On Monday Millicent Tendency bundled up from Paris for the St Andrew's Day lecture at Scotland Europa, the unofficial Scotch Embassy here in Brussels. In solidarity and in memory of Grandpa Harridan, the Gorbals Gobshite, I went along as well. The title of the lecture was "A Puzzle from the Past: Why did the Scottish Enlightenment happen?" A question, I think you'll agree, that keeps most of us awake at night. In the spirit of the occasion I donned tartan tights, and an outsize tam o'shanter. Think Vivienne Westwood meets Brigadoon. I heard several gasps of admiration from the Scottish guests, who had not gone to as much trouble.
McChe's kilt being currently in Paris (!), he decided to go dressed as Enlightenment Man, in frock coat and top hat, although I'm not sure everyone recognized him as such.
The speaker was Professor Tom Devine, OBE, holder of the Sir William Fraser Chair of Scottish History and Palaeography at Edinburgh University, Director of the Scottish Centre for Diaspora Studies, "widely acknowledged as Scotland's leading historian" (Wikipedia). Funnily enough I had been watching the documentary "Balmoral" the night before and up had popped the Prof as a talking head, I was thus able to recognize him immediately in the crowd at the pre-lecture drinks and point him out to McChe and Millicent. He hadn't brought the William Fraser Chair with him, so he had to stand up for most of the lecture.
McChe's new best friend
The lecture was most interesting, although the Eminent Historian's train of thought does ramble about a bit, and I kept losing the thread, especially when I realized that I had forgotten to bring a change of shoes and was sitting next to the Chief Wizard or whatever he's called of the Brussels office in the mud-splattered boots in which I had just hiked across the park. Still, it was edifying to be in the presence of a real intellectual and the only historian to have been honoured by the Queen with the Terry's Gold Medal. Professor Devine has a lovely rich West Coast brogue tinged with a Conneryesque way of pronounshing his esshes which fair warmed the cockles of ma heart.
In the course of his lecture he made a few good suggestions, such as trying out an alternative to democracy for a couple of years, making tartan illegal and not blaming England for everything that has ever gone wrong. As soon as he invited questions from the floor, wee Millicent abseiled off her chair to the ground and started haranguing the poor man about Scottish independence. The Eminent Historian was very tactful, but it was pretty clear that as someone who is the beneficiary of considerable research grants from London, he was not going to be drawn on the thorny question. Another lady raised a question that was so long it almost turned into another lecture. When we were eventually invited to repair to the bar for refreshments (cheeses, wines and Scottish sushi) there was an audible "wheesh!" of relief from the assembled Jocks.
It is a myth that the Scots don't like the English. Everybody was very friendly, especially when they heard my dulcet south London speech patterns, and in no time I was swapping phone numbers with Highlanders and Lowlanders alike and explaining the blood ties between the Fowlers and the Beales. At one point I spotted McChe lurking on the edges of a circle of people hanging on the Eminent Historian's every word, and prayed he wouldn't have one of his bursts of Tourette's which occasionally takes hold of him when in the presence of greatness and white wine in equal quantities, as Jimmy Bastard will attest.
Millicent and I got caught up in other conversations and raiding the freebies which were rather generous (nobody will ever have to buy their own USB key in this town) and the old Dunfermline Chardonnay was slipping down nicely. The crowd started to thin and I was able to catch sight of the Eminent Historian's bowed head, deep in conversation with someone who was bending his ear .... with horror I saw it was McChe! Millicent and I looked like mirror images of "The Scream" as we tried to lip read from the other side of the room.
We whiled away another ten minutes perusing an exhibition of photographs of well-known Jocks alongside their favourite Burns poems. The exhibition was entitled "As Others See Us", which is a maxim we should all take to heart, some of us more than most. As I slurped down the Pitlochry Zinfandel, I edged closer and closer to the picture of Malcolm Tucker, who had chosen "To my Jeans". I hope they cleaned the lipstick smears and saliva off before Alex Salmond did the official unveiling the following day. I'm afraid I've developed a fearsome crush on him. Malcolm Tucker, not Alex Salmond.
Malcolm Tucker by Ross Gillespie and Tricia Malley
We had to hang around for ages waiting for Professeur Emérite McChe and his new BF to wind up their conversation, but as we thought the Eminent Historian might be offering him a job we thought it worth waiting. I even offered to drive McChe to Edinburgh. That night, if necessary. The pair of them were actually chuckling about something, and I'm sure I caught the word "wankers", although I might have been mistaken. While we were hanging about minesweeping the last few glasses of Pinot Noir Cuvée Kilmarnock we struck up one of those dregs-of-the-party conversations with some loitering natives of Scotia, who suggested going off for a bite to eat. Now this NEVER happens with the English, or the Welsh for that matter, so I literally leapt in the air at the idea of some spontaneous interregional dialogue with our friends from over the border. The Scots thought I was attempting some kind of Highland Fling and the next thing I knew we'd stripped the willow right up the Rue Archimède and straight into a pizzeria. On the way we lost several members of our party, including McChe who was last seen wandering down the Rue de la Loi arm-in-arm with the Eminent Prof expounding on how Albert Camus nearly played in goal for Celtic, but by this time we were a very merry band and were incapable of counting heads anyway.
Much red wine flowed under the bridge and I recall some pasta appearing at some point, so I guess I must have eaten something. The conversation was loud and hearty. By the time we got to the point where 20-euro notes were being flung onto the table with gay abandon and ladies who had officially stopped smoking were bumming fags off a lady who hadn't (ahem), the rest of the tables had upended chairs on them, the owner was standing pointedly by the open door looking at her watch and I had acquired something of a Tannochbrae lilt to add to my glottal stops.
