A Dash O Doric Read online

  One such woman was the wife of a laird and was in the habit of collecting wild herbs from round about, to use as medicine among her husband’s tenants. When Dr Milne got to hear of it, he demanded to know how she knew that the herbs were not poisonous.

  “I ken fine,” she snapped, “because I try them on the Laird first.”

  ONE OF the most celebrated doctors and surgeons the North-east has produced was Alexander Cran, born in Rhynie, educated in London and then beginning practice in Tarland.

  His practice was 20 miles across and he earned a reputation as a caring doctor who fought his way through all sorts of hazards and storms, sometimes on horseback or even on foot, to make sure that his patients were looked after.

  One wintry night, there was a knocking at his door. A servant opened up and cried: “Fa’s there?”

  “It’s me,” said a male voice. “I’m sikkin the doctor tae Babbie, bit dinna hurry him; it’s a lang road.”

  The doctor dressed and set out with the man, asking: “Is there anybody with your wife?”

  “Na, doctor,” said the man. “I’m nae sikkin ither wifies in aboot. They’ll spile wir hoose and eat aa wir jam.”

  ONE CORRESPONDENT who wishes to remain anonymous recalled taking a newly-wed neighbour to the village doctor in the late 1950s because the girl was too shy to go herself and wanted company in the consulting room.

  The doctor asked at one point: “And what about your bowels?”

  The lassie seemed mystified and said: “On the shelf abeen the sink.”

  RETIRED GP Frank Keir asserts, after a lifetime’s experience of general practice in the North-east, that there are four grades of illness in the Doric.

  1. I’m nae weel.

  2. I’m nae affa weel.

  3. I’m affa nae weel.

  4. I’d be better aff awa.

  FRANK ALSO had to deal with a notorious hypochondriac who was worried that she was developing an incurable throat condition. He peered into the depths, but could see nothing worse than an inflammation, so he applied some salve and gave her a prescription for a mixture. She was distinctly dischuffed.

  She left the consulting room and walked towards the waiting-room, where her friend was waiting for her. As she left, Frank heard the friend asking her: “Foo did ye get on?”

  “Ach,” said the patient. “Wisna worth ma while comin. He jist pentit ma throat.”

  “And fit wis ye expectin?” inquired the chum. “Wallpaper?”

  ON ANOTHER occasion, Frank was confronted by a man who nowadays would be called clinically obese. The patient was carrying so much weight in front of him that his back was almost at breaking point. Frank suggested not only a diet, but also a little light exercise, starting small and building up week by week.

  The man was horrified. “Exercise?” he said, as if Frank had proposed that the patient sleep in a bed of snakes.

  “Nothing drastic,” Frank said. “I’m not suggesting you run a full marathon this afternoon. Try something simple at the outset.”

  “Like fit?”

  “Well, why not see how close you can get to touching your toes?”

  The patient shook his head. “Na, doctor,” he said. “If the good Lord hid meant me tae touch ma taes, he’d hiv put them on ma knees.”

  AN ELGIN correspondent who once nursed at Dr Gray’s Hospital recalled one cantankerous long-stay patient who found fault with absolutely everything. The food was swill, the staff were unfriendly, the ward was cold, the bed was hard.

  “One day, during a staff handover,” she wrote, “it fell to me to give him a bed-bath. I wasn’t looking forward to tholing the torrent of moans.

  “Sure enough, as I was dichting one side of him, he was barely drawing breath between complaints. I had almost had enough when he said: ‘The trouble wi this place is ye treat aa us patients like dogs.’

  “And that was when I heard myself saying: ‘Och, that’s nonsense, Willie. Now roll over.’”

  SANDY NIXON, a doctor in Ayrshire, recalled a North-east exile arriving to live near his practice. The first time the two met, Sandy had just come out of hospital himself and the new patient was anxious that his new medical man was in fine fettle. “I hear ye’ve been in the hospital,” the North-east man said. “I have that,” Sandy said. “Fit wis adee, like?” “A perforated bowel.” “A perforated bowel? Michty, far I come fae, we ca that a colander.”

