Monthly Archives: October 2009

What did Alex Salmond mean when he used the word brammer?

Posted on October 26, 2009 | 2 Comments

WHEN the first minister and president-in-waiting of the republic of Scotland starts speaking Gaelic, we teuchters sit up and take notice. When we figure out he is not actually speaking our language but some obscure Scots – or, even worse, Doric – we go back to completely ignoring the poor fellow again.

So when Alex Salmond said recently that the election in Glasgow North-East was going to be “a brammer”, Gaels from Galson to Galashiels looked at each other and together went: “Duda?” What the heck was the big man on about?

I was quite shocked. Almost as shocked as I was on Saturday night when I turned on the telly to see Harry Hill’s TV Burp only to find Jock Murray, Kenny Mobil and the other naked peatcutters flashing their credentials on there. Did you see that? No? Count yourself very lucky, indeed.

Brammer, or so we all thought up here, was a proper Gaelic term that had been nicked and moulded by uncaring monoglots to fit the rules of English. Like the word galore, and duff, and subsidy.

Predictably, all the political correspondents were scrambling for their compendiums of Scottish slang. And a right burach they got themselves into as they decided to get to the bottom of this brammer business.

Alex Salmond with a bramair in Stornoway

Alex Salmond meets a bramair in Stornoway

Some said it was a term from the military in India and from the Hindu god Brahma, so it meant something deserving of respect and admiration. Hmm.

Some quoted a slang dictionary that had brammer listed between bowfin’ (smelly) and brassic (broke) as a west of Scotland word for splendid. Might have been what Alex Salmond meant but, nope, not up here it isn’t.

Others said it was another word for a woman that is pleasing to the eye as an alternative to smasher or stoater. No, that’s just pios math.

Let’s be honest, they were all wrong as far as we were concerned. Brammer, brammar, brahma, bràmair, with an accent or without – however you spell it – is a mighty fine word.

It is, of course, a term used when addressing children of school age about their boyfriends and girlfriends.

As in: “So, young Tommy, have you got a brammer yet?”

It can also be handy for parental guidance sessions about the role of the teaching profession, as in: “Now, Kylie, listen to me. Mr Macdonald is not your brammer. He is just your maths teacher. Yes, I know he looks like Simon Cowell, but that is not a good thing. OK?”

The term is polite, unequivocal and a completely innocent and Gaelic way of addressing the sticky matter of interpersonal relationships. That means that it has always been completely suitable for use on the Gaelic radio greetings and requests programme Na Dùrachdan on Friday evenings.

However, and remember this, it is not suitable for using when you stumble out of the Lewis Bar on a Saturday night and are convinced someone is giving you the glad eye.

No, you don’t ask if he or she has a brammer yet. You, of course, ask if they would like to come back to a party because you have half a tonne of cheap supermarket lager back at the flat and you need someone to help you finish it. Well, I am told that is how the romantic etiquette of most Stornoway lads goes nowadays.

But which is the correct spelling of that word? To answer the question, I tracked down Neen Mackay, a veteran of the greetings programme from, oh, decades ago. That word was a big part of her life back then, as I remember.

I think Neen was worried that I would not put it the right way in the paper. So just to put her mind at rest that I have not made a mistake or that she is not being misquoted in any way I will just reprint her entire reply.

“Aye, aye, cove. Properly, it’s bràmair. But, for country folk, any word beginning with ‘bram’ will do.

“So, how are you, anyway, big boy? Good to hear from you. All this talk of bràmairs takes me back to when you and I were working together. Gosh, we had a few bràmairs back then, didn’t we? In fact, we were a couple of bràmairs. Oh mo chreach sa thainig. Good job our partners don’t know what you and I got up to back then, eh?

“If I can help you with any little thing at all just give me a tinkle any time.”

Yes, well, I have no idea what Ms Mackay is on about there. I hardly knew the woman. It was all a long time ago.

Anyway, she reckoned the correct word was bràmair, even if they did have their own funny versions in Dalmore and Dalbeg. She should know.

