Three Little Words

Based on our standard UK Postcode system , assuming that the item has been correctly addressed in the first place, we can expect to take delivery accurately and with no great delays arising from either package or human Postie getting lost.

On a global basis however it is estimated that 75% of the population, therefore currently around 4 billion people,  have no reliable, consistent or adequate address that 1) they can use and 2) by which they can be found.

This may be due to geographical factors such as difficult, remote and poorly accessible locations, having been forced to flee from a home territory or occupying the sprawling shanty towns and makeshift settlements that occupy large areas of cities in some parts of the world.

Those of us under a designated Postcode take for granted that if we make an emergency call, order something on-line or seek to exercise our Rights as Citizens then the simple combination of letters and numbers acts as an important identification tool.

We have at our disposal a vast array of mapping systems with these being based on latitude and longitude. I learnt to navigate through the use of paper maps and co-ordinates but that seems so antiquated and even obsolete in the Internet Age where a multitude of Apps are available at the touch of a keypad or under a voice command to a smartphone.

However not everyone has access to the internet or the technology required to make use of such innovations.

This thinking has led to the emergence of a company called What3Words (W3W) who have challenged traditional coordinates with the use of just three words to accurately pinpoint any position in the world.

W3W have divided the surface of Earth into a grid with each square having a dimension of 3 metres by 3 metres or in Imperial Terms, roughly 100 square feet . This makes for 57 trillion squares with each being alloted a unique three word sequence.

The source dictionary of 40,000 words allows for up to 60 trillion combinations of the three word sequences and so will not ever run out. English is adopted as it is the only language that has the 40,000 words in its vocabulary but of course principal world language versions are an integral part of the project.

 It has been proven that humans can easily remember and recall a short combination of words in this style so enabling easy adoption of such a system.

It can be used to identify a front door, a gate, a building or a way-point.

It is not intended to be a substitute for surveying using coordinates but can be used in circumstances where an address , a verbal or written description would normally be given.

Compared to normal conventions the W3W method gives for far more precise plotting.

There is no contextual meaning for the three words for any specific location nor is there any sequential reference, ie your neighbour does not have the same words with minor changes.

However, if you log on to the website mapping resource of W3W at https://map.what3words.com/daring.lion.race and put in some iconic postal addresses there are some interesting connotations which, even where relying on an impassive Algorithm, you might think that a mere mortal may have had an overriding or influencing final decision.

Home of the British Prime Minister at 10 Downing Street, London- slurs.this.shark

The White House, Washington DC -a choice here of with.harp.person or score.latter.loving or my favourite zeal.email.mirror. Randomly generated but so apt for the new President

The Kremlin, Moscow- in the interests of impartiality I chose three- trouser.expect.stitch or
mashing.moving.drips and logic.defended.project

Kim Jong Un Residence- ballparks.landlord.ruling or users.slime.author. These are quite innocuous but await.tacky.javelin is a bit more sobering.

Just a Swift One Then

I was fascinated and amused by a short excerpt from a radio show today where one of the guests spoke about his championing of Tom Swifties.

I had not heard of this term before although in listening to the broadcast I came to the swift realiseation that most of my life has been spent as an unwitting perpertrator of it.

So what is a Tom Swiftie?

It is a play on words that follows an unvarying pattern and relies for its humour on a punning relationship between the way an adverb describes a speaker and at the same time refers significantly to the import of the speaker's statement.

In plain English it is where a very corny pun is attached to a seemingly straightforward sentence to get a laugh or a groan.

The original Tom Swift was a character in a serialised "Boys Own" stylised work by author Edward L. Stratemeyer (1862-1930). The hero appeared in such books as "Shorthand Tom; or, the exploits of a young reporter", serialised in 1894. Incidentally and better known to those of my generation was Stratemeyers writings about Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys which was televised in the 1970's.

