Monthly Archives: March 2012

Tak aff yer dram!

I see that the SNP idea of a minimum price for alcohol as a method of combating the scourge of “binge drinking” [a new phenomenon, evidently] has been endorsed by the Westminster government AND what is laughingly called Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition. Oddly enough though the Labour Party in Scotland [no such thing as a Scottish Labour Party] is set against the idea, probably because they have a visceral dislike of anything and everything the SNP come up with, and consistently vote against it. But it’s something that needed doing, albeit maybe not enough. Drinking of course has been a favourite hobby for Scots for a long time, going back to the Picts, if legend be trusted. I might as well pass on what dear old Robert Chambers tells us:

The Pechs were also a great people for ale, which they brewed frae heather; sae, ye ken, it bood (was bound) to be an extraornar cheap kind of drink; for heather, I’se warrant, was as plenty then as it’s now. This art o’ theirs was muckle sought after by the other folk that lived in the kintry; but they never would let out the secret, but handed it down frae father to son among themselves, wi’ strict injunctions frae ane to another never to let onybody ken about it.
At last the Pechs had great wars, and mony o’ them were killed, and indeed they soon came to be a mere handfu’ o’ people, and were like to perish aft’ the face o’ the earth. Still they held fast by their secret of the heather yill, determined that their enemies should never wring it frae them. Weel, it came at last to a great battle between them and the Scots, in which they clean lost the day, and were killed a’ to tway, a father and a son. And sae the king o’ the Scots had these men brought before him, that he might try to frighten them into telling him the secret. He plainly told them that, if they would not disclose it peaceably, he must torture them till they should confess, and therefore it would be better for them to yield in time. ‘Weel,’ says the auld man to the king, ‘I see it is of no use to resist. But there is ae condition ye maun agree to before ye learn the secret.’ ‘And what is that?’ said the king. ‘Will ye promise to fulfil it, if it be na anything against your ain interests?’ said the man. ‘Yes,’ said the king, ‘I will and do promise so.’ Then said the Pech ‘You must know that I wish for my son’s death, though I dinna like to take his life myself.
                                         My son ye maun kill,
                                         Before I will you tell
                                         How we brew the yill
                                         Frae the heather bell!’
The king was dootless greatly astonished at sic a request; but, as he had promised, he caused the lad to be immediately put to death. When the auld man saw his son was dead, he started up wi’ a great stend, and cried, ‘Now, do wi’ me as you like. My son ye might have forced, for he was but a weak youth; but me you never can force.
                                         And though you may me kill,
                                         I will not you tell
                                         How we brew the yill
                                         Frae the heather bell!’
The king was now mair astonished than before, but it was at his being sae far outwitted by a mere wild man. Hooever, he saw it was needless to kill the Pech, and that his greatest punishment might now be his being allowed to live. So he was taken away as a prisoner, and he lived for mony a year after that, till he became a very, very auld man, baith bedrid and blind. Maist folk had forgotten there was sic a man in life; but ae night, some young men being in the house where he was, and making great boasts about their feats o’ strength, he leaned owre the bed and said he would like to feel ane o’ their wrists, that he might compare it wi’ the arms of men wha had lived in former times. And they, for sport, held out a thick gaud o’ em’ to him to feel. He just snappit it in tway wi’ his fingers as ye wad do a pipe stapple. ‘It’s a bit gey gristle,’ he said; ‘but naething to the shackle-banes o’ my days.’ That was the last o’ the Pechs. [Robert Chambers, Popular Rhymes of Scotland (1870), 80-82.]

Drinking the hard stuff is supposed to be a characteristic of the Scot, but in the 18th century they really did drink to excess. (And by ‘they’ I include the English.) Burns in this regard was like enough of his fellows; but he was, for his time, a rather temperate man. Some folks drank themselves stupid at any excuse, preferably at a wake – it was said by some visitors to Scotland that a Scottish wake was merrier than an English wedding! It is also no real surprise to find it on record as happening (it surely happened more than once) that at the funeral of the mother of Forbes of Culloden the long cortege was absolutely stoned as they wound their way to the kirkyard (which was miles away) only to discover when they got there that they had left the corpse behind.

By Burns’s time folk drank quite copiously, but no one had coined binge-drinking yet. People did complain of course, particularly the Kirk, though sometimes their homilies were ill expressed. We’re told of a certain worthy divine who took his flock to task for undue tippling, and he addressed them thus from the pulpit:

“My friends, the habit of tippling or nipping is a very pernicious one. If ye want a nip, tak a nip, but dinna be aye nip, nip, nipping. For example, when ye get up in the morning, and ye feel a-sinking like, and a bit downish, and ye want a nip, tak a nip, but dinna be aye nip, nip, nipping. And, say, when ye hae sat down and are partaking of the mercies provided, and in case that some of the victuals might not agree with you, and ye want a nip, tak a nip, but dinna be aye nip, nip, nipping. And then, perhaps, when ye gaun and delve in the yird, say, suld the wark be heavy, afore goin’ oot, and to keep up yer speerits like, should ye want a nip, tak a nip, but dinna be aye nip, nip, nipping”—and so on and so on, till the thirsty congregation had his express permission to take about twenty nips between breakfast and dinner.

