Ran Tan Waltz

Ah'm jist a biddy that bides up a stair, ah've aye bided up stairs. When ye bide up a stair ye get tae ken a lot aboot fowk. It wis nae secret up oor close that Mary wis a bit o a drinker. Ye wid catch her some days gaun fer her messages at fower in the efternin. That's far too late tae get fresh fish ah wid say. No that ah wid say it tae her face mind, ye widnae speak tae her then, no afore she'd been doon the street, or she wid bite yer face aff. She aye had her heid doon an wid hurry by ye, aye half-walkin-half-runnin, fashin tae get aw her messages done afore her man got back fae his work. Big Tommy McGuigan wis a dark-lookin thundercloud o a man, he aye looked like he wis jist aboot tae pish wi rain. He rarely went oot mind, bar fer gaun tae his work an tae the kirk. When he telt Mary he wis gaunnae get rid o her, a wee bit o me couldnae help but feel a wee bit relief fer her, fer she wis never gaun tae be settled till she wis awa fae him or else yin or baith o them wis deid an buried. It wis awfy tae see cos she'd been sae happy a bairn, she wis awbody's pal, aye smilin, aye laughin, an she wis fine till she met him an got couried in under his thumb. We aw kent she wis drinkin, ye could see fer yersel it wis obvious, no gettin up till aw hoors, no pittin her washin oot till it wis practically gettin dark, she wis aw erse-afore-elbae, it's a wonder she got oan at aw, ah dread tae think whit the inside o her hoose wis like!

We'd heard a whisper right enough, it wid've been some weeks back, that she'd been seen hingin aboot doon the fit o Leith Wynd yin night. Bold as brass she wis apparently, right there at the auld Trinity kirk corner. We aw ken it's hard makin ends meet at times, but hawkin yersel oot's never the answer. Mary wis lettin hersel doon, thank god her maw wis deid, an half o me wonders if she did it purely tae get Tommy riled up, whit wi him bein aw strict Brethren an that.

Well, if that wis her game it worked a treat right enough, mair than she wis bankin oan ah wid wager, for ah doot she could've foreseen whit wis comin tae her. God alone knows whit he had done tae pit that amount o fear that he must've pit intae her, or whit he pit in her drink, some tincture o defeat an dismay, fer she must've walked aw that way, fae her hoose doon at Blackfriars tae the Grassmarket, wi that sign roon her neck. Can ye ever imagine the shame o it? Ah will say fer the lassie tho, fer yince she wisnae half-runnin, aw naw, this night she wis jist shufflin alang at Tommy's side, lookin even mair wee an bent ower than usual. Aw the way up the High Street they walked an doon the West Bow. We were aw gethered at this time up at the heid o the Grassmarket, some o the shows were up, an we were hain a grand blether. Bein as it wis a Wednesday it wis half-day, an it had been too hot tae dae much in the way o hoosework that day. Me an some o the lassies were sittin up at the fit o the Bow haein a right laugh, joshin the wee laddies an puin faces at the auld wummen. Tae be honest we were aw half-cut, we'd been there since dinnertime, an ah wis oan the sherry, ah think ah must've had aboot fower pints, an some o the faces ah wis puin ah wisnae rightly meanin tae...

Anyway there they came doon the Bow an right past us. Him big, lowerin, dark an stridin oan, wi his guid black suit an hat oan, her wee shilpit bauchle o a figure doon aside him, wi this board sign hingin roon her neck, an chalked oan it wis these words-

"TO BE SOLD BY PUBLIC AUCTION" 

an an auld tow roped aroon her waist, him leadin her through the streets like a kye gaun tae mairket. It seems Tommy had awready fixed this affair up in advance an had an auctioneer awready waitin ootside the White Hart pub, his name wis Jock somethin. Ah think the wee man had been inside the White Hart since it opened that mornin, likely fortifyin his nerves, kennin whit wis comin his way that nicht. Tommy McGuigan must've paid him weel fer his troubles, but smellin like a brewery like wee Jocky did cannae hae come cheap, an he'd be lucky if he'd hae a ha'penny left o his 'fee' by the time it came tae gettin up oantae his box an tryin tae start the sale.