The author loathed to use "said" in any of the dialogue revolving around the main character and so just about everything else was used to conclude a sentence as in "he...asserted, asseverated, averred, chuckled, declared, ejaculated, expostulated, grinned, groaned, quipped, or smiled"

It was not very long before someone decided to satirise the mannerism by using puns, and the so Tom Swifty was born.

There are many collections of Tom Swifties compiled by academics, linguists, comics and those who just enjoy word play and punning for its own sake.

James Joyce in his Ullysses is given credit for "they were jeung and freudened" although other examples pre-date those of Stratemeyer.

One particularly comprehensive source of Tom Swifties is The Canonical Collection by Mark Israel.

http://www.ccp14.ac.uk/ccp/web-mirrors/xtalview-mcree/pub/dem-web/misrael/TomSwifties.html

I have picked out a few of those which appealed to my sense of humour.

"The executioner has received the tool he needs", said Tom with a heavy accent.

"I'm wearing my wedding ring", said Tom with abandon.

"I insist on naming the first male insect", said Tom adamantly.

"Those hookers are putting notices in the personals", Tom advised.

"England is okay, except there seems to be at least one blood-sucking insect in every outhouse", said Tom aloofly.

"We had trouble with the propulsion systems for those moon flights", said the NASA engineer apologetically.

"Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays I sleep in a wigwam; Tuesdays, Thursdays, and weekends I sleep in a teepee", said Tom very attentively.

"My wife is going to have a test tube baby", Tom injected artificially.

"That city will never be rebuilt", the prophets babble on.

"I just swallowed a fishing lure", said Tom with baited breath.

"My pants are too tight", Tom burst out.

"One can't dispute the fundamental importance of learning the alphabet", Abie ceded.

"I'm having an affair with my gamekeeper", said the lady chattily.

"I'm writing a poem about the rebels in Nicaragua", said Tom controversially.

"I can't be drowning in African waters!" pleaded Tom, deep in denial.

"All I ever do is fly unmanned aircraft", Tom droned.

"I used to command a battalion of German ants", said Tom exuberantly.

"Have it monogrammed", was Tom's initial suggestion.

"I collect fairy tales", said Tom grimly.

"Have you anything by Hugo?" asked Les miserably.

"Pete! Pete! Pete! Pete! Pete!" Tom repeated.

"I don't think I'll have the pickled fish today", said Tom unerringly.

" I expect to catch the world's largest freshwater species" said Tom superficially.

There are on going competitions globally to submit your own Tom Swifties of which "there seems to be no end "he said ad infinitum or at least until you get sick of it he finished ad nauseum.

The Groat and The Good

I often wonder how a medieval era Silver Groat coin found its way onto my regular dog walking route.

Is it really possible that it had lain in the same muddy spot for the last 640 years or so?

I do find that hard to believe given that said muddy spot is , twice in the course of every day, totally submerged under the River Humber which drains around one fifth of the entire land mass of England out past the city and port of Hull into the North Sea.

Dependant on the speed of the river and conditions upstream that particular stretch of shoreline can be either bright white exposed chalk bedrock or a sticky morass of gloopy alluvial matter.

It was on a muddy deposit day that, following in the tracks of my two dogs, I noticed under my welly-boot toe cap an incongruous, round shaped object.

It was obviously a coin but it was not until I had wiped off the surface grime that I realised that this was quite an old one. The image was well worn but discernible. It showed a head and shoulders image of a figure in a crown and with various flanking symbols and marks.

It was without doubt a Groat, its power and value hammered into the silver and dating from between 1327 and 1377, the reign of Edward the Third.

My first thought on its discovery on the shallow shore was that someone had only just recently lost it. Three scenarios came to mind;

1) A metal detectorist on a practice run may have deposited it there and then in a moment of distraction or depletion of batteries, misplaced it.

2) A panicky burglar may have ditched it fearing that it would be difficult to sell on.

3) A small child, gifted the ancient coin by a doting relative may have used it as a skimmer across the water at high tide in a spiteful act as "even a single shiny pound coin would at least have been legal tender in the local sweetie shop rather than this piece of junk".