Dean Ramsay [Reminiscences of Scottish Life and Character, 1857] tells of a drinking bout he was told of by Duncan Mackenzie, writer of the early nineteenth century:

He had been invited to a regular drinking party. He was keeping as free from the usual excesses as he was able, and as he marked companions around him falling victims to the power of drink, he himself dropped off under the table amongst the slain, as a measure of precaution, and lying there, his attention was called to a small pair of hands working at his throat; on asking what it was, a voice replied, “Sir, I’m the lad that’s to lowse the neck-cloths” (i.e. to untie the cravats of the guests and prevent apoplexy or suffocation).

He also tells of a party at Castle Grant many years before, where toasts were drunk again and again as usual, the company getting more incapable by the minute, and as the evening advanced towards morning, two Highlanders were in attendance to carry the guests upstairs, it being understood that none could by any other means arrive at their sleeping apartments. One or two of the guests, whether from their abstinence or their superior strength of head, were walking upstairs, and declined the proffered assistance. The attendants were astonished, and indignantly exclaimed, “Ach, it’s sore cheenged times at Castle Grant, when gentlemen can gang to bed on their ain feet!”


1 Comment

Filed under Texts, Trivia

Colours of Embarassment

Reading the online newspapers can be amusing, generally in a dire way, I must admit. The current Daily Mail, which I have previously commended for its stalwart commitment to exposing the tawdry side of British life, has a story on the new uniforms for the volunteer helpers at the London Olympics. They feature a polo shirt with matching fleece, anorak and rucksack as well as a straw trilby with a pink ribbon. The material they’re made of seems to be polyester, and promises to be unbearably hot and sweaty when worn all day. The colours involved are pink and magenta. The remarks of the outraged Daily Mailers go the gamut from “Oh dear!” to “Vomit-making”, and include these:

Looks like they are members of a provincial Pub Skittles or Bowls team.
[They’d look okay] on a jockey at Cheltenham maybe.
Designed by M Integrated Solutions. I suppose the “M” is for muppets.
They look like the kind of “his & hers” matching anoraks that married hikers wear on some god-awful walking holiday in Scarborough…

-To which someone who’s up to date answered : You do know that you are making terrible assumptions that a married couple comprises a man and a woman – don’t want to go upsetting Lynne Featherstone, now do we?!!!! – Maybe I should explain that the lady is a Liberal Democrat Minister of Equality in the Westminster government, and a proponent of the controversial gay marriage proposal.

The colours, however, though based on those already selected as the official colours, don’t really go together; I agree on that. Another complainer asks
Why couldn’t we have red, white and blue for goodness sake??
– which brought out a reasonable answer to the effect that the colours of the Blessed Union Flag are shared with several nations, and to avoid confusion one should have (it seems) a colour combination few ordinary folk would care to be seen dead in. However, a writer from New Zealand comments
When I was a lively young lad, these colours would have been instantly recognisable as representing a well-known brand of condom – subliminal advertising, perhaps?

As for the hats, another enthusiast quipped,
Love the hats. The only thing missing is the sign stuck in the band reading “In This Style 10/6”.
Maybe I don’t need to remind readers that this is a reference to Tenniel’s great drawing of the Mad Hatter; the inference being that someone is mad, or all of them maybe, presenting Britain (and the giggling world) with
First the inane logo, second the childish mascots Wenlock and Mandeville, third the ticketing fiasco and now the uniforms.

When the Games logo itself was unveiled in 2007, there was widespread criticism of the design (by the Wolff Olins agency) and its cost (£400,000). Some could make nothing of it; others for some reason saw in it a couple (the Simpsons perhaps) engaged in an undesignated sexual act. So another fed-up critic opines
A sex act for a logo, two phallic mascots and now a parade of John Inman impersonators!
Again, to explain: the mascots are two drops of metal with a single eye, one supposes a resemblance to the membrum virile (though evidently they were designed with children in mind), and Inman was the campy character in the “Are You Being Served?” sitcom. It is true though that pink and purple are both associated with Gay Pride, and it’s unfortunate that this is liable to bring out snide remarks such as the design was the result of lobbying from Stonewall. I haven’t decided yet whether that’s a joke or a tenuous sort of homophobia. But anyway, one may sum up with
Yuk!!! It’s becoming increasingly embarrassing to admit to being British.
Which brings me once more to the naming game [English – British – Scottish], of which more perhaps in our next.

1 Comment

Filed under Politics, Texts, Trivia