But n'importe, dear friends - the Union is safe. I have made sure of that. Since Bert's quite sudden and heartless defection from the KNOB* I am abandoning brass bands to take up Scottish dancing. My Cowdenbeath entrechat is the talk of Belgium.
* Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band
McChe's kilt being currently in Paris (!), he decided to go dressed as Enlightenment Man, in frock coat and top hat, although I'm not sure everyone recognized him as such.
The speaker was Professor Tom Devine, OBE, holder of the Sir William Fraser Chair of Scottish History and Palaeography at Edinburgh University, Director of the Scottish Centre for Diaspora Studies, "widely acknowledged as Scotland's leading historian" (Wikipedia). Funnily enough I had been watching the documentary "Balmoral" the night before and up had popped the Prof as a talking head, I was thus able to recognize him immediately in the crowd at the pre-lecture drinks and point him out to McChe and Millicent. He hadn't brought the William Fraser Chair with him, so he had to stand up for most of the lecture.
McChe's new best friendThe lecture was most interesting, although the Eminent Historian's train of thought does ramble about a bit, and I kept losing the thread, especially when I realized that I had forgotten to bring a change of shoes and was sitting next to the Chief Wizard or whatever he's called of the Brussels office in the mud-splattered boots in which I had just hiked across the park. Still, it was edifying to be in the presence of a real intellectual and the only historian to have been honoured by the Queen with the Terry's Gold Medal. Professor Devine has a lovely rich West Coast brogue tinged with a Conneryesque way of pronounshing his esshes which fair warmed the cockles of ma heart.
In the course of his lecture he made a few good suggestions, such as trying out an alternative to democracy for a couple of years, making tartan illegal and not blaming England for everything that has ever gone wrong. As soon as he invited questions from the floor, wee Millicent abseiled off her chair to the ground and started haranguing the poor man about Scottish independence. The Eminent Historian was very tactful, but it was pretty clear that as someone who is the beneficiary of considerable research grants from London, he was not going to be drawn on the thorny question. Another lady raised a question that was so long it almost turned into another lecture. When we were eventually invited to repair to the bar for refreshments (cheeses, wines and Scottish sushi) there was an audible "wheesh!" of relief from the assembled Jocks.
It is a myth that the Scots don't like the English. Everybody was very friendly, especially when they heard my dulcet south London speech patterns, and in no time I was swapping phone numbers with Highlanders and Lowlanders alike and explaining the blood ties between the Fowlers and the Beales. At one point I spotted McChe lurking on the edges of a circle of people hanging on the Eminent Historian's every word, and prayed he wouldn't have one of his bursts of Tourette's which occasionally takes hold of him when in the presence of greatness and white wine in equal quantities, as Jimmy Bastard will attest.
Millicent and I got caught up in other conversations and raiding the freebies which were rather generous (nobody will ever have to buy their own USB key in this town) and the old Dunfermline Chardonnay was slipping down nicely. The crowd started to thin and I was able to catch sight of the Eminent Historian's bowed head, deep in conversation with someone who was bending his ear .... with horror I saw it was McChe! Millicent and I looked like mirror images of "The Scream" as we tried to lip read from the other side of the room.
We whiled away another ten minutes perusing an exhibition of photographs of well-known Jocks alongside their favourite Burns poems. The exhibition was entitled "As Others See Us", which is a maxim we should all take to heart, some of us more than most. As I slurped down the Pitlochry Zinfandel, I edged closer and closer to the picture of Malcolm Tucker, who had chosen "To my Jeans". I hope they cleaned the lipstick smears and saliva off before Alex Salmond did the official unveiling the following day. I'm afraid I've developed a fearsome crush on him. Malcolm Tucker, not Alex Salmond.
Malcolm Tucker by Ross Gillespie and Tricia MalleyWe had to hang around for ages waiting for Professeur Emérite McChe and his new BF to wind up their conversation, but as we thought the Eminent Historian might be offering him a job we thought it worth waiting. I even offered to drive McChe to Edinburgh. That night, if necessary. The pair of them were actually chuckling about something, and I'm sure I caught the word "wankers", although I might have been mistaken. While we were hanging about minesweeping the last few glasses of Pinot Noir Cuvée Kilmarnock we struck up one of those dregs-of-the-party conversations with some loitering natives of Scotia, who suggested going off for a bite to eat. Now this NEVER happens with the English, or the Welsh for that matter, so I literally leapt in the air at the idea of some spontaneous interregional dialogue with our friends from over the border. The Scots thought I was attempting some kind of Highland Fling and the next thing I knew we'd stripped the willow right up the Rue Archimède and straight into a pizzeria. On the way we lost several members of our party, including McChe who was last seen wandering down the Rue de la Loi arm-in-arm with the Eminent Prof expounding on how Albert Camus nearly played in goal for Celtic, but by this time we were a very merry band and were incapable of counting heads anyway.
Much red wine flowed under the bridge and I recall some pasta appearing at some point, so I guess I must have eaten something. The conversation was loud and hearty. By the time we got to the point where 20-euro notes were being flung onto the table with gay abandon and ladies who had officially stopped smoking were bumming fags off a lady who hadn't (ahem), the rest of the tables had upended chairs on them, the owner was standing pointedly by the open door looking at her watch and I had acquired something of a Tannochbrae lilt to add to my glottal stops.
But n'importe, dear friends - the Union is safe. I have made sure of that. Since Bert's quite sudden and heartless defection from the KNOB* I am abandoning brass bands to take up Scottish dancing. My Cowdenbeath entrechat is the talk of Belgium.
* Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band
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