Debatable Lands

Tags

barmkin, bastle, black market, Bonnie Prince Charlie, border control, Brexit, debatable lands, donkey sanctuary, Easter bonnet, First Minister, haggis, Independence, Lent, Northumberland, Palm Sunday, Pele Tower, Presbyterian, re-moaners, reiver

(image: fortified tower by mattbuck)

[This is a continuation of my Augustus Snodbury saga…]

Diana Fotheringay- Syylk was sitting at her scrubbed pine table in

the kitchen of her pele tower.  She was writing to the church warden,

to apologise for the mule-ish behaviour of the Palm Sunday rescue donkey,

which had slipped its rein in the procession through the graveyard and had

made a dash for the appetising trimmings on Mrs Digby’s Easter bonnet.  This

had not tightened the bonds of fellowship, even though the nibbled headgear

had been sported by one who had contributed to the donkey sanctuary in the

past.  No, she- Diana- felt responsible for introducing such innovative practices

to a staunchly Presbyterian congregation.  She couldn’t help thinking that the

bonnet was a little premature and should have been left until well after Lent,

even if its wearer was the church warden.

Diana would always be a stranger here – a Sassenach.  Murgatroyd might

have saved a prime example of architectural heritage for the nation through

his restoration project, but neither she, nor her husband were of reiver stock.

Oddly enough, her erstwhile lover and the father of her beloved daughter, Dru,

was of that lineage, so she supposed Dru could trace her roots to the ‘Debatable

Lands’ too.

She raised her head and addressed her housekeeper, Mrs Connolly, who was

peeling a turnip (or was it a swede?  The two vegetables had lexical differences

depending on which side of the border they were being consumed.  Another

grave divergence.  I kid you not.)

Mrs C, what do you think Theresa May signified by ‘Brexit means Brexit?’

Ach, jist something like I meant when Ah tell’t ma wee yin ‘Bed means bed!’

Mind ye, Ah usually backed it up wae a swift toe tae the….

Please, Mrs C!

But Diana chuckled inwardly.

She was trying to sort everything out for Gus and Virginia’s visit.  Dru and

Nigel would also be arriving for their end-of-term Easter break.

It had not been a year since she and Murgatroyd had renewed their wedding

vows. What an event it had been, with Dru and Nigel AND Virginia and Gus

tying the tartan knot, in a combined nuptial service. Ah, so much had

happened in a short space of time.

Virginia had offered to put her own house on the market.  It had been her

previous marital residence.  She was worried that house prices might fall,

or the £ might plummet.  She and Gus were ‘Re-moaners’ and proud of it.

They were contemplating re-locating to the Borders, now that they had both

retired from St Birinus Middle.  The problem was that they did not know on

which side of the border to settle.  For this reason, the Debateable Lands

attracted them, in order to hedge their bets.

Dru and Nigel both had accommodation at their respective boarding schools,

but they had been keen to renovate some outbuildings in the pele complex, as

a way of getting themselves on the housing ladder.

Diana was keen on this, as she felt Dru would only conceive when she was away

from the stresses and strains of teaching.  Grand-children were on Diana’s

agenda and she liked the idea of them being on site.  If things became too

riotous, she could always retreat to her fortified bastle and barricade herself

in.

The problem was that the Scottish/ English border ran straight through their

barmkin.

Should’ Sturge’ effect Independence, then to which Csarina should they render?

Would Murgatroyd be evicted from half his property and have to remain in one

half of his complex?

Diana had an idea.

Mrs C, what if we were to transfer all the property to you – you know, put it

in your name?  If we only had permission as foreign residents to live in

the country for a proportion of the year, we could move the furniture

to the other side of the room; stay over there and you could call us your guests.

Nae borra!  Mrs C nodded enthusiastically.  Ah dinna ken whit that wee ny-

eh, that First Meenister is goin’ oan aboot.  Her granny came fae

Northumberland, so she’s practically a migrant hersel’.  An’ some o’ her pals

look like aliens tae, if Ah say so mahsel’.

Onywise, when Dru has her wean, we can put the whole shebang into its name. 

It’ll be born here, Ah take it?  Ach, Ah hope it’s a wee boy: a proper Bonnie

Charlie.

If there is ony Border Control, we will make a killin’, sellin’ haggis, shortbread

and whisky oan the Black Merkit. if they come to inspect, or patrol oor border,

we’ll jist drag the boxes ower tae the far side o’ the room.