That was good enough for me, so I went to check that word in the Gaelic college’s Stòr-dàta Briathrachais Gàidhlig. That’s a sort of online database of all Gaelic thingummybobs in the known universe.

And, bingo, it’s there. It is listed but, in a piece of awful, rampant Gaelic sexism, it has bràmair down as just meaning girlfriend or pin-up. On the radio request show and while I was growing up in Great Bernera primary school at any rate, it had always included us males of the species, too.

So I conducted more research and found another problem. Looking up bramair in that most comprehensive of tomes, Dwelly’s Gaelic Dictionary, I found it listed also, but with yet another altogether different meaning. While putting his dictionary together, Mr Dwelly decided that a bramair was a flatulent fellow. That’s what it says. I am only the messenger.

I looked up flatulent. All I can say is that I am more confused than ever by what Alex Salmond said about the Glasgow North East by-election. While politicians have often been said to be full of hot air, it is really a bit much for anyone to call any of them a bramair in the Dwelly’s sense of the word. Even if they sometimes are.

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Posted in Gaelic, Isle of Harris, Isle of Lewis, Outer Hebrides, politics, Radio, schools, Scotland, Stornoway, TV, Uist, Western Isles

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Why does everyone look so glum at the Royal National Mod?

Posted on October 19, 2009 | Leave a comment

OUR autumn holiday would be at the Mod. The family would have a great time going round the attractions of Oban while my week would pass with a warm and fuzzy feeling, meeting warm and fuzzy people I had not seen since I was last at the festival of all things heedrum-ho and enjoying beverages that would make me even more warm and fuzzy.

Sadly, someone else had other ideas. She treated my plan like islanders will treat an anti-Sunday ferries candidate – laughing at it, rubbishing it and then completely ignoring it. Sternly instructed we were going to the city of Glasgow, I thought how I love this marriage thing; sharing ideas and making compromises so we all get what we want.

A backup plan was called for. I pretended to misunderstand Seonag, the satnav. While loudly bursting into a chorus of A Pheigi a Ghraidh just as Seonag was telling me to enter a roundabout and take the first exit I sort of deliberately, but accidentally, took a wrong turn at Ballachulish.

This strange urge to sing loudly came intermittently – like when she began to quiz me on whether or not we were on the right road to Glasgow. Somehow, inexplicably, we ended up in a place called Oban where, gosh, we found a festival called the Royal National Mod in full swing. Dashed satnavs – can’t trust them.

It was meant to be, I suggested, as she announced we were staying for precisely 15 minutes. Then she met someone from Plasterfield. Yab, yab, yab. No one can talk like people from Plasterfield – especially to each other. So I was able to make my escape and dash upstairs to the Skipinnish Ceilidh Lounge.

Sadly, this imposing seafront venue has windows so large that she spotted me from across the road before I could even gulp my first dram.

Dragged by my aural appendage back to the car, I was ordered to drive and aim the car at the dear, green place by the Clyde unless I wanted to hear everything from now on in mono. Rumbled, I had no option but to head for Glasgow, a city often said to be ahead of its time. That’ll be why every second lamppost already carries adverts for “real” Christmas trees.

So, for a few days, I had to keep up with the Mod, courtesy of Tony Kearney and Mary Ann Kennedy, on the late-night telly. And what a grumpathon it was.

No, not Tony and Mary Ann. The two of them were happy to show off their dental work. But why is it that so many performers on the one TV programme celebrating the finest musicality of Gaeldom put on their dourest, sourest faces?

Very talented and normally happy people, competitors and established names, who should be ecstatic that they are performing to the nation, suddenly take on the joyless demeanour of our prime minister. Why don’t their tutors encourage them to smile – even if they are not enjoying themselves?

Thank goodness for Donnie Large, that’s all I can say. He helped lift the Gaelic gloom on one night, at least.

Getting all worked up about the nightly sulkiness, on Thursday I decided to head back to Oban to tell everyone to start smiling. I told the light of my life that I needed to take a train northwards to visit long-lost relatives in Dumbarton; I knew she didn’t like that place so would lose all interest in my movements. She can’t even say its name properly. She pronounces it as Dumb-Parton. I don’t know if she is having a go at that smiley, well-built country and western singer or just needs false teeth.

