Shithead Wullie And Dialect Problems

Wullie is not a wanderer.  He managed to make it to Inverness once but claimed being so far from home made his nose bleed.  I was more than a bit surprised when he told me of a trip to England earlier this year.

‘Bit ah’ll no be gaun back there ever again, mair bother than it’s worth’.

‘In what way was it a bother, I’ve never had any real trouble with the English, in fact I found them to be quite civilised in an odd sort of way’.

‘Weel they wurny civilised in ony wye while ah wiz there, ah don’t think ah’ll be allooed back again.  Wait till ah tell whit happened’.

‘Teeny wiz visitin’ wan o’ hur faur oot cizzins an’ ah went alang wi’ hur fur the run.  Wan time we wur oot fur a look aroon ah saw a nice wee loch an’ since ma gear wiz in the back o’ the caur thocht ah’d dae some fishin’.

‘Ah goat Teeny tae drap me aff an’ hiked aroon the loch fur a wee bit ‘til ah some some signs o’ risin’ fish.  Ah goat the rod set up, pit oan some powerbait an’ settled doon tae catch a troot or two’.

I should explain here that this is perfectly normal in Scotland.  If, by some unlikely chance, a bailiff appears, the fisher simply says he did not realise it was a private water and offers the necessary payment.  Bailiffs will often say that they are not allowed to collect money but the sight of some currency notes usually changes their mind.  If, however, they get a bit stroppy, the fisher simply packs up and leaves.  Very, very seldom is there any unpleasantness – we Scots are a peace loving people.

It was not a bailiff who appeared but a man claiming to be from some environment agency.

‘Can I see your licence please’?

‘Ah dinny hiv wan, the wife diz aw the drivin’ fur me’.

‘I don’t mean your driving licence; it’s your rod licence I want to see’.

‘Ah telt yi the wife diz awthing tae dae wi’ the caur bit, ah ken she hud tae buy a new tax disc a week or two back’.

‘Some of you Jocks are as thick as two short planks.  I’m not interested in your road tax; it’s your fishing rod licence I need to see’.

‘A licence fur a fishing road?  Ah’ve never heard o’ ony such thing.  Ur you tellin’ me that fishin’ roads huv goat tae be licensed doon here in England’.

‘That’s the law and I’m here to enforce it’.

‘Whit aboot the pair folk that’s goat a dizzen roads, dae thae hiv tae git a licence fur every wan’?

‘Only one licence is required no matter how many rods you own’.

‘Ah’, said Wullie beguilingly, ‘ah see whit ye mean.  Ma licence is oan wan o’ ma ither roads that ah’ve left in the hoose, bit ye kin come an see it onytime ye waant.  Yull no mind a wee run tae Scotland’.

‘This has gone far enough.  If you are not prepared to produce a valid licence I’ll have you up in court’.

‘An’ who says ye kin dae that.  Prove tae me that ye kin take me tae coort’.

‘Here’s my I.D.’, said the man who quickly discovered his pocket was empty.

‘I’ve left it in my van.  You stay here while I go and get it’.

Jist take yur time, nae hurry’.

When he came back there was no sign of Wullie and the loch was short of a good trout or three.         

‘An’ that’s why ah’m no gaun back tae England.  Imagine, a licence fur a fishin’ road, it’ll never happen up here’.

 Downdie Boab, philosopher, can sometimes be spotted looking-on in wonder on the banks of Hillend Loch and a few other central belt fisheries