But no one down south likes haggis, Mrs C…

It’ll be a different story efter Brexit, ye’ll see!  pontificated Mrs C.  They’ll a’ be

starvin’ ower there. 

And her eyes swivelled significantly, as she directed her stare to the other

side of the kitchen.

Mebbe we can dae a trade in barrels o’ pickled herrin’ tae.

Clerihew 5

Tags

clerihew, First Minister, Mhairi Black, Nicola Sturgeon, SNP

(Official Portrait of First Minister Nicola Sturgeon

https:// beta.gov.scotabout/who-runs-government?

first minister

Author: Scottish Government)

 

Nicola Sturgeon,

you might seem a curmudgeon,

but when it comes to giving flack,

the prize goes to Mhairi Black.

(Image from SNP video. On You Tube &

Wikipaedia)

Rogue One and Two

Tags

anachronism, Clone Troops, First Minister, Galashiels, Isis, ISS, Jedi, Labour Party, Lord of the Flies, Lucasfilm, Mal'arg'osh, Mars Bars, Mars Mission, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Princess Leia, Rebel Alliance, Rogue One, Salmond, Sarah Brightman, The Dark Side, thrawn, Thrawn Crisis, Yoda

The Labour Party members are all but extinct; the Old Country is in

turmoil and there is a dark threat hanging over us all, remarked

Brassie, as she read The Daily Mail in Costamuchamoulah must-

seen cafe.

Sounds like the plot of the new Lucasfilm, commented Carrie.

A band of Resistance Fighters unite for a daring mission to

inflict independence.  They want to avoid imperial

entanglements…  Brassie looked up.  You’re right.  All we

need now is the return of Only-Wan Kebabi, the slimline version

of the original mentor, or Only-Wan Cannelloni as he is known in

some parts of ethnically diverse Glasgow.

The parts with the Art Deco ice cream parlours?  Carrie asked.

You got it!  Then the locals would indubitably realise that the gods

were not coming to save them.

Brassie thought for a moment.  Hmmm…the  erstwhile leader never

used to answer the questions.  In some subcultures, ‘Obi-Wan Kenobi’

means: ‘Your question doesn’t make sense.’  In Salmond’s case, it was his

answers that were the problem.

One thing that you learn in politics is that the Clone Troops usually

turn on their Jedi generals, observed Carrie.

We can only hope, agreed Brassie.  Mind you, I think the new leader

is more like Princess Leia.

How so?

Well, Leia was an accomplished senator during the civil war and

a proponent of The Rebel Alliance and was instrumental in the

creation of a New Republic.

I see what you mean.  She was a bit of a tomboy, but then she

got a makeover.  In the same way, it seems that the wee battler

has been called ‘Swanky Kranky’ now.

Wasn’t Leia a bit of a prankster?  I don’t know if Nicola has a

sense of humour.

Yes, Leia destroyed the budget for the following year, Brassie

grimaced.  But at least she did disapprove of expensive parties

being held while the poor were suffering in Galashiels… I mean,

The Galaxy. She did attend receptions for offworld personnel,

however.

Some critics felt threatened by her, but others viewed her as

being pathetically idealistic, Carrie recalled.

Yes, she was nicknamed ‘Madam Senator’ or ‘Little Miss

Inalienable Rights.’

How very similar!  Didn’t she want to find a new location for the

Rebel Base?

Brassie had a brainwave.  You know, I don’t see why the SNP

don’t go on that Mars Mission, on a one-way ticket, with the

likes of Sarah Brightman.  It’s a Red Planet, so they should feel

quite at home there.  They could confine their Thrawn Crisis to

their own planet.

‘Thrawn’: what does that mean? Carrie enquired.

Oh, it’s a Scots word which means ‘twisted’.

Anyway, The First Minister would probably seize the stone

so she could have the right to address The Council- a bit like

Ralph and Jack with the conch in ‘Lord of the Flies’.

She probably already has The Stone of Scone.  Some say it was her

lot who originally nicked it.  Affected by The Dark Side, she will probably

become Queen of the Empire.

Well, they could stuff themselves with all the Mars Bars they wished,

quipped Carrie. Deep-fried, or otherwise.  Or they could just go to Isis

Headquarters instead.

I think you mean ISS- The International Space Station, Brassie corrected

her.  It’s a common mistake.

Whatever.  Carrie was a little embarrassed by her faux pas.  But The

First Minister could do her Battle Meditation there and utilise her Jedi

skills of diverting the miasma of debating fog.  One must admit that she

sees things clearly and rarely misses a target with her blaster.

