you boys are in top form, lol.
The ramblings of life on that old rock always make me want to reach for a Guinness
My OH would agree, this end meant, but tell me are you ever truly bored?
And there is I, born in SW Londinium during the old man's leave. Then off we scampered to Cologne at a time when it did not smell so sweet with me aged seven weeks. Mum worked for NAAFI and Jock, Jimmy or anything but his real name was part of the Royal Engineers force collecting unexploded ordinance thereabouts until I was nigh on eight. Back to London and lots of irish and black neighbours on our estate, so ceilidhs and reggae came out the same by me and whether it was Guinness and Jamesons or rum and ganja similar.
Did not know many Scots folk and the English were the ones who hated people like me. I spoke not English but either German from my minder as my parents worked, later school first year, or with a light little highland brogue as foreign to the locals as my Pakistani classmate Mirza with her strange clothes or Jane, my first love, from the travelling Gypsy camp just near the school. That I spoke German was food for thought, mainly that I was some kind of traitor. Just like the Paddies who were filling up entire council estates instead of staying where they belonged which was anywhere but there.
We would go up to Scotland each year. A foreign place to me, a fortnight too long, without familiar Irish women watching over children playing but harsh Knox type version of Calvinism that was disciplinarian rather than tolerant like good Catholic Irish folk... And so allegiances were cast early. The Sassenachs scored low, ma ain didnae dae much better. That came later when I discovered the Highlands with villages full of nutters I could relate to who somehow came across very Irish to me. Then folk, St Andrew, uncelebrated bar worshippers of golf - well is that not just softies' shinty/hurling tapping balls down holes but no battle royal of marauding teams? Down there, St George was all about boasting how good they were at a time when the global empire was showing a middle finger, tip hat rim and following the Irish out of the colonial yoke.
My sympathies to all who are born Irish for not giving a feck about the holiness of their patron saint but celebrating their backsides off. Go on you people, choose what you would rather be... I dares ye!
excuse my hubby , he's off his head!
I do feel a strong draw to the Irish side, from my paternal grandfather Percy Birks, he wed Dolly Mackenie ( Annie ) they lived in Hull where my Uncles and Aunts were raised. Eventually Nana lived in a cottage at the foot of Ilkley Moor where I spent many a happy hol. Nan was a wiry tiny person but could 'fling' over the swords like no body's business.
Still have Mackensie family dotted a-boot, but years of a feudin' with the Macdos took its toll, they went on to do quite well in the food Industry. I don't wear the plaid myself, apart from a tie for official functions, my 'cous Stuart was well kilted up ( trad style ) when he wed a Lockerbie girl. On the maternal side my Oma was from Hanover and had wed a Hungarian at the age of 16, they had a schuplatler band. I think they were pretty loaded but lost all their dosh when they relocated to Mr. Hister's Germany pre war, the bank manger ran off with it all!
My Opa, a true Polyglot, spoke 7 languages.. Serbo, Russian etc. played any instrument but died from Malaria cos he refused to drink his own piss. I do have a genetic mish mash with strong Slav flavour, a nose that makes people want to honk, squat in stature, and afeared of nowt. Not sure from where, but I do have a resilience from somewhere's and the ability to make the best out of any situation and always bounce back, so wherever that's from, thanks ancestors!
Hi Bri, hit you back with a retort when I've got me torkin' heed back on. Just arose from me Slombers after a 36 hr run on the ol' computater
late night ramblings, straw mingled in with unravelled hair, wild eyed and searching, always searching. one day finds, ouch, bangs nose in so doing and henceforth is said to have a typical stubby nose with an upturned end like all Irish folk, well except the mcfeinstein whose sephardic ancestors had prominent, hooked and downward pointing noses. one uncle is a bishop, the other a rabbi but come on folk we're all Irish, they say.
there is no known Irish blood in my family, refugees from N E Scotland around about Dallas (yes folk, the original) where in St Michael's parish church graves these descendants of Vikings crowd the soil. never spoke gaelic there, old dialect still has norse words in it. however those still there are shinty fanatics, that game almost certainly imported by Irish gaels converting heathen scots to christianity including the gentle sport of hurling well known to be the origin of many irish and scots stubby little noses. they also share Cúchulainn the celtic hero once called Sétanta who seems to have obtained his name as a child after he killed Cúlann's fierce guard dog in self defence. he took its place until a replacement could be found. The son of the gods Lug and Deichtine, so well set up to begin with. when he was 17 he defended Ulster single handedly against the armies of queen Mab. the rest of his life seems to have been dedicated to very violent things, including his own death, but in between he only ever seemed to be playing that game. so, this demi-god and super hero from ulster is a big name in strathspey where he never did a feckin ting.
now what was all that rubbish about? well, a tenuous link between ma ain fowk and those who celebrate the life of Padraig which, coincidentally also sounds a wee bit like the highland pronunciation of porage. then we have a predeliction for the catwailing of the bagpipes or uillean pipes across the water, teamed up with fiddle, harp and things to thump on to which people sing using a strange pentatonic style that makes it something twixt instrument and voice. they also dance at the drop of a hat and the men wear skirts. fridays they drink a wee bit too much then beat up the wifey, who then beats the kids, who then beat the cat... shared traditions and both harbour common causes against a country that once overran them and ruled with iron fist too long.
it is, of course, all that fighting behind the stubby noses as well, plus that oft bewildered celtic look one sees when catching a chap peeing on the side of someone's very expensive car outside the pub in London. salt of the earth we are, men and women of great tradition and stories as full of blarney as all of this. yes, we can only conclude: we are all berks! Slàinte!