A detective instinct that I did not know that I possessed kicked in. It was a case that intrigued me. I went to the internet to try to authenticate the coin.

By way of general background to my investigation I checked up on Edward the Third. His rule of 50 years made him the second longest serving monarch in Middle Ages England.

He was a military man rather than a benevolent statesman and diplomat and in a series of aggressive acts he initiated the Hundred Years War with France and managed a couple of notable victories at Crecy and Poitiers (those names were familiar from some of my school history curriculum).

Academics of the modern age and in retrospect have been critical of him as a bit of an irresponsible adventurer, temperamental and one not to suffer fools gladly.

As for the reasons for the coin to be where I found it?

At that point on the mighty Humber Estuary it was known that successive owners and occupiers of England used it as a foot crossing. The Ermine Street, a major Roman route from the south to York was bisected by the river close by.

A later medieval traveller could have had a hole in his purse or doublet at this very place and one or more Groats and other denominations could have fallen unnoticed into the mud.

Edward the Third did personally visit the city of Kingston Upon Hull, a mere 5 miles along the river to the east in 1332 to be welcomed by its first Mayor, William de la Pole. Such was the kings appreciation of the efforts of de la Pole to maintain a fortified trading port that he was promptly knighted.

Two of Edward's namesaked predecessors had already licenced the construction of a defensive ditch and ramparts using four and a half million locally fired bricks making it the most extensively use of the material in Medieval England.

I am not sure how Edward got to Hull, whether by boat up the coast or across country and taking advantage of the crossing point where I found the coin. That was perhaps too much speculation on my part.

Hull, later preferring to use the short form rather than suggesting any allegiance to the Crown after a major falling-out with King Charles 1st in the run up to the English Civil War, had been allowed by Edward the Third to not only trade with Europe, the exporting of  wool, brick and tile being a basis for the wealth of the area but also to mint his coins The Groat now in my possession may have been bashed out locally on this basis.

Many pages in my sleuthing referred to one major event occurring in the original era of the coin-  The Black Death.

In 1349 this decimated a large proportion of Hull's population which will have been a significant number given that in the latter part of the 14th Century it was in the top ten of English cities by size.

Having read about the scale of the impact of the Plague on the doorstep I decided it would be best to just put away the coin in a safe place.

I may have been overcautious by doing this but just say, on the off-chance, that its previous owner ,in a desperate attempt to flee the pestilence and terror.had dropped it in the process of dropping dead in that particular riverside spot.

A sobering and sad thought.

Pass me the antiseptic hand wipes- NOW.

Shades of Grey

It was an accident. A sad coming together of my car and a grey squirrel.

Although 6 years have elapsed since it happened I still think of the sight but perhaps more the sickening sound of Pirelli's and Scirius Carolinensis coming together on that slip road.

He, and I make a big assumption on the gender although it is more likely to have been a foraging male than female, should not, in my opinion have been in that location at all. There was no natural cover, it was a bleak and desolate bit of no-mans land that you get on major road junctions and with not much by way of sources of food, unless modern squirrels have developed a taste for the contents of discarded McDonalds wrappers and the litter from lunch-on-the-go drivers that frequent the verges and shrubbery of such places.

Back then we lived in a suburb of the city and although the streets were tree lined and the well tended private  gardens afforded plenty of opportunities for a fulfilling squirrel existence we very rarely saw them. It may have been because of the level of human activity, tight fitting wheelie bin lids and the presence of their natural predators that kept them incognito. Alternatively they could just go somewhere else where they could exist quite happily.

Following a house move some three years ago we now reside in a town house overlooking an inner city park. It was laid out in the 1860's following a philanthropic gesture by a wealthy businessman and two-time Mayor. It is in a grand style with a circulatory road flanked by Victorian Villas, curiously shaped ornamental pond, children's play area, refreshment kiosk, statues honouring Queen Victoria and her Consort, Albert and shortly to have a Bandstand recreated under Hull's 2017 UK City of Culture Status.