Oh, she is good at some things, conceded Brassie.  Messianic things.

That’s why she could share Leia’s nickname: Mal’arg’osh.

Meaning?

‘Daughter of the Saviour.’

What happened to Princess Leia at the end of the saga?

She died, was resurrected, but then re-located thousands of years

back in time.  A similar retrospective transportation might be fitting

for the Braveheart squad.  They love anachronism.

And what will be the final word on the one who groomed Sturgeon for office?

Brassie thought for a moment.  Let me quote Yoda:

‘Lost a planet, Master Obi-Wan Kenobi has.  How embarrassing.’

The Law of Unintended Consequences

Tags

Adam Smith, cobra effect, deferred gratification, fakir, First Minister, Julius Caesar, Law of Unintended Consequences, mongoose, Pied Piper, Robert k Morton, Salmond

Sir, wasn’t it originally a concept of Adam Smith’s?

That Boothroyd-Smythe kid was really getting on his nerves.  He was such

a smart-a**.

Nigel had swapped hats and was standing in for the History teacher.  He

swallowed and counted three elephants.

Well, Robert K Morton, the sociologist, popularised it.

My dad said sociology is an easy option at A-level, butted in the irrepressible

one.  I was talking to him about this topic and he said it was akin to Murphy’s

Law.

Right.  Good for him.  As I was saying… We can exhibit hubris when we try

to act.  Who knows what ‘hubris’ is?

Nigel tried to avoid eye contact with B-S, as the staff liked to call him, but

the brat answered without putting up his hand.

My dad says it is what that Salmond man shows.

Enough!  Take a detention for calling out without raising your hand.

Nigel was breaking out in a sweat.  He’d been trying to have a class

discussion on something topical, but hadn’t been able to transmit his key

points about corollaries and-one he’d thought the boys would enjoy- the

cobra effect.  That was the ensuing consequence of paying Indians a

bounty for every cobra that they brought in.  The so-and-sos started

breeding the reptiles big time.

He’d imagined himself as some kind of fakir, mesmerising the class and

drawing them out of their collective basket by the entrancing flute notes

that he’d intone above their heads; instead, one of the deadlier and more

toxic blighters had struck him down fatally, like Julius Caesar in the Forum.

No, that wasn’t a just analogy: he wasn’t among friends…  He would never

hold an audience like that Pied Piper, the First Minister of Scotland.  His own

charges regarded him as a basket case.  But, maybe with hindsight,

that might also be the judgement the people of Scotland might dish out to

their erstwhile hero in five years’ time.  If he, Nigel, was a fakir, what did that

make Salmond?  Some people said ‘a snake oil merchant‘.  Nigel didn’t want to

go that far.  His wee sidekick could be said to share some similarities with a

mongoose, though.

Was Alex a leader who could handle deferred gratification?  Nigel doubted it.

He remembered the experiment where a child was rewarded with two

sweeties if they opted to restrain themselves from consuming one for a few

minutes.

Somehow he felt that if Alex was put in a room with a pie, he wouldn’t be able

to resist it.  Whereas if Adam Smith was to be subjected to the same

experiment, he felt sure that his self-control would result in sausage rolls

all round.

And now he’d have to waste time at the end of the day supervising the

wretched boy.  From now on, the only cobras he’d be getting involved

with would be the alcoholic variety.

Ice Bucket Challenge

Tags

barmkin, Better Together, Cunning Little Vixen, First Minister, Flower o' Scotland, Flower O'Scotland, Ice Bucket Challenge, Kelvingrove, mote and beam, Oh Scotland, Pele Tower, Purgatory, Sassenach, Scotland, Scottish Play, Snodland, snowploughing, sporran, Trident, Wee Eck, Wyvern Mote

Murgatroyd and Diana settled down in the barmkin to watch The Debate.

Murgatroyd sensed that there were many diasporan Scots- was that the

same etymological root as ‘sporran‘?- who felt somewhat aggrieved that a

Sassenach such as himself could vote on their country’s future, so he

wanted to be fully informed and astute in his response.  He had tried to

follow some of the arguments on his tablet, but found that he kept

re-playing The First Minister’s Ice Bucket Challenge instead.  He liked it

when Wee Eck said, Dae it again!  No doubt that would be his cry if the

result in September didn’t please him.

Mrs Connolly came in with a tray of salmon sandwiches.  Murgatroyd

felt ashamed that he had ever suspected her good self, or her son, of

theft.  Forced bonhomie led him to ask her how she intended to vote.

Oh, Scotland!  Scotland! she quoted.

