RANDOM REMINDER

Press, Volume CII, Issue 30045, 1 February 1963, Page 15

RANDOM REMINDER

WHAT IS IT WITH THE SCOTS

When we were very young, we were taken, as a treat, to see the late Sir Harry Lauder. Since then, the Scots keep clouding our life. We liked Sir Harry’s curly walking-stick, and have since, at times, wished for something similar, when left to clean the drains. But we couldn't understand a word he said, and we thought the performance, as a whole, disappointing. While we were still very young, we were given lessons in the pianoforte, and soon after a laborious climb through the first scales, we were given our first composition. It was called “Auld Reekie.” Errors in its interpretation which, we confess, were more than occasional were inevitably rewarded by a smart blow across the knuckles with the heavy end of a gold pencil our tutor carried for the purpose, and which she used expertly, when she was not absorbed in making dreadful dredging noises

among her vast collection of large teeth. These events probably account for all that has followed. We developed a deep-seated hatred of porridge and, later, whisky. The story about Bruce gave birth to a dread of spiders. Since then, we have not been able to adjust our mental images. We can see only that the Scots do not produce their quota of good cricketers, preferring, in their inscrutable way, to toss telegaph pcles about. We are prepared to admit that the ladies from hell have a fine record in battle. But we would much rather stay with the port than join the ladies. So we tended to read meanness for thrift, stubbcmess for determination; but we might have had things to right, had it not been for that pipe band. We were in a city hostelry noted for its quiet calm and well-mannered clientele, enjoying a cooling draught with friends, when the band

marched in. Its objective was to collect funds. But the Caledonians, all integrity, insisted on giving something for their money. It was agony, from the first wild shriek a fierce assault on the senses. The licensee, stem and wild, was clearly fearful that the drum-major would hurl his mace among the stock, and in the close confines of the bar, conversation was impossible. At length they finished, and everyone dived for small change. But no. It was “Scotland the Brave” then, and after that, another dreadful dirge. Of course, there was pleasure in the lovely hush when they were done, but not many people feel like hitting their heads with a hammer so they can enjoy stopping. So it has us worried. It has got us down. And it’s getting worse. Now we find we can not Love any sort of Lassie—not even the one on TV.