Although the park is well patronised in daylight hours it reverts after dark to a sort of enchanted realm into which many are feared to tread. The mature trees, mainly Horse Chestnuts arranged in broad avenues across the main greenspace of the park are an ideal habitat for a large squirrel population.

A typically nice fluffy squirrel

I am fortunate that I have a desk in a ground floor window with a direct view out into the trees.

The two upper floors of the house ascend higher into the tree canopies giving a very Attenborough-esque view of all things Squirrel. It is a wonder to behold.

They are a busy lot, very rarely giving the impression of lounging about or skiving.

There is regular activity along the tops of lock up garages and fences just out of the reach of local foxes and cats. The footpath alongside the park road weaves in and out of the foliage cover and turning a slight corner can bring you up close and personal to an temporarily distracted squirrel.

I have on a few occasions, in this way, experienced a face to face encounter resulting in a stand off between man and squirrel. One was quite aggressive towards me and screeched incessantly as though I had transgressed a fundamental right. Mischievoulsy,  I mimicked the same sound in return and for a few moments we were like banshees or spoilt, quarrelsome children. We goaded each other to be the first to leave. I gave in first as I felt the situation to be a bit menacing.

Squirrel with attitude

One-nil to the Squirrels.

In the winter months when the tree crowns are skeletal and stark I can clearly see the passage of squirrels albeit in fleeting silhouette amongst the boughs. Theirs is a seemingly reckless but ultimately skillful leaping route in the upper branches that can swiftly take them from one side of the park to the other.

As I write, just now, a svelte grey has bounded along the low wall only three metres or so from my window before disappearing into the foliage of next doors garden.

There are of course some areas of confrontation. A squirrel nesting in a domestic roof space can wreak havoc being particularly disposed to chewing through electrical wiring and thermal insulation. If I am awake in the early hours, coinciding with the Enchantment  period in the park, I listen out for any audible signs that my loft has become a prime location for a squirrel family home.

I feel privileged to now live amongst the grey squirrels. They are a constant source of entertainment and an opportunity to witness a wonder of nature on a daily basis.

My accidental despatch of one of their brethren to roadkill is I hope now forgotten although with the sudden thought that the squirrels may be keeping a eye on me, I somehow I doubt if I will ever be forgiven.

Ever get that strange feeling of being watched?

Transmogrification

It is marketed and traded as "Matchbox 49b".

The word in the description refers to the brand, a very well known UK manufacturer of die cast toy vehicles. The number and letter are the regular listing for the item in the promotional catalogue for Matchbox.

In the 1960's and early 1970's ,which were my childhood years, I would save up my pocket money in order to buy the latest of these small brochures from the local model shop. Browsing dreamily through that printed colour book with photos and illustrations of the range of toy cars was to me as important as having the vehicles themselves.

It was in those pages that I first came across 49b. The name of 49b, "Unimog" also seemed to be an invented word along the lines of Unisex or Uniform as meaning of a singular but multi purpose use and with mog, well, that could be anything.

I thought at first that it the model was a made up one, a design thought up by the Matchbox people as it was not something that I had seen on the road in reality ,on television or in the relentless scouring of my Father's car magazines which was part of my boyhood fascination with all things automotive.

Fascination? It was more of an obsession that did get me into trouble such as the time, on a visit to the Scrapyard when my father was looking for some parts for his Morris Minor, I prized shiny stainless steel marque badges off a few easily accessible bonnets and tailgates and hid them in his toolbag. The owners of the yard were not very pleased when this came to light and they charged him for them.

On closer inspection of the catalogue picture of 49b there appeared to be the distinctive three pointed star that I knew to be for Mercedes Benz.

I was excited and intrigued by this revelation- The Unimog was a chunky, big wheeled, utility type vehicle from a manufacturer known for big limousines used by villains and Russian spies and sports cars of secret agents and playboys.

There was only one thing I could do. I had to go to the local toy shop and buy a Mercedes Benz Unimog.