  ONE ANONYMOUS correspondent wrote with a tale of taking her youngest daughter to the doctor, who sounded the little girl’s chest with a stethoscope.

  When they returned home, the girl rushed to her father and cried: “Dad! Dad! The doctor pits his galluses in his lugs!”

  RETIRED NURSE Pam Oliphant had a hand in nurse training in Aberdeen and the North-east for more than 40 years and kept notes of some of the howlers in student reports, including:

  Patient’s father died in his nineties of ladies’ troubles in his prostate.

  On the second day, her knee appeared much improved. By the third day it had disappeared completely.

  Patient is numb from her toes down.

  Patient complains of extreme pain when his head is rotated through 360°.

  Patient is a healthy-appearing but decrepit male, 69, who is mentally alert but forgetful.

  Patient complains of occasional, constant, infrequent headaches.

  Examination of genitalia was completely negative, except for soreness in the right foot.

  By the time patient was admitted, his rapid heart had stopped and he was feeling better.

  An X-ray was conducted of patient’s head, but nothing was found.

  Patient’s skin was moist and dry.

  Patient has no past history of suicides.

  Examination of patient’s genitalia revealed that he was circus-sized.

  Patient has no shakes or obvious temperature chills, but her husband says she was really hot in bed last night.

  Law and Order

  The due process of law in all its forms has a healthy sense of humour. You just need to ask any bobby, lawyer or prison officer, which is exactly what we did.

  THIS TALE came to us via HM Prison, Craiginches, Aberdeen – “Craigie” to its regular residents – so we have no doubt as to its accuracy.

  In the late 1980s, a prison van was bringing another batch of miscreants from the cells at Aberdeen High Court; all the culprits were about to start their various sentences.

  The occupants of the back of the van were the usual motley collection, but one stuck out as being different: a greying, middle-aged man in an impeccable suit, and impressively coiffed and manicured. The regulars were studying him intently, but he didn’t catch their looks and instead stared blankly as if he were the only one in the vehicle.

  “Fit’s the boy in for?” inquired an old lag of one of the prison officers.

  “He looks like a paedophile tae me,” said another.

  “Be quiet,” said the officer.

  Then the chant got up: “Pae-do! Pae-do! Pae-do!”

  “Be quaet!” barked the senior officer. “It’s neen o yer damned business, bit he murdered his wife.”

  An instant hush fell over the van as the inmates absorbed this new information. The quiet was broken only by one voice muttering: “Dis he dee homers?”

  ONE OF the most celebrated felons Scotland has seen was Harry McGlashan, who, in the North-east vernacular, was an affa takkin mannie, in both senses of the word: he pinched anything he could lay his hands on, but he was charm personified whenever he was caught – which was often.

  One sheriff peered at Harry in the dock for the umpteenth time and sighed: “McGlashan,” he said. “Do you have any intention of ever finding a job?”

  Harry shuffled uneasily.

  “You could train for a trade,” the sheriff said. “Thousands of people do.”

  “Nae me, sir,” McGlashan said.

  “Why ever not? Have you tried?”

  “No, sir. I’m nae affa bright.”

 
A FARM worker had decided to take his former employer to an industrial tribunal, claiming unfair dismissal, according to Ackie Manson, of Oldmeldrum.

  “Are you saying,” inquired the tribunal chairman, “That you were not fairly dismissed?”

  “Michty, aye,” said the farm worker. “That’s fit wye I’m here. Fairly, I wis dismissed.”

  NOW two tales from a former bobby Down South who has retired back to Deeside and who requests anonymity. You’ll understand why.

  On his retirement from the force, never having risen from the rank of constable, our man was surprised to hear that the Chief Constable wanted to make the farewell presentation personally at the force HQ with all his colleagues.

  “Now, Jack,” said the top man, “I sent your Division Superintendent out to buy a suitable present for you. He said it would be difficult as you have done 35 years’ service and it would need a robot to replace you.

  “‘Aha,’ I thought. ‘A robot as a retirement gift.’ But the Superintendent couldn’t find a robot that did bugger all.”

