Ginger Nut

In a quiet moment, you know the type, in between noisy moments, I got sidetracked into attempting to answer the questions in the British Citizenship Test.

I failed.

It was very technical and I would actually challenge the majority of  born and bred Brits to do it and contend that they too would fall down under such telling questions of pomp, circumstance, parliamentary procedure, demographics, religious convictions and who was the least talented and convincing James Bond. Apparently not a)Connery, b) Lazenby, c)Dalton, d) Brosnan or D).Craig.

I was never very good at written examinations so wondered if there might be a practical test by which to qualify for ongoing membership of these isles. Also, could I possibly be a bit picky about which specific constituent part of the British Isles I would like to be a citizen of?

I would definitely choose Scotland. This is not on account of the oil reserves, a natural propensity to be successful when exiled to anywhere else in the world, no qualms about deep frying a Mars Bar, white pudding , a secret supply of single malt whisky to sustain life after the meteorite hits or the beautiful wide open spaces but because I have some ancestry and within a couple of generations.

I have already started to compile a scrapbook towards a formal application to be Scottish if for some reason I do not pass the DNA test to confirm beyond doubt my Viking bloodline.

The first page has a portrait photograph of me. Green eyes are inherently a characteristic of those natives north of the border. If I let my eyebrows and stubble grow out of control there is a distinctive and undeniable reddish tinge. I am, I have summised on many occasions, but a small amount of chromosones away from being a full blown ginger person. My Father, through whom the Scottish ancestry was perpetuated was a red-head and I have already warned my own children that their future offspring may well follow the strawberry-blonde route. They are prepared for the inevitable or at least as best they can without going into expensive and prolonged therapy.

Page 2 shows me in my tartan kilt in which I was wed. Those who have seen this photograph have mentioned, that for some reason the Thomson Tartan is somehow familiar. I keep quiet but only because the distinctive material was used by Vauxhall as a fancy upholstery finish for some of their Astra Hatchback models in the late 1980's.

Page 3 is of me holding a Practice Chanter when I enrolled into classes to learn to play the bagpipes. It was a horrible experience. Am I the only person who dares to say that all the notes, and there are very few of them anyway, are flat and quite tuneless? I hate myself for thinking this because I am always the first to experience genetic based emotional palpitations and stirrings when a Pipe Band inflate and tentatively start some march or dirge.

Page 4 is a montage of family photo's to prove a number of consecutive years of holidaying in Scotland. This has not just been the main tourist venues but some pretty remote and barren locations including a loch-side in Perthshire where we, as children, spent a week retrieving the fresh water bleached bones of sheep out of a mountain stream and almost collected enough to form a perfect skeleton back home in the playroom. Hazy images are not a fault of the photographer but a consequence of standing amongst clouds of ravenous blood thirsty midges. We camped a few yards away from the main electrified railway line from London to Inverness but did not realise until the night-sleeper thundered through like an avalanche. Whilst out on an idyllic walk on forest rides we would suddenly find ourselves cowering from fear under the flight path of very low flying RAF fighter bombers. As they say, Welcome to Scotland.

Page 5 consists of memories of my Scottish Gran. Helen was born in Wick, right up towards the north east corner of Scotland. I went up their once with my fiancée and we found the old house and also the grave of one of her brothers who drowned in the sea whilst fishing off the shore. I do not remember much about my Grandfather apart from his broad scots accent and chain smoking. I learnt a lot about the home country from my Gran and she did say she would put in a good word for me if I ever needed to flee across the border.

I am currently and at this very moment working on the contents for page 6. I have acquired a set of ingredients including beef heart, lamb lungs and oatmeal and, on this 25th January Robert Burns Night in commemoration of that great Scots Son and poet, they are blended and cooking through nicely in the oven. Served with neaps and tatties we will soon, as a family be feasting on a traditional Haggis. The wrapper in which it was purchased from Tesco's will compress down quite nicely under a pile of Sir Walter Scott books over the next week before being carefully inserted and glued into my Scottish Citizenship Application Folder. Oh, and they are running regular repeats of Braveheart on Freeview so that I can get the historical facts absolutely right in my mind just in case a question crops up.

(first produced 25.1.12 but thought it should have another airing)