First practicality to overcome was to save up my pocket money. The rationale for that in my family was one new pence for every year of age per week.

It would take some time to save up. Time dragged as it does in a young brain when there is an overwhelming feeling of anticipation and yet nothing can be done to expedite matters. This frustration is to some extent balanced out by a deep sensation of achievement in saving up for something that is really wanted .

At last the saturday came around for a trip into town.

The model shop was one of those that used to be in every High Street with a brightly lit window stacked and packed with dangling model planes and exotic cars, a train hauling a long line of wagons and carriages through a toy town diorama and the striking artwork on the lids of boxed Airfix kits.

Hours could be spent just standing and staring at this scene of so much activity.

I could feel the pocket money change burning a hole in my duffle coat pocket and within a few minutes of mock decision making in front of the Matchbox Display Stand I had a Unimog in my hands.

With the luxury of hindsight I might not have immediately ripped open and trashed the packaging as I always did but collectability and residual values were not of any interest whatsoever to me at that age.

The Unimog, for many years, provided me with hours of quality imaginative interaction.

As the websites advertising these vintage toys now so tactfully put- mine did become a bit "playworn".

I came across the battered and faded vehicle just recently when the children of  a family friend found the old box of cars that live in the attic at my parents house.

The sight and feel of it instantly bought back memories. I was pleased that the spark of excitement and childhood joy flickered briefly in the world weary and rather tired and cynical mind that comes with me being 54 years old......next birthday.

Haggis and the National Debt

It is the morning after Burns Night 2017. I have, in frugal style, scraped up the last of the Haggis from the corners of the serving dish as it stands on the cooker top trying to avoid the scraps of neaps which from experience have a bitter overnight aftertaste.

With a gloriously naughty feeling on what is a working day I run my finger around the inside of the whisky glass used for the previous evenings toasts and get just a wee sensation of the essence of Scotland.

Ours had been a grand Burns Supper, one of countless millions celebrated globally by the upwards of 45 million or more who possess a Scottish ancestry.

From The New York Public Library

Today, it is back to business and an opportunity to reflect on the value of the poet and lyricist Robert Burns to Scotland not just in artistic and cultural terms which are a given but in cold hard cash revenues to the national economy.

I am looking to update an exercise commissioned by the BBC in 2009 on this very issue- how much does the Burns Brand generate for the nation?

Robert Burns was born in Alloway, Ayrshire in 1759.

In his relatively short life, he died aged 37, he produced great works of prose, poetry and song in the Scottish dialect and these have endured amongst a home grown and worldwide audience. He was not always appreciated in his own lifetime, indeed it was not really until the late Victorian era that an interest was shown in all things from North of the Border from fashion to design, art and crafts, literature and furniture.

Scotland has produced, for its population, a disproportionate number of exceptional individuals in science, philanthropy, the arts, invention and as entrepreneurs. The Victorians wanted to be associated with such a progressive cultural attitude and Robert Burns was at the forefront of the movement, albeit posthumously.

It was not therefore instant stardom and celebrity for the man.

Even as recently as 2004 the sustainability of Burns as a national icon was under pressure when funding organisations withdrew from their support of the Birthplace Museum in Alloway. Declining visitor numbers led to dwindling income. Deterioration of the Museum building allowed the Burns Family Bible to be damaged by a roof leak and it was only when the National Trust for Scotland and Lottery Money stepped up in or around 2009 that any sort of future was assured.

Huge investment to coincide with the 250th anniversary of the birth of Burns  allowed construction of a new Heritage Centre and attractions in Ayrshire and the future of the Burns Brand was assured.

In 2009 the BBC consulted the great and the good in order to come up with an estimated figure for the revenue generated by all things Burns.

They considered five broad categories of income that were intrinsically linked to the current cult-status  centred on the poet.

1) General Tourism. There are millions of visitors to Scotland every year and Ayrshire is a destination for many followers of Burns. Income is derived from hotel accommodation, restaurants and shops, taxi fares, bus fares, guide books and services.

