Whenever I visit Scotland, I invariably have two or three conversations with strangers that go more or less like this:
So you’re American?
No I’m Canadian.
Really? My sister’s husband’s uncle is Canadian.
Small world.
Lives in a wee town called Oakville. You know it?
Well, it’s closer to me than Prince George. That’s for sure.
So where in Canada are you from?
Toronto [which, as all locals do, I pronounce Trawna]. Oakville’s part of the GTA – the Greater Trawna Area.
Then maybe you know ‘im. ‘is name is Callum.
I never have the heart to explain that the GTA has about one and half times the population of Scotland and that I’m as likely to know his sister’s husband’s uncle as I am the custodian who cleans the toilets in Edinburgh castle. But it doesn’t matter. We establish a point of contact and that’s all it takes. Scots are invariably kindly disposed towards me — because…well…because I’m not American.
I’ve always assumed that Scots are just naturally hospitable. Then I read Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting and stumbled on a passage (you won’t find this scene in the film) that causes me to wonder if maybe I haven’t met the right Scots yet. The passage is written in dialect. The main character, Mark Renton, is riding the train from Edinburgh to London with his childhood friend, Frank Begbie, who is about as antisocial a person as you’d hope to meet. The passage is told from Begbie’s point of view, so it’s long on expletives. Nevertheless, it had me laughing for an obvious reason:
Rents sits doon beside they two burds. Fuckin tidy n aw. Good fuckin choice by the rid-heided cunt!
– These seats ur free until Darlington, he sais.
Ah grabs the reservation cairds n sticks thum in ma tail. – Thir fuckin free the whole wey doon now. Ah’ll gie the cunts bookin, ah said, smilin at one ay the burds. Too fuckin right n aw. Forty quid a fuckin ticket. No shy they British Rail cunts, ah kin fuckin tell ye. Rents jist shrugs his shoodirs. The posey cunt’s goat that green basebaw cap oan. That’s gaun oot the fuckin windae if the cunt fuckin faws asleep, ah kin fuckin tell ye.
Rents is tannin the voddy, n wir jist near Portybelly whin the cunt’s awready made a big fuckin dent in it. Hates a voddy, that rid-heided cunt. Well, if that’s the wey the cunt wants tae fuckin play it . . . ah grabs the J.D. n swigs it back.
– Here we go, here we go, here we go . . . ah sais. That cunt jist smiles. He keeps lookin ower it the burds, thir likesay American, ken. Problem wi that rid-heided cunt is thit he’s no goat the gift ay the gab is far is burds go, likes, even if the cunt dis huv a certain style. No likesay me n Sick Boy. Mibbe it’s wi him huvin brars instead ay sisters, he jist cannae really fuckin relate tae burds. Ye wait oan that cunt tae make the first fuckin move, ye’ll be waitin a long fuckin time. Ah fuckin show the rid-heided cunt how it’s done.
– No fuckin shy, they British Rail cunts, eh? ah sais, nudgin the burd next tae us.
– Pardon? it sais tae us, sortay soundin likes, ”par-dawn” ken?
– Whair’s it yes come fae then?
– Sorry, I can’t really understand you . . . These foreign cunts’ve goat trouble wi the Queen’s fuckin English, ken. Ye huv tae speak louder, slower, n likesay mair posh, fir the cunts tae understand ye.
– WHERE . . . DO . . . YOU . . . COME . . . FROM?
That dis the fuckin trick. These nosey cunts in front ay us look roond. Ah stares back at the cunts. Some fucker’s oan a burst mooth before the end ay this fuckin journey, ah kin see that now.
– Ehm . . . we’re from Toronto, Canada.
– Tirawnto. That wis the Lone Ranger’s mate, wis it no? ah sais. The burds jist look it us. Some punters dinnae fuckin understand the Scottish sense ay humour.
– Where are you from? the other burd sais. Pair ay rides n aw. That rid-heided cunt made a good fuckin move sittin here, ah kin tell ye.
– Edinburgh, Rents goes, tryin tae sound aw fuckin posh, ken. Fuckin smarmy rid-heided cunt. He’s aw ready tae steam in now, aw Joe-fuckin-Cool, once Franco breks the fuckin ice.
These burds ur gaun oantay us aboot how fuckin beautiful Edinburgh is, and how lovely the fuckin castle is oan the hill ower the gairdins n aw that shite. That’s aw they tourist cunts ken though, the castle n Princes Street, n the High Street.