‘FIT dis’t mean tae be mingin?’ speir’t the loon o me as we sat aa squaash’t thegither inta a sma studio in a media biggin in Widdside. Gyn that wis me, I answer’t, the studio wid o clear’t seener than a blink o an ee.
There I wis on Thursday mang a bourachie o bairns an teachers fae Hanover Street Primary School, the tables turn’t as at the ither side o the mike were twa twal-eer-aul loons, Grant an Aaron, wintin tae fin oot far the roadies o life hae teen me an daurin tae challenge me on ma ain, ma mither tongue, the meanin o mingin bit een o the ferlies they were tae bring up.
I fair enjoy’t the fylie I hid on their ain wee programme o ‘Readin Radio’ as pairt o the Readin Bus project an it’s aa a bigg-up tae the publication of a beukie tae be ca’d “Fit Like Yer Majesty” due tae come oot in September as a result o a plea for North-East screivers tae come forrit wi their ain poems in the Doric.
The loons did weel wi nae a sign o nerves an I wis trickit tae hear the naitural tongue comin throwe in the questions that they an their teachers hid thocht oot.
I wis speirt first o aa bi Grant as tae far I wis born an brocht up an that brocht a fair begaik tae jalouse that michty, there wis a hale saxty eer atween’s, me mynin back near eneuch tae the skaillie an the sklate an them nae doobt whiz-kids on the computer.
I wis tae explain the skweelin I got at that age an foo, apairt fae maybe ae poem o Robbie Buns an een o Charles Murray an’s fustle, that wis it as far’s the doric tongue wis concern’t. At brocht tae myn the openin verse o ‘Geordie Wabster’ fin the loon’s excuse for sneakin in late wis tae tell the coorse dominie mannie, an him in sic an ill teen, that it wis the loon’s muckle tae at wis the wyte o’t as comin doon by Meerton, wi naether hose nor sheen, a muckle loupin puddick gart him stotter ower a steen.
The spoken wird! They kent fine fit I wis on aboot an I wis prompt’t syne tae tell them foo my faither wid hud tae the skweel barfit in the simmer an foo sair it maun o been ti get shod again for skweel come aatumn.
Imagine the day, I said, takkin ben the tarr’t roadies wi the haet tar bubblin an squeezin up throwe the taes.
Syne Aaron speirt fit kyn o advice wid I gie tae onybody followin me in ma darg in front o the mike.
Weel it can only be tae bide as naitural as that twa loons were an tae aye be yersel. Foo aften hae I harkin’t tae Country Singers warblin awa wi a twang o North Carolina syne comin aff the stage wi a ‘foo did I dee?’ mair firmly reetit in the parks o North Corrennie.
Ay, the gap o a saxty eer hid me hame an mullin ower the cheenges as I saatl’t doon tae the fitba on the telly.
It brocht me tae a fine response I got fae ma freen Charlie Smith fin I wis on aboot the fitba in oor young day an foo instead o the licht ba that floats an furls inta the verra faarest neuks o the goals foo we ees’t tae hae tae bouff a heavy brute o a thing.
‘Even fan clartit wi dubbin’, screiv’t Charlie, ‘the damn things sookit in the waater on a weet day an it wis like kickin a 16 pun shot aboot’ an if ye were unlucky eneuch tae heid it, yi faced the coorsest o double dunts – the prospec o haein yer heid nearly teen aff wi the wecht o’t an the thocht that the bluidy thing micht come wi the lace first’.
Those were the days ma freen an tae the morn, will it be Spain or Germany that wins Euro 2008?
Thank the Lord it winna be the team maist reez’t oot bi the biased English commentators, the team that wisna even gweed eneuch tae qualifee.
See ye neist wikkeyn.