Drew Cochrane on savouring and treasuring the Scots tongue

In previous articles down the years (Editor: down the decades, you mean), I have recounted to yous yins how our dear old Scots tongue seems to capture in graphic terms the circumstances in which we find ourselves.

It's called onomatopoeia, as you educated ones will remember, from dim and distant English lessons...with the emphasis on dim in my case.

I recall remarking to an acquaintance, who has a way with pithy sayings, that he seemed to have a heavy cold - not everything being ye olde coronavirus, as some 'expert' pundits would have us believe.

My pal's reply was along the lines of "aye, another clean shirt and that'll be me", implying jocularly, I hope, that he was not long for this world.

The same chap, who happens to have nautical tendencies (and I'm told there's no shame in that), introduced me to the saying "he's as deep and dirty as the Clyde" when referring to another acquaintance who speaks with forked tongue. In fact, the same untrustworthy person can be said to have "a mouth like the Clyde Tunnel."

This is a variation on that much-loved west of Scotland riposte "do you think I came up the Clyde on a bike (or banana boat)?" when told something by a politician.

I had a teacher once who, when told by a pupil that they had lost their homework, would utter the immortal words, "do you think my head buttons up the back?".

This got me thinking again about old Scottish sayings which may be lost as my generation goes to the big library in the sky.

Unfortunately, in this 'woke' age, some sayings don't appear to be politically correct, which is why I cannot describe a fellow walking footballer to be "as slow as a wee lassie" or tell a fellow community councillor "away and bile yer heid" when I disagree with a proposition.

Under the increasingly rabid ‘woke' movement, you couldn't call a slim chap "skinny malinky long legs" - as I remember being described in my school days - for fear of being prosecuted under the madcap hate crime legislation.

Speaking of my long gone skinny days, it was an age when long hair and trouser flares were all the rage (Facebook has got the pictures to prove it). I recall being told by my mother "you've got hair like straw hangin' oot a midden", which, for the benefit of non-Scottish readers, meant that my mullet was going in all directions at once.

You can tell already that I refer to patter which is shrouded in nostalgia but, without it, a good deal of colour and character will be lost to the local language. Those of my vintage - recycled teenagers - will have their own favourite sayings that their mum or, indeed, grannie tossed about.

I've always loved the sound of "I could eat a scabby dug" if you happened to have missed your lunch and dinner was still hours away.  And life won't be the same in future if the parting shot of "if I don't see you through the week, I'll see you through the windae" is lost to the vernacular, or disappears like snaw aff a dike.

I should explain that a dike is a wall or an embankment, and nothing to be prosecuted for expressing.

I still hold on to my childhood exclamation of alarm in uttering "oh, mammy, daddy" when caught by surprise by Her Indoors when raiding the biscuit tin.

In order to preserve West of Scotland lingo we should save the following poem for posterity.

"When I was a child they called me a wean; the place where I lived, not a home but a hame;

"My mum was my mammy, my dog was a dug; my uncle was Hugh but, to us, he was Shug;

"A potato - a tattie; a turnip - a neep; my house was a hoose, and to cry was to greet;

"A wisnae was wasn't and did not was disnae; A kiss was a winch, and a red face a riddy;

"If someone was ill, well, they looked peely wally; and to go up the pub ye were aff for a swally;

"Up was still up, but it coupled with doon; And your condiments limited to red sauce or broon;

"My armpit my oakster, my head was ma heid; and if somebody died, that meant they were deid."

PS: A hoolie is a severe storm, but could be attributed to the old Scots for music and dance that's got out of hand.

So, go do yer dinger, or haud yer wheesht.

My Thought for the Week: Nothing is more responsible for the good old days than a bad memory.

It seems that my notoriety has become international judging by a secret email I received last week.

A lady calling herself Aisha Gaddafi sent me a very nice letter which started promisingly with "Hello Dear Very Confidential." Now, I've been called many things - possibly by some of you - but I've never been called Confidential.

Aisha explained that she was the daughter of the former Libyan leader, Colonel Muammar Gaddafi, who is even more notorious than I am. In fact, if I remember correctly, his regime was overthrown and he was shot dead in the desert.

Ms Gaddafi caught my attention when she wrote: "I am offering you a partnership proposal in a classified monetary transaction, which involves the need to secretly relocate and secure some of our family funds."

I began to understand why I had to be confidential because the Gaddafi money was "concealed in a special bank account with a financial services company in Africa".

Possibly, knowing that I have a bank account with the Royal Bank, she continued: "I am in a very difficult situation and I must immediately relocate this fund for safety and investments purposes."

Bad timing, Aisha. Haven't you heard that RBS is closing its branch in Largs?

She added a bit more of the confidential stuff in telling me that this secret transaction must be done in such a way that it is not tied to Colonel Gaddafi's death and political circumstances.

Would she not be better just changing her name?

Anyway, more details will be disclosed to me once I assure her that I can be trusted to handle it. Maybe I should just send her my bank details. What do you think?