2)Burns Merchandise. The Heritage Centre and on line shops have a range of quality products in the Burns Brand ranging from expensive lyric -engraved jewellery to chess sets and snowglobes to the best selling fridge magnets. Summer visitors like the themed postcards and as Burns Night, 25th January approaches, the sales of napkins and tea towels ramp up.



3)Haggis. Not many foodstuffs have their own poem in celebration. This blend of lambs lungs, offal, oats, gravy and other things.....is available all year round but with a spike in volumes for the traditional Supper. It is quite a scrap in my local stockist to secure an elusive MacSweens Haggis for this occasion. Don't forget the tatties and neaps. Oatcakes and soup sales also peak.

 

4)Whisky. I do  not have much to add to the production figures for this national tipple by way of emphasising the income generating ability of this product.

5) Miscellaneous items. These are as varied as kilt and sporran hire to fees for a Piper, choirs, Master of Ceremonies, Guest Speakers and admission prices for Corporate Events.

The wide range of inputs in this calculation does, as you will appreciate, give potential for a huge margin of error.

Since the 2009 BBC guesstimate there has been inflationary and other pressures at play. One single element has been the increase, over that period, in the adult admission charge to the Heritage Centre from £5 to £9.

Crunching the numbers, in my update, produces a figure of £196 millions.

Robert Burns would, I think, be pleased about his 21st Century wealth generating capabilities although ironically he struggled in his lifetime with his own finances.

Not that he was really bothered by material things as a line from his "Country Lassie" testifies "Content and Loove brings peace and joy".

Robert Burns

         Country Lassie

                                            Robert Burns



In simmer when the hay was mawn, 
And corn wav'd green in ilka field, 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea,
And roses blaw in ilka beild; 
Blythe Bessie, in the milkin-shiel, 
Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will; 
Outspak a dame in wrinkled eild, 
O' gude advisement comes nae ill. 

Its ye hae wooers mony ane, 
And lassie, ye're but young ye ken; 
Then wait a wee, and canie wale,
A routhie butt, a routhie ben: 
There's Johnie o' the Buskieglen, 
Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre; 
Take this frae me, my bonie hen, 
It's plenty beets the luver's fire. 

For Johnie o' the Buskieglen, 
I dinna care a single flie; 
He loes sae weel his craps and kye, 
He has nae love to spare for me: 
But blythe's the blink o' Robie's e'e, 
And weel I wat he loes me dear; 
Ae blink o' him I wad na gie 
For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. 

O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught, 
The canniest gate, the strife is sair; 
But aye fu' - han't is fechtin' best, 
A hungry care's an unco care: 
But some will spend and some will spare, 
An' wilfu' folk maun hae their will; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 
Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. 

O gear will buy me rigs o' land, 
And gear will buy me sheep and kye; 
But the tender heart o' leesome loove, 
The gowd and siller canna buy; 
We may be poor, Robie and I, 
Light is the burden Loove lays on; 
Content and Loove brings peace and joy,
What mair hae queens upon a throne.

This song was mentioned in a letter which Burns sent to George Thomson on 19 October 1794.

The Tangled Web

It is the celebration of the Scottish poet, Robert Burns tomorrow, 25th January and so to get us all in the spirit of the event here are a few olde worlde Scottish sayings and words and other more modern ones...

