O’ GANNETS, WEE CHARLIE, JOE BAKER AN’ CRIEFF
I would categorically state that those knockers of the beloved Tartan land, ‘mae hailen hame’, have nev-er crossed its lowland borders, nor sampled its purple heather, its olde, gaelic flavoured tradition, magical sun-drenched and bitter coastline, heard the crying of its lonely bird life, watched the plunging gannet or sat with its people rare, raw and strangely colourful while supping on a native malt so steeped in age and skills or a glass a’bevy like a common Belhaven, a rare Yellowhammer or ‘culties’ with names like Bitter and Twisted, Black Isle Blonde or Simmer Dim.
This by the way is certainly their loss and not something for which they should be castigated. A pity akin for me, to the loss a non-hetro must have in ne’er holding in cupped hand a full woman’s breast. You should tell I am not scripting a January TV holidays brochure whispered in those soft Edinburgh tones. I too love the hard, gutterell Glasgee’ drawl, as well the sing-song sprawl of the western isles who hardly pull their words apart or put them back together. Yes, I am a Scotsman true who both drools and dreams as the Highland mist brings rain and the July evenings a horde a’ miserable midge who bite and bust and make their sell’ so intolerable.
Scot-lund has birthed so many wealthy in the area a’ culture and art. So why else has Edinburgh written so many actors thumbnails or who else paved the stony back streets of Dundee, Motherwell and the like a’ Ger’s own Pollockshores, where played wee boys the likes a’ Charlie Cooke, Dennis Law, slim Jim Baxter and Joe Baker who kicked a fitbaw with grazed knees in the greatest and first established football academy of them all, the stony backstreets of places like La Paz, Marseilles, Napoli, Bermondsey and Dudley while Rivelhino é amigos played their samba game on the softest sand – far too easy!
Chelsea fans everywhere should applaud the streets o’ Dundee whence came the wee Charlie as well as did jute and jam and we may remember Joe Baker the reluctant Englishman whose Liverpool birth, in those days had excluded him for selection for his beloved Scotland while fate later took him east to Torino and serie ‘A’ where not many Scots have ever trod.
I personally have a sheaf of Scots history and visits to suckle upon, leading to ‘nurture and train’ whilst still dreaming of Princes Street, the Trossachs, Fort Wulliam and Callendar, Mallaig and a particularly pleasant evening wi’ a bevvy a’ raven-haired beauties on a Disco jetty that jutted out into a youthful summer evening, way back, in a special place called Crieff. That was in 1969! – Michty me!
Such is the vista, the coppered rainbow, the warp and woof, the rollin’ green hills, an’ the full celtic profile of this plaited jewel, nestling so near the mystical northern lights where it has caught many time that infused heat within its fishermen sails, its prospectors-shawl, laid out random and crocheted, where towns and cities of the royal blue with the diagonal cross, stretch like Rob Roy’s sturdy arms to cover and bring home the booty, the fruit of spoil, to the softest bosom most near its warm and thistled heart .
‘Scotlund, I adore thee’