Monthly Archives: March 2009

THEY are worrying in Wick, horrified in Halkirk and they have a bad case of the jitters in John O’Groats. And well they might. Reports reach me that the Mafia is packing its knuckledusters and heading for Caithness.

Such is the panic among the throbbing throng in Thurso that mutterings are heard in Sir George’s Street that the Inquisition is coming. A community leader has spoken out and confessed he fears they may be forced to give in to those shadowy figures known as the Bòrd.

The big question on everyone’s lips up there is whether the road signs in the far north should pay homage to history and political correctness by displaying Inbhir Uige or just the ever-so-dull and plain Wick. Or both. And, if both, which should be above the other. Oh yes, both sides in the argument want to be on top.

Now the Gaelic Mafia, known officially as Bòrd na Gàidhlig, is going to sort out the hairy Caithnessians with their horny helmets and point out to them that they are not actually Vikings, as they seem to think, but were converted by Gael forces long after all that unseemly raping and pillaging had gone out of fashion.

However, a frightful number of the great and the good of Caithness are proving themselves to be really, really awkward. When you hear politicians say they are pleased they will have the opportunity to have a frank exchange of views with the Bòrd (which just means table), you should worry. It’s just political gobbledegook for them expecting the entire exercise to be a complete and utter waste of time because no one will give an inch.

Mark my words. It’s going to be a right old stooshie. What an utter failure for the Bòrd if northernmost Scotland denied its own Gaelic heritage.

Mike Russell, the bright and shiny minister for cultural and teuchteral things, gave us a few clues when he installed Arthur Cormack as the proper chair of the table last month. In his welcome spiel, Russell threatened to take an interest in the Bòrd’s work as it continued to identify interesting and innovative ways of enabling current and future generations of Gaelic speakers to use the language in a variety of situations.

Haoi, they wondered in Thurso, did he mean their signposts?

A strong Bòrd na Gàidhlig, resounded the Ruisealach, was central to creating those opportunities as well as to the Scottish Government’s commitment to appreciation of Gaelic culture and use of the language. Strong? Does that mean strongarm tactics?

If the refuseniks of Reay had any idea who they were up against they would back down now. A couple of hard-bitten mafiosi from across the Minch here are on board the Bòrd. They strike terror among us faintly-fluent Gaels, never mind the mild-mannered monoglots of Halkirk and Haster.

For example, there is one fearsome character on the Bòrd mysteriously called Lady Ulpan. Decades of devouring stewed guga have resulted in that knack of swinging a weighted handbag like no other. However sweet and charming she looks on first encounter, keep away from baths and swimming pools when in her company. Rejoicing under the alternative moniker of Sweeney’s Mam, they say her method of drowning out all opposition is total immersion.

Oh, in Gaelic? I see.

She has a colleague who, as under-spinmeister at Western Isles Council, would put Domhnull Corleone to shame. I encountered Alasdair Macleod when, accompanied by a few close friends, I visited the sinister edifice that is the White House. It was just before Christmas and we had merely popped in to exchange the pleasantries of the season. Before I could utter Buon Natale, as they say in Sicily, he had us all bundled out and wheeched into a shadowy bistro at the top of Strada de la Francis where he and his bulky henchmen brought us around. To their way of thinking, that is.

Meanwhile, it must have been jolly fun at Thurso Community Council’s meeting last week. I am told that chairman Bob Earnshaw tried to calm jangled nerves over the forthcoming arrival of various legs of the Bòrd after Don Smith sparked trepidation exclaiming that the Gaelic Inquisition was coming to try and force their will on them.

Bob interjected claiming they were merely sending experts along to brief them all about the wonderful Gaelic heritage of Caithness that, er, they never knew they had. Och no, it was not like an inquisition at all, at all.

That prompted bold Bert Macleod to unveil his own research. He had recently packed a knapsack and come over to Stornoway on a secret mission to inspect our signposts. Our Bertie had tramped the highways and byways closely examining the municipal street furniture at island crossroads and passing places. After the most meticulous investigation, Bertram had finally come to a conclusion. Lewis signposts have Gaelic at the top and English at the bottom.

That was fine for them out there in the islands, he announced, but why should that be the case in Caithness? No way. He wanted it the other way round. I think Bert is bored with the Bòrd.

They only have it easy in Caithness. The Gaelic Inquisition means something quite different over here. It is what happens to unwitting island coves hoping to get married in our, er, freer churches. They are hauled up in front of ministers and elders when, for example, someone grasses them up for living in a flat in Stornoway with their intendeds.

A panel of big-eyebrowed inquisitors from Lochs demand instant answers to questions like just who has a key, just how many beds are in this flat and just how many pillows are there? Failure to give a polished performance before the Ranish Inquisition means a ban on spending a night together for six months before the lovebirds can apply again.

Of course, most couples just take great umbrage and promptly switch to the Church of Scotland, where they live happily ever after.