One of the first people I bumped into in Oban was the legendary comic entertainer Norman Maclean (autobiography now available in all good bookshops). He knows how to smile. We had a long chat about his run-ins with Brigitte Bardot and Frank Sinatra. Then we went off and had a few strong drinks together – Americano coffees in the Cuan Mòr restaurant.

Then there was another broadly-smiling legend. Willie Morrison, a veteran reporter of the parish of Durness who used to write for this very organ, was also to be found stravaiging on George Street. Many is the Mod I have had with Uilleam where he has regaled us in the late evening with heart-tugging renditions of ballads about the big sheep of the Highland Clearances. Willie could bring a tear to a glass eye, aye he could. But he smiles most of the time.

Reassured that there were enough smilers to keep things light until the end of the week, I headed south. I was soon to learn the perils of using ScotRail’s latest toilets improperly. Unlike the town-centre ones, you need to press a button to lock yourself in. Only then will the outside “engaged” light come on.

I was sitting not far from just such a convenience and saw a young lady enter. She did not lock it from the inside so no light came on. Oh-oh. A blue-rinsed Mod-goer was about to enter, so I warned her there was someone in already. She shot me a withering glare suggesting I mind my own business and muttered no light was on.

Shrieks from the interrupted youngster rang round the carriage. I felt like saying “Told you so,” but magnanimously I kept shtum.

It is a three-hour journey from Oban. A couple of hours afterwards, I noticed the haughty blue-rinse lady nipping to the loo again. I couldn’t believe it. No light. She’d forgotten to lock it.

Then a big, burly man, with builder’s cleavage, went to spend a penny. I know, I could have said something about the blue-rinse lady being still in there. I am so naughty.

Bloodcurdling screams reverberated everywhere as the door slid open and the grumpy woman was confronted at her business by the bursting builder.

I’m still giggling. Is that very bad of me?

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Posted in Gaelic, Isle of Lewis, Outer Hebrides, Popular culture, Scotland, Stornoway, TV, Western Isles

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Despite smoke, flames and an exploding haddock, I kept my cool

Posted on October 12, 2009 | Leave a comment

THE fillets of fish had just been turned when she noticed that they were, er, slightly illuminated. This was a surprise because the light in the oven had given up the ghost several years ago. But, sure enough, the breaded fish were there sizzling away in the spotlight like Danny La Rue giving it laldy in The Good Old Days.

Oh good: no need to get a new oven quite yet, then.

But the light seemed particularly bright at the top right-hand side of the oven – almost like a flaming star, I noted – and I wondered about the river of gunge which was running down inside the glass door.

Not wanting to cause any undue alarm, I wondered if there could be any teensy-weensy chance that the top of the oven could be ever-so-slightly on fire?

A quick glance at Mrs X confirmed that she has mind-reading powers. It’s the eyes that gave it away; they were like saucers. That and the yelp which sounded suspiciously like “get the fire extinguisher”.

Always calm and decisive in any emergency, I lunged forward as she screamed not to open the door of the oven. How could I investigate what was going on in there if I did not open the door? Silly woman. This was a time for action.

So I wrenched it open, only for a gigantic mushroom of flame to shoot out singeing my hair, my eyebrows and those tickly wee hairs quite far up my nose. The blast sent me hurtling backwards, tripping over the dog and I ended up wedged bum-first in the cupboard with the All-Bran and the extra virgin olive oil.

Realising that the man in her life was brave beyond words, Mrs X meanwhile set about the various minor tasks that I was obviously too busy to do. Like closing the oven door on the raging inferno, turning off the cooker at the mains and wiping my still-smouldering features down with a damp cloth.

As I sat there, picking bits of charcoal and breaded haddock from under my eyelids and out of my ears, I thought how fortunate that I was there when it happened.

The fact that our oven happened to blow up as Mrs X was making dinner was purely coincidental. It should not be taken as any comment by me on her skills in the kitchen or with any appliances. But that is what happened.

How would she have coped if I had not been there?

Would she ever have got round to opening that oven door and confirming those fillets of fish were, indeed, well done?

Thank goodness I was there in her hour of need.

As she was untypically slow in congratulating me on my rapid response, to get the soot out of my lungs I headed off for a stroll in the castle grounds with Hector, the slightly-smoky miniature schnauzer.

I chanced upon Jock Stewart. Jock and his wife, Chrissie, were my guvnors when I was a barman in that fine establishment the Criterion Bar, back in the 1970s.

I wonder if I’m still barred?

Jock told me Kenny Ritchie, his brother-in-law in Whitehills and a former journalist himself, reads this column and that I must say hello. Aw, that’s nice.

Hi, Kenny, you really should find better things to do with your time.

However, Murphy’s law is such that whenever you get a compliment like that, someone is about to slap you with a wet fish.

So a letter then flutters in from downtown Caithness. Someone is concerned the readers of the P&J are suffering by having to gaze upon the sight of my roughly-hewn and inelegant bone structure here every Monday.

Dan Mackay who, by the sound of it, must have a chiselled jawbone and a six-pack tucked under his semmit, helpfully suggests electronic photo enhancement to avoid further distress to the blue-rinse ladies of Wick and himself.

What nonsense. I did not spend a fortune on strong drink and wild women cultivating this deeply-furrowed world-weary look you see before you just to have it all airbrushed away for the sake of namby-pamby Caithnessians with weak stomachs.

Mr Mackay then went on to disparage everyone in the Western Isles. We folk over here on the blasted and less-smelly side of the Minch are not entertaining enough for him.

He should get out more.

It is quite obvious he has not yet met many people from the Free Church (Continuing). I mean, can anyone listen to self-righteousness like that without being reduced to fits of giggles?

However, he may just have a point about my general look. So it was with a heavy heart and a heavy pocket of pound coins that I finally decided to go in for some enhancement. I headed for the barber – after I had cut off the badly burned bits myself.

I figured that merely tweaking my photo was no good. I had actually to make some real deep-down changes. A haircut was the best place to start. Any necessary plastic surgery will come later.

The delightful Marianne Hovis was on duty. Beckoning me to the chair, she asked whether I wanted a number one or a number two. I told her just make me pretty. She sighed in that polite way that people do when they know the task ahead is impossible. But Marianne set to it with gusto: snipping, chopping, hacking, grinding.

Before long, I was divested of my tatty head blanket and emerged like a newly sheared ram.

I ran all the way home and asked Mrs X if that was any better.

She decided the word was different. It was a new look, she agreed, but as that look was a cross between Winston Churchill and Homer Simpson, it was not necessarily an improvement, she said, as she reached for the balaclava.

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Posted in Isle of Lewis, Outer Hebrides, Scotland, Stornoway, Western Isles

Reverend George Hargreaves

Posted on October 8, 2009 | 1 Comment

See that Hargreaves fellow. He does seem like a particularly nice man, doesn’t he?107952

Like so many people, I really hope this talented and humble individual comes and stands for election here in the islands and will not be put off by the current unpleasantness being put about by people who should know better.

They should go home and read their bibles and pray for forgiveness.

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Posted in Isle of Lewis, Outer Hebrides, politics, religion, Scotland, Stornoway, Western Isles

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Fishy treat for top pint puller puts cabbie in line for gong

Posted on October 8, 2009 | 1 Comment

SO THERE I was sitting in the bar of the Isle of Benbecula House Hotel at Creagorry and someone said it was about time I changed my name to Michael and be like the rest of the company. The bartender beside me was Yorkshire Michael, and the other bar steward was Mickey from Dublin.

Cameraman is one of them, too. No, not Irish. That’s not what I meant. Silly.

Then Mickey helpfully pointed out that while there may, indeed, be three Michaels, only two of them held that most illustrious of titles, The Best Barmen in the Western Isles.

Turns out they had both nominated each other and then, being nice guys, both awarded the titles to each other. They were joint winners. And as there have still been no challengers for the title, they remain the Two Best Barmen in the Western Isles. Brilliant.

Lots of people put themselves forward for all sorts of things and some of them even get the grand titles they want.

However, most people have to go through some kind of tiresome voting thingummybob to get the big titles.

Like Esther Rantzen and John Smeaton, for example. They want the titles of MP for Luton South and Glasgow North East respectively. Er, why?

Unlike the Premier Pint Pullers of Creagorry, those two need more than each other’s votes to snatch those beauties.

Dear old Esther. I do love her. How we giggled at her funny vegetables and that dog that could pronounce the word sausages better than most people at home.

And John Smeaton seems sound. At his press conference, I thought he was going to tell one reporter he was going to set aboot him.

But Esther and John as MPs? No, no, no. We want them on the box being bonkers – what they are good at. Did you get that? No.

Now I think I’ll do some nominating myself. I nominate Willie Macaulay, of Sketch’s Taxis of Benbecula, as Best Taxi Driver in the Western Isles.

It was Yorkshire Michael who ordered a cab from Sketch’s recently to take him to Margaret, the hairdresser. He did not have much in for his tea and said Willie may have to take him shopping afterwards.

But there was going to be a bit of a wait until Michael got his locks permed.

So off goes Willie, promising to be back in an hour. However, oor Wullie got out his fishing rod and went on to the loch. By the time he was due to pick up Michael, he had hooked three brown trout.

Then, when he did pick up the closely-sheared bartender, Willie presented him with the fish, all skinned and filleted. Not only that, he also gave Michael detailed instructions on how to cook them so they tasted just grand.

Can anyone beat that giant among roadsters, Willie Mac of Sketch’s, for customer service? Has any other knight of island highways and passing places gone above and beyond in helping their passengers? I would be delighted to hear.

I must nominate Cameraman for an award, too. Without a quibble or a murmur, he showed his carefully-hidden caring side when he answered my call and came to soothe my fevered brow.

In the last few days, I have been flattened by what seemed at first like a common cold but turned into something more fluey – a swine of a thing, but probably not swine flu. Just the plain, ordinary, boring, gut-wrenching, head-bursting, eye-smarting, bone-aching, chest-tightening, toilet-troubling variety that we had all but forgotten was still lurking out there.

Mrs X, I regret to report, was no help at all. The sight of my distress must have been too much for the poor thing. She wrapped herself in the most un-sexy bedjacket she could find and lay down on the couch, in a forest of hot-water bottles and tissues, while declaring herself far more ill than I was.

“Scuse me, m’eudail, what about me-ee-ee?” I might as well have been banging my head against a wall.

If these women had any idea what man flu was really like, they would be more sympathetic. Could anything be worse?

So it was Cameraman who was my unlikely angel of mercy. Within seconds, he was racing back from Leurbost to bring us no fewer than three of the latest guaranteed best cures known to medical science.

However, there were mixed results, I am sad to say. I was better for an hour then felt worse and then was sick and then felt better but, just in case it would help, had some more of the supposedly lemon-flavoured concoction that the unshaven angel Cameraman had rushed to my bedside.

Lemon-flavoured? The powder you make it from looks a bit yellowish, but why, if there was any lemon in it, would it have a different taste: like a cross between stewed dung beetles, stale tobacco and Foggy the fisherman’s armpit after a long gutting session?

Not that I have been anywhere near Mr Macdonald’s usually well-fragranced underarms after any such activity, but he is a fisher of men I know well, so hopefully he won’t bash me. It was that different. With added vitamin C, of course.

If I didn’t have tears in my eyes before slugging that back, I sure did afterwards.

It will be all to do with motivation. The theory will be that one swig of that foul brew and your whole body will want to repair itself immediately to avoid any future trauma.

No pain, no gain, though. At least I can type now. So I can tell the world that Cameraman could have another career as a latter-day Florence Nightingale if he wants to jump ship to the NHS.

Yes, despite the sheer agony I suffered as he tried to find somewhere to stick that thermometer, I propose Cameraman as the Best Nursemaid in the Western Isles. But he does have shockingly cold hands.

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