• I’ll gie ye a skelpit lug! – I’ll give you a slap on the ear.
• Whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye! – What’s meant to happen will happen.
• Skinny Malinky Longlegs! – A tall thin person.
• Lang may yer lum reek! – May you live long and stay well.
• Speak o’ the Devil! – Usually said when you have been talking about someone – they usually appear.
• Black as the Earl of Hell’s Waistcoat! – Pitch black.
• Failing means yer playin! – When you fail at something at least you’re trying.
• Mony a mickle maks a muckle! – Saving a small amount soon builds up to a large amount.
• Keep the heid! – Stay calm, don’t get upset.
• We’re a’ Jock Tamson’s bairns! – We’re all God’s children, nobody is better than anybody else – we’re all equal.
• Dinnae teach yer Granny tae suck eggs! – Don’t try to teach someone something they already know.
• Dinnae marry fur money! – Don’t marry for money – you can borrow it cheaper.
• Is the cat deid? – Has the cat died? Means your trousers are a bit short – like a flag flying at half mast.
• Haud yer wheesht! – Be quiet.
• Noo jist haud on! – Now just hold it, slow down, take your time.
• Hell slap it intae ye! – Means it’s your own fault.
• I’m fair puckled! – I’m short of breath.
• Do yer dinger. – Loudly express disapproval.
• Gie it laldy. – Do something with gusto.
• Ah dinnae ken. – I don’t know.
• Haste Ye Back! – Farewell saying meaning “return soon”.
• It’s a dreich day! – Said in reference to the weather, when it’s cold, damp and miserable.

Some Scottish sayings that are not so old ……

• Gonnae no’ dae that! – Going to not do that.
• Pure dead brilliant – Exceptionally good.
• Yer bum’s oot the windae – You’re talking rubbish.
• Am pure done in – I’m feeling very tired.
• Am a pure nick – I don’t look very presentable.
• Ah umnae – I am not.
• Ma heid’s mince – My head’s a bit mixed up.
• Yer oot yer face! – You’re very drunk.
• Yer aff yer heid – You’re off your head – a little bit daft.

And some Scottish slang words ……

• Aboot – About
• Ain – Own
• Auld – Old
• Aye – Yes
• Bahooky – Backside, bum
• Bairn – Baby
• Bampot- Idiot
• Barry- splendid
• Baw – Ball
• Bawface – Describes someone with a big round face.
• Ben – Mountain, or through
• Bevvy-drink
• Bide – Depending on the context, means wait, or stay.
• Blether – Talkative, when referred to a person. To “have a blether” is to have a chat.
• Blutered- very drunk
• Boggin-filthy or disgusting
• Bonnie – Beautiful
• Bowfing – Smelly, horrible
• Braw – Good, or brilliant
• Breeks – Trousers
• Coo – Cow
• Clorty- Filthy
• Crabbit – Bad tempered
• Cry – Call, as in what do you call him?
• Dae – Do
• Dauner – Walk – “I’m away for a dauner”
• Didnae – Didn’t
• Dinnae – Don’t
• Dour- glum
• Drap – Drop
• Dreep – Drip
• Drookit – Soaking wet
• Druth- thirsty
• Dug – Dog
• Dunderheid, Eejit, Galoot, Numptie – All mean idiot
• Dunt – Bump
• Eedjit- idiot
• Feart – Afraid
• Fusty- mouldy
• Frae – From
• Galoot- idiot
• Gallus – Bravado, over-confident
• Gang – Go
• Gaunnae – Going to
• Geggie – Mouth, as in “shut your geggie”
• Glaikit – Stupid, slow on the uptake
• Goonie – Nightgown
• Greet – Cry
• Gubbed - Badly
• Gumption – Common sense, initiative
• Gurne- Sulk
• Guttered- Drunk
• Gutties - Plimsolls
• Hae – Have
• Hame – Home
• Hammered- Drunk
• Haud – Hold
• Haver – Talk rubbish
• Hing – Hang
• Hoachin’ – Very busy
• Hokin’ – Rummaging
• Honkin’, Hummin’, Howlin’ – Bad smell
• Hoose – House
• Houghin - Revolting
• Hunner – Hundred
• Hurkle Durkle - messing about
• Huvnae – Haven’t
• Invershnecky- Inverness
• Jobbie - going for shit
• Keech - bird poo
• Keek – A little look
• Ken – Know
• Lum – Chimney
• Mair – More
• Mannie - little man
• Manky - Filthy
• Merrit – Married
• Messages - groceries
• Mockit, Mingin’, Boggin’ – All mean dirty
• Moose – Mouse
• Naw – No
• Neep, Tumshie – Turnip
• Noo – Now
• Numpty - idiot
• Oot – Out
• Peely Wally – Pale
• Piece – A sandwich
• Poke – (to poke – to prod) (a poke – a paper bag)
• Pus - Mouth
• Radgees - Crazy young lads
• Reek – Smell, emit smoke
• Riddy – A red face, embarrassed
• Scran - Food
• Screwball – Unhinged, mad
• Scullery – Kitchen
• Scunnered – Bored, fed up
• Shoogle – Shake
• Shoogly – Shaky, wobbly
• Shuftie - take a look
• Shunky - Toilet
• Simmet – Gents singlet
• Skelp – Slap
• Skoosh – Lemonade (or fizzy drink)
• Skrechin- shriek
• Sleekit – Sly
• Stookie – Plaster cast (for a broken bone)
• Stour – Dust
• Swally - drunk
• Tartle - panic when forgetting someones name
• Tattie – Potato
• Tattyboggler - Scarecrow
• Telt – Told
• Teuchtar - someone for far north west Scotland
• Thon – That
• Wean – Child
• Weegie- Glasgow person
• Wellies – Wellington boots
• Wheest - be quiet
• Whit – What
• Willnae – Will not
• Widnae – Would not
• Windae – Window
• Wummin – Women
• Ye – You
• Yer – Your
• Yin – One