Again, Murgatroyd was impressed by the standard of the natives’

education.

..nation miserable

with an untitled tyrant,

when shall you see your wholesome days again?

He thought that this might be from that Flower O’ Scotland song. He

hummed a few bars to show solidarity.

No, Mr Syylk!  It is your own National Bard.  The Scottish Play.

She went on:

Alas, poor country!

Almost afraid to know itself.  It cannot be called our mother, but our grave;

where nothing is, but who knows nothing..

I didn’t think Alistair did too badly, Murgatroyd remarked, trying to be

impartial and failing.

If that’s the best they can do, Mr Syylk, I intend to emigrate, like past

millions.

Fare thee well!

These evils thou repeatest on thyself

have banished me from Scotland.

Yet my poor country

shall have more vices than it had before,

more suffer and more sundry ways

by him that shall succeed.

Surely not, Mrs Connolly.  Murgatroyd was at a loss to reply to such

moving rhetoric.  Maybe she should have been representing the

‘Better Together‘ campaign at Kelvingrove.

Diana just thanked her and took two generous-sized sandwiches

from the tray. Mad!  All of them.

But, it was only a few weeks since Diana would have thought a barmkin

was some kind of Scottish oatcake.  It was amazing how she had been able

to see Murgatroyd more clearly, the scales having dropped from her

over-prejudicial eyes.  What was all that about motes and beams?  Maybe

her stay in The Tibetan Centre had helped her to move on.

They were going to have a trial reconciliation. (Sonia had said that she

had seen it coming.)  She always said that.

Anyway, it seemed fortuitous that Dru had accompanied Great-Aunt

Augusta back to Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry.  That

meant Nigel was able to give Sonia a lift home in the hired van.  Dru had

decided to leave her harp at the Pele Tower, so there was room for

Sonia’s luggage.  In fact there was plenty of room for a dismantled Trident,

if Alex and Co had wanted to send it down south.

Nigel’s concentration was being hampered by Sonia’s inquisition on his

relationship with Dru.  How could anyone be more intrusive than his own

mother?

Diana and Gus were already back at school, fielding disgruntled parents

and snowploughing their enquiries, to grit the path for the incoming

Headmaster.  The term stretched before them like a path through

Purgatory.

Gus was annoyed as he had been sent a postcard from Wyvern Mote,

from Maxwell Boothroyd-Smythe, commenting on the wonderful concert

and praising Dru’s musicianship.  Snod knew, with that unerring classroom

intuition developed over decades, that the missive meant that Dru had

taken him there.  He had seen them, tete-a-tete, during the interval, no

doubt arranging to meet up after Dru had dropped Aunt Augusta back at

the care home.  Musicianship?!  Hah!  Cunning Little Vixen!

Gus did not approve of her having led Nigel on.  His own past

experiences returned to haunt him.  He had seen the look in

Nigel’s eyes as he sang some of the more romantic ballads. Poor

fellow!  His vocal timbre was developing, but his charisma was,

like the proverbial gas, at a peep.

Furthermore, there was an issue which now loomed larger than the

outcome of a referendum: if Dru were to strike up a liaison with

Maxwell Boothroyd-Smythe and it should become permanent, then-

Heavens forfend!!-he might end up step-grandfather to that bolshie

Juniper and her odious younger sibling, the biggest bete-noire of St

Birinus’ Middle.

He would like to empty a bucket of something else over that

particular parental head.

 

Table Talk

Tags

Alistair Darling, Arden House, bluestocking, Bogey, Boswell, chiasmus, Desert Father, diaspora, Dr Cruikshank, Dr Finlay's Casebook, Dr Johnson, Dr Snoddy, eggs Benedict, First Minister, Harley-Davidson, Lauren Bacall, Lichfield, Lives of the Poets, Mrs Thrale, Plan B, Rasselas, Sahara, Silk Route, stylites, table talk, Tannochbrae, Voisin

Shall we skip the Eggs Benedict?  Virginia had asked on their final morning

at the Pele Tower.  Fortunately, Snod was unaware of the implications

inherent in the euphemism that she expressed, in what she fancied was

a Lauren Bacall sultry growl.  He hadn’t watched too many Bond films and

was unlikely to have visited Voisin in NY.

He was anxious to get going before the traffic built up.  Maybe they could

break their journey in The Midlands?  Lichfield, perhaps.  He had always

wanted to visit Samuel Johnson’s birthplace.

