Five Go Silly in Scotland

It was something of a hoot, our little Edinburgh gig, and I now feel strong enough to go into some detail.

Here, from left to right, are the protagonists from France: Martin, Xavier, Me, Frank, Jean-Maire.

And this is our host, Ian, wearing a French rugby shirt, a very fetching kilt of Wallace tartan, and brandishing a haggis.

His good lady very wisely absented herself during the weekend and went to stay with her mother in Ireland.

Obviously I was shouting for France rather than Scotland. I do not see this as being in any way inconsistent: show me a Scotsman who would support an English team under any circumstances whatsoever and I’ll show you a camel with three humps.

The enmity is centuries old and all terribly well-mannered. In rugby circles, at any rate. Actually, due to a tenuous family link (an aunt by marriage was born and raised in Govan, though I doubt that entitles me to lay claim to sporting a kilt), I do shout for Scotland when they are playing Southern hemisphere sides.

Any concerns the French contingency had about finding something that they could plausibly eat and drink in the UK were swiftly dispelled.

Haggis was a big success: the French are not generally scared of offal, so a sheep’s stomach filled with the minced lights and pluck (lungs, liver & heart) of the same blended with some oatmeal, onions and seasonings held no horrors for them. I was brought up not to be fussy and in any case rather like haggis. Until I was twelve I thought that a haggis was small animal native to the Highlands which had one pair of legs longer than the other to aid balance on steep hills. I was in good company: it seems that one third of American adult visitors to Scotland still believe this to be the case.

Curry also went down well. My plan to trap them into eating something akin to molten lead (“no, really: a vindaloo is only slightly spicy. But watch out for the korma – that can be murder.”) was thwarted by the surreal appearance of a Moroccan-born (and therefore French speaking) waiter at our table who was more than happy to guide our guests through the menu and to make suggestions. It seems that he has been masquerading as a Punjabi for the last 35 years without anyone noticing, which is quite an achievement.

On the drinks front, the most popular (and we drank enough to cause a blip in the sales figures) was something sticky called “Caledonian 80/- Export Heavy” which slipped down with disconcerting ease (as did we after about eight pints of the stuff) but caused rumblings that could be felt several feet away.

Of course, since I was supporting France I was required to (finally) learn La Marseillaise, though only the first verse and chorus. And I have to say, as national anthems go, it is a thoroughly good one with lots of tub thumping and bloodthirsty lyrics, though the full version does go on a bit. Happily I was in the company of those who knew the words: one of our merry little band was formally a member of the Brigade des Sapeurs-Pompiers de Paris, the World’s most heavily armed fire brigade (actually part of the French army with the duty to defend the capital, as well as for getting kittens out of trees) and another  had spent time up to his eyebrows in the swamps of French Guyana as part of the French equivalent of the Marine Commando and both of whom could sing the song in their sleep.

Continuing the spirit of cultural enrichment, and in a state of advanced inebriation, I agreed that it would be a jolly good idea if the Auld Alliance be given a new lease of life, and I think that I have committed to teach my eleven year olds “Flower of Scotland” sometime this term.

Sometime in the small hours of Monday morning, following the French victory and in a bar somewhere in the centre of Edinburgh, I got all creative and had a go at re-writing the chorus of La Marseillaise. Normally one has to be a little careful about even the most light-hearted parodies of national anthems as people can be a little sensitive, notably those who have decision making powers in the realms of granting nationality applications. Even in the liberal minded and tolerant UK: a university acquaintance of mine came within a whisker of expulsion following his rendition on university property of a touching little ditty based on God Save the Queen! But this is a little regarded and deeply obscure corner of the Interwebthingy, so I think I am safe in revealing the Edinburgh 2010 version:

Aux bars citoyens,
Faites les verres complètements pleines,
Buvons, buvons,
Qu’une bière Ecossaise,
Abreuve nos pauvres foies.

To the bars, citizens,
Fill the glasses to the brim,
We drink, we drink,
So that a Scottish beer,
Drenches our poor livers.