The Wiles of Farmer Giles

The Ploughmans Lunch.

It is as synonymous with England and the English as fish and chips, steak and kidney pie, bangers and mash, a sunday roast and a bacon butty. It creates a nostalgia for the agricultural backbone of the nation without which the subsequent industrial revolution and wide ranging Empire could not have developed as it did.

It remains a favourite pub fare for many and certainly in my case it was for many years the only thing that I would order from the menu.

When younger, on one of those balmy summer days that area so rare in this country I could think of nothing better than a drive or a cycle out to a countryside inn to have a beer and a plate of the unique and historic Ploughmans.

There is something about a lump of cheese, a bread roll, some lettuce leaves, apple slices, a dollop of Branston and a pickled onion that reminds us of our proud heritage.

Although usually sat at a table on an upholstered chair in a rural themed pub , just the savouring of those flavours would transport me back in time to a bygone age.

I could imagine myself in a roughly fashioned smock and leggings, rudely manufactured hobnail boots, wearing a woven cap and taking a hard earned rest amongst plough and sweating horse after a good morning's work up and down the acres making furrows in the heavy clay soil.

Out of my knapsack would come a linen cloth in which would be wrapped a veritable feast, the original Ploughmans Lunch.

I would feel, by taking this fare, in solidarity with my farming ancestors, not of any gentry status I should stress but of the journeyman, contracted worker moving across the countryside to hiring fairs following the work for each season and to boot with a young family in tow.

It was a tough life for meagre wages but with something honest and fundamental about ekeing a living out of the land.

Unfortunately my allegiances and sympathies were based on an utter fraud.

I, like the majority of the population had fallen victim to a clever marketing campaign by the Cheese Marketing Board (CMB).

The International Advertising Agency, J Walter Thompson were commissioned by the CMB in the 1960's to boost the demand for their products.

In that era, although there were many types of the dairy product available it was only really Cheddar that was accepted by the English consumers, that being based on tradition and national identity. There was no stomach for those French and other continental cheeses.

In a brainstorming session the Agency realised that the only place that people might want to eat cheese would be in their local public house.

The majority of these establishments were not geared up for cooking or with no facilities or skills so what better than to serve a cold platter of cheese and bread as the perfect accompaniment for a pint of beer.

The advertising, in the form of a 5000 leaflet run for individual pubs to attract customers was a great success and so the Ploughmans Lunch as it was known became a regular on the menu.

Such was the clever subterfuge of the campaign that we have accepted a purely fictional back story as historical fact.

I do feel a bit cheated by the whole fabrication but such is the sophistication of modern marketing that I will not have been the first nor will I be the last to be bamboozled in such a way for a myriad of products and services.