It was a pity that he had to curtail the school holiday, but he had to be

available to the new Headmaster for preparatory discussions on what

should be on the agenda at the first Staff Meeting.

Virginia had to check that the printers had produced the new calendar.

The high road that leads to England…the noblest prospect! he quipped,

making reference to one of the great lexicographer’s sayings.

Well, it wasn’t a turn on for our previous Head Teacher, Virginia observed.

He preferred riding on a silk route through The Sahara on his Harley-

Davidson.  Maybe he had to spice up his erstwhile academic life. 

Different kind of caravan holiday from the usual.

Johnson once said there was desert enough in Scotland. Snod’s mind

began to wander to visions of its First Minister as a Desert Father,

sitting ‘on his tod‘ atop a pillar, stylites-style.  Best place for him,

since he advocated splendid isolation for his compatriots.

They do say that Scotland’s education system is superior, mused

Virginia.  Would you agree?

Ah, pontificated Snod, as my essayist hero said of the generic Highlander,

his fearlessness of assertion may either be the sport of negligence, or

the refuge of ignorance.

Sounds like a very astute analysis of Salmond’s performance in his

last debate with Darling.  Virginia’s ripostes were gaining momentum.

I suppose the Scots’ independence of vision might have been nurtured by

the fact that no enemy would invade them, as there is nothing to be

acquired but oil. Yet the natives refer to their home as The Promised

Land.

As the good doctor remarked, Snod smiled, God may have made it, but

He made Hell too.  But, to return to the debate, at the end of the evening,

Darling might have addressed his opponent with a Johnsonian put-down:

‘I have found you an argument, but am not obliged to find you an

understanding.’  Or, imagine the effect of a chiasmic remark such as:

Alex, your fantastical Plan B is characterised by features both good and

original. 

However, the part that is good is not original and the part that is

original is not good!

Virginia tried to change the subject since she had always been

taught that politics was not a suitable subject for table talk. At any

rate, we have eaten very well, in spite of the legendary abysmal

Scottish diet.

Yes, returned Snod.  I suppose they have to take sufficient

nourishment to give them the strength to escape from their

terrible weather.  It explains the diaspora.

But this summer we have experienced better weather here than

down south, corrected Virginia.

Yes, but it is always damp.  The whole country consists of stone and

water.  As Dr Johnson told Boswell, there may be a little earth above the

stone in some places, but only a very little.  He described the landscape

as being like a man in rags; the naked skin peeping out.  

Oh, I think you enjoyed your stay, in spite of all your grumbling,

laughed Virginia. It wasn’t only Bacall that could tame a Bogeyman.

It’s all a matter of taste, replied Snod.  As Lord Eldon reminded

Boswell, taste is the judgement manifested when [one]

determines to leave Scotland and come to the South.

Mrs Connolly came in unobtrusively, to clear the breakfast dishes.

Virginia stood up to leave and finish her packing.

Don’t be rude, Gus.  Where do you come from, Mrs Connolly?

I do indeed come from Scotland, Mrs Fisher-Giles, but I cannot help it.

She entered into the spirit of the banter.

That…is what a very great many of your countrymen ..cannot help,

retorted Snod.

He was delighted by the housekeeper’s classless erudition. Their

education must be superior indeed!  Janet might have left Dr Finlay’s

porridge to burn if she had been engrossed in Lives of the Poets, or Dr

Snoddy might have been left unannounced in Arden House’s parlour

while she finished Rasselas over a wee cuppa and an oatcake.

Dr Cameron might have had to clear her etymological index cards from

his desk so that he could pen a prescription in Latin, which she could

have interpreted to the Tannochbrae chemist over a crackly phone

connection.

She was probably the one who wrote the script from the original

casebook.

We’d better be getting on down the road, Mrs Connolly, Snod suddenly

said, rather wearily.

Turning to Virginia he remarked gloomily, At least I only have a few

more pensionless academic sessions to go before I retire.

Oh, cheer up, she flicked a napkin at him, much to the housekeeper’s

delight.  Don’t think of retiring from the world until the world is sorry that

you retire!

As he cleaned his teeth and performed his final ablutions before

the journey, Snod reflected that, surprisingly, he hadn’t tired of

Virginia’s company all that week and, if it was not for the pressing

urgency of his schoolmasterly duties, he wouldn’t mind spending the

rest of his life driving briskly round the countryside with such a pretty

woman who understood him and, as Johnson discovered in the shape

of Mrs Thrale, who could add something to the conversation.  And, come

to think of it, his preferred type of hosiery was definitely now a

bluestocking.