Whit ah hellish rammy there wis gaun oan doon there in the Grassmarket that night. Thoosan's o folk, aw shoutin, aw bawlin, aw barrackin, awbody had somethin tae say tae it an say tae it they wid. Some were haranguin Mary fer her 'crimes'. Noo, how could it be a crime tae be a drunk? Ye couldnae help it! We were aw half-pished back in thae days! Sherry an beer wis aboot aw ye had tae drink. We had nane o yer bottled spring water or Barcardi Breezers back then. Aw Naw. No even Irn-Bru, they hadnae invented that yet! Or even a decent latte. Ye got pished, or ye went dry. Ye could try the water fae the wells if ye wanted, but that smelt o horse manure half the time. Ah aye went fer a nice Harvey's Bristol Cream if ah wis in the hoose, but ah wid drink onything if ah wis oot in company, no wantin tae get a name fer masel fer bein high-falutin. The lengths ah wid go tae tae smuggle in ma supplies... Other folk were shoutin at her that it wis awright tae be a lush, but she shoulda nivver hae tried sellin her body. "That wis beyond the Pale!", they were shoutin, an "Ya feckin Jezebel!" an suchlike. There wis anither bunch, sittin ower by the auld Corn Exchange, haein a sit-doon demonstration in support o drunken-sex-industry-workers-rights, or at least that's whit they looked like. They were only sittin doon cos they couldnae stand up straight mind. Ah think they had come doon fae the Tap o Lauriston alehoose where they'd been 'debatin' aw day. They were a rum bunch aw roond, wi their hair an their faces an their claes an their... attitudes... Ah ask ye, why dae fowk dae that tae thersels? Dae they no want tae get a shag or somethin?

So, by-an-by, wee Jocky manages tae get things quietened doon a bit, mainly by bangin twa auld biscuit tins th'gither so it took a while. Fowk eventually shushed each ither, an it aw went a bit quiet...

Wee Jocky cries oot, "Right! Oyeez! Dae ah hae ony bidders fer this fine wife here?" an there's shouts here an there amongst the crowd. First up this auld Shepherd fae the Heelans bids a pound an ten bob, an then a tinker an then a Pig Jobber we heard wis fae Killarney cry oot their bids. A pound an twelve an sixpence wis the Pig man's bid, noo can ye imagine bein pit up fer that price? £1.65 in th'day's money. That's no funny. Mary didnae deserve that...

This is where it gets wild. This braw big brawny Irish soutar suddenly comes bargin oot o the Black Bull pub, he's heard aboot the £1/10 that wis bid, an he's no happy one bit. Ah heard efter it that this big Irish laddie had a bit o a thing fer Mary, an as weel as that ah heard that he had been yin o her 'clients' doon the Leith Wynd if ye catch ma drift. Whitiver the reason, anyway, he pushes up tae the auld pigger, an lamps him yin in the breid-bag! The wee fat pigger's doon oan the setts, squealin like a, weel, like a wee piggy. Aw hell breaks loose!

There's screamin an bawlin, folk are gaun "Fight! Fight! Fight!" like as if they were back at school. Next thing, this big Irish guy's up oan the auctioneer's box, tells him he wants tae buy Mary, then punches wee Jocky in the heid! Knocks the wee man right aff the box an splits his heid! Merry Hell ensues. At least this pits a smile oan Mary's face tho, an she starts hee-hawin awa, ah'm thinkin she must've kent this Irish laddie efter aw, an the crowd's aw laughin alang, ye could barely hear yersel think, such wis the kerfuffle.

It wis at this point that ah became aware o thon lassies fae the Art College. They had aw gaithered up aroon the Cowgateheid, an had massed a crowd o hunners o wummen an lassies th'gither. They were startin up chants o "Nae sellin o wifies!" an "Doon wi men!", an haein wee impromptu workshoaps oan 'Raisin yer self-esteem through shoutin' an 'How tae get black-leid oot o yer hankies' A rowdy section o them had hi-jacked a builder's cairt, an were passin oot muckle big stanes an hauf-bricks tae the ither lassies. They were pittin these stