t beat that?’. The Aberdonian… in a cool slow droll, said… ‘Ken Telt nay …Aye dinna roup sucarr’…translated…. Don’t you know… don’t sell sugar…

My small miracle was… I understood the joke…told in Aberdonian patois…thanks to Scottish ‘us·que·baugh’
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