  THEN THERE was the Deeside bobby (not our Jack) who had also spent a large part of his career Down South, and who had become over-fond of a drammie or three during his time in exile. The Chief Constable got to hear of his alcohol problem and called him in for a chat.

  The Chief suggested that the bobby take some extended leave and head back to his hame airt for a cure.

  “I’m nae sure that’ll stop me wi the drink, sir,” said the disconsolate bobby.

  “Probably not,” said the Chief, “But at least up there you won’t stand out in a crowd.”

  ONE OF the legends of the Elgin law community is the tale from Elgin Sheriff Court in the 1920s when a tinkie wife was charged with public drunkenness. The court convened; the accused stood in the dock, and the charge was read out in the form of the day: “The procurator fiscal complains that . . .”

  At that, the tinkie wife snapped: “Ach, thon bugger’s aye complainin.”

  PETERHEAD SHERIFF COURT has always hosted some of the North-east’s more exotic trials, including one recalled by a former Aberdeen Journals reporter in the town.

  It was more or less a simple assault case, but both parties wanted their day in court, so a ten-minute shoo-through became a full-blown Perry Mason job.

  It boiled down to the fact that two men at a factory in the town had had a discussion about how best to approach a particular job. The discussion became an argument. The argument became a push-and-shove match. The push and shove became a fight.

  In court, Wullie’s solicitor asked for his client’s version of events. “Weel, yer honour,” Wullie said. “I canna myn exactly, bit Frunkie and me hid an argument. Frunkie says I wisna deein ma job richt. I says I wis. Then he hut me. So I hut him. Then Frunkie says tae me: ‘If you !@£$%^&! touch me again, I’ll !@£$%^&! kill ye’.”

  “I see,” said the solicitor. “And when your colleague said to you: ‘If you !@£$%^&! touch me again, I’ll !@£$%^&! kill ye’, what did you take him to mean?”

  ONE OF our overseas correspondents, Jimmie Walker, who resides in Oliver, British Columbia, told of a lawyer named Malcolm McDougall back home in Scotland. Mr McDougall was sitting in his office working his way through a pile of papers, when there was a sharp rap at the door and a burly woman entered, dragging her teenage daughter behind her.

  They sat down, still unbidden, and the mother explained that her daughter had just been found to be pregnant and that they wanted to sue the man responsible.

  Mr McDougall pushed his pile of work to one side and took a fresh sheet of paper. Pen poised, he said: “All right, let’s see. What’s the man’s name?”

  The girl leaned across. “I’m affa sorry,” she said. “I didna ken him personally.”

  WE’RE OBLIGED to Ally Spence for telling us of the country bobby who encountered a lad who had been knocking spots off the bottle all night and was now hytering and stytering home along the pavement. Two steps forward, one step back. Two steps left, one step right.

  “Aye, Jim,” the bobby said. “That’s you makkin yer wye hame.”

  “Weel,” Jim slurred. “Fyles.”

  WHEN LENA McPHERSON’S late husband was a young bobby in Moray, he would often do school talks. At one such event, at Burghead, he had to mention a number of acts of vandalism in the area, and suggested that if any of the children saw anything of that sort happening again, they should tell a grown-up or contact the police themselves.

  The talk had gone reasonably well, Mr McPherson thought, and as he was leaving after his fly cup with the staff, he spotted a small girl waiting anxiously at the school gate. “Could I spik tae ye?” she said as he approached.

  He squatted down beside her.

  “My mam says a bobby will aye help me if I’m in trouble,” she said.

  Mr McPherson nodded. “Nivver be scared tae spik tae a bobby,” he said.

  “Well,” she said. “wid ye tie ma laces?”

  AT THE height of atomic-bomb hysteria, there was great discussion throughout Scotland about civil-defence measures and what might have to be done if the Big One dropped.

  This worry manifested itself in many ways, but the one that former bobby Ian Sandison remembers best arose when he was giving a talk on crime prevention to a WRI on the south side of Aberdeen and asked for questions. One woman asked if Ian had advice on what to do in the event of nuclear attack.

