Dear Harriet Harman,
Congratulations on your long-overdue clampdown on over-familiarity in the nation’s spit-and-sawdust pubs. What a brilliant ploy to magic up from nowhere a slab of legislation that makes things as difficult as possible for anyone who hasn’t been to public school. Like you. I can’t wait to be pummelled into a model of political correctness. Well done.
You will be delighted to learn that the threat of porridge in Porterfield for addressing a barmaid as ‘love’ or ‘darling’ is already causing despair in some of the windy places you never bother to visit. While Harriet Law may rein in potty-mouthed menaces in Morningside, it’s a different kettle of monkfish out here in polite Gaelic Britain.
A quick guide to Gaelic for former public school girls: on being asked a question, any question, by one’s wife it is de rigueur to first answer ‘tha, a ghraidh’ (yes, dear) or ‘tha, a ghaoil’ (yes, love). It is not just a working-class thing; people on the dole do it as well. To an inquiry from one’s daughter, girlfriend or even one’s barmaid, one’s response should be ‘tha, m’eudail’ (yes, my darling). It is not that there is any more affection due to anyone else over one’s spouse, it is just that one sees herself all the time.
While the instinctive response to ‘Are the dishes done?’ is ‘tha’ (yes), to buy time, if persistent questioning ensues, it may be necessary to change tack and say ‘chaneil’ (no). See? The Gaelic response, even in the negative, is more personal and causes less offence than a blunt no. The entire language is warmer. Occasionally, on birthdays and mothers’ days, it is even in order for a Hebridean to tackle the washing-up unprompted so he can whoop ‘tha, m’eudail’ (yes, darling). He may then constantly remind said spouse of his effort for 12 months.
Springing anything new on a Gaelic maid behind a bar is fraught with danger. Take Morag, the bar stewardess who fills out the pitchers in the Keith Street tavern. She would never expect me to ask for anything without me putting my native tongue to use. She longs for me to call her ‘m’eudail’ in my cute little puppy-dog way.
You need to know that harsh Harriet Law will be felt most keenly by toilers like my friend George Campbell. He is still looking for an understanding wife, or even one that isn’t. He regularly has to leave his flocks of admirers and sheep to repair fuses on an oil-rig up near Copenhagen. When he returns to resume the search for a Free Church girl to transform into a Coll girl, George always makes it clear that he has not been ensnared by any Scandinavian roughnecks called Helga.
On approaching the bar, he will declare ‘tha mi ag iarraidh te mhor, m’eudail’ (make mine a large one, my darling), with that famous Gawk wink. That’s how the barmaids know he is still available despite the gold-diggers who lie in wait for him after each trip in less-salubrious hostelries down the hill in the centre of Stornoway.
Did I mention George is a radical New Labour thinker? Popping into the tavern on Monday, I found him giving out about a poster on the wall. You know the one; it says Alistair Darling is barred for putting up the price of bevvy in the Budget.
George was pontificating to whoever could hear, which was everyone, that your own chancellor was himself just an ordinary Keith Street boy before he had to go off to be a toff in Edinburgh.
‘Take that off the wall now,’ boomed George, his glasses well steamed up. ‘We should be honoured that, just a few doors away from where we are standing, Alistair M’eudail ran about as a wee boy. He should be welcome here any time.’
A stunned silence fell. It slowly dawned on us that we all felt so much closer to the history of the street, the burgh and the Treasury. Geordie Glackin rolled his eyes and a man from Parkend fell off his stool.
A taxi pulled up. Seven regulars bolted for the door, probably all in a hurry to share with others these pearls of wisdom. As Labour minister for women, you should call up George and keep him legal when he is chatting up barmaids. My own view, for what it’s worth, is that ‘trobhad’ (come and see what I have got here for you) and ‘tuiginn’ (let’s get out of here now, madam) should be exempt from all the legislation.
You really should phone George. I fear that he won’t make a move again until he gets a green light from the horse’s mouth.
With love
Iain x
Published in the Press and Journal on April 9, 2008
Anxious to demonstrate the efforts they had gone to to ensure I did not starve, I have to say my girth shows I am in no such imminent danger, these gallant craft-less submariners then uploaded the footage onto the internet. See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oYTv8WEti68. Complete with hissy gurgles, the proof is made manifest for all that this most pulchritudinous manna from deep-down heaven did not come to me from the frozen foods section at Somerfield.