  “It was a bit of a challenge for a young bobby,” Ian said, “and a bit of a cheek for me to answer, since I knew nothing about it apart from what I’d read. However, I recalled an advice leaflet that I’d seen at HQ, so I explained what to do if you were caught in a building.”

  “That’s fine if ye’re inside,” one woman said, “bit fit if ye’re ootside; say, in yer gairden?”

  “Well,” Ian said, “The official advice is to find a hollow, lie down and pull leaves over as much of yourself as possible.”

  “Ach, fit eese wid that be?” snapped the woman.

  “Well, Ina,” said her friend, “at least ye’d leave a tidy gairden.”

  KENNY KEIR was a young traffic constable in the days of the old Aberdeen City Police and was directing traffic when the lights had failed at the junction of Bridge Street and Union Street.

  He was calmly attending to the flow on Union Street when he heard a screech of tyres behind him and an almighty bang. A Vauxhall Victor being driven by a young blonde had been in collision with a fruit van driven by an older man in a brown shopcoat. Both drivers leapt out and started a shouting match.

  Kenny did his best to keep the traffic moving, while shouting at the pair to calm down and behave themselves, although he had a hard time not laughing when he heard the man tell the woman: “You should stick tae drivin a pram.”

  “Aye,” she said. “And you should be in it.”

  “Stick tae drivin a pram”

  Please, Miss

  Schools, like shoppies and pubs, are natural sources of humour, and teachers have a ringside seat. Here are the best examples of the often accidental wit that arises in the classroom and staffroom.

  A RESIDENT of the Woodend area of Aberdeen, who asks to remain anonymous, was proud that both her sons got good degrees, but was especially proud when Donald managed his doctorate and was summoned to the US to give a lecture in his field of expertise.

  Alas, some of the family’s older friends didn’t quite grasp how time had passed and how wee Donald had grown up. When one such elderly lady asked where Donald was, his mum replied: “He’s away in Florida delivering a paper.”

  “Really?” said the woman. “An affa lang wye tae deliver a paper. Hiv they nae paper loons o their ain?”

  A PRIMARY-SCHOOL teacher from Perth, who asks to be known only as Pat, says she seated her charges round about her one December morning to read them the nativity story.

  She was about five minutes into proceedings when she heard a small voice mutter: “Ach, this is the same story we got last year.”

 
OLDER TEACHERS among you will remember that school policy in most Scottish education authorities after the war was that pupils had to empty their pockets onto the teacher’s desk before break time and collect their belongings on their return.

  “He’s away in Florida delivering a paper.”

  One day, a threepenny bit had “gone missing” from one school in, shall we say, a deprived area of Aberdeen.

  Teacher waited until the class returned, then said: “Now, children, we’ve had a bad fairy in the room during playtime, I think. She has made a threepenny piece disappear from my desk.

  “Why don’t we all lay our heads down on our desks, put our hands over our heads, keep our eyes tightly shut and wish very hard for the bad fairy to come back with the threepence. Let’s all do that, shall we? And let’s promise not to peek in case she decides not to come.”

  Teacher led by example and the class followed. Within a few seconds, she felt a soft poke–poke at her shoulder, heard a coin being slid across her desk, and heard a small voice whispering: “She must hiv put it in my pooch, the bitch.”

  RETIRED EDUCATION lecturer Bob Cooper taught in Kincardine and Angus in the 1960s and recalled trying one day to teach a class of 13 boys who were not academically gifted.

  Like many teachers before him, Bob resorted to apple analogies. “David, if your mother and father were to share one apple, into how many bits would your mum cut it?”

  “Twa.”

  “That’s right. And each would be called? . . .”

  “A half.”

  “Good. Alan, if you, your mother, your father and your sister were to share an apple, how many bits would your mum need to cut?”

  “Fower.”

  “And each would be called? . . .”

  “A quaaarter.”

  The lesson was going well until one lad, Raymond, interrupted. “Bit, sir, there’s eicht o’s in oor faimly.”

  Bob was secretly delighted, because the question of eighths had arisen unprompted. “All right,” he said to his class; “here’s Raymond with eight in his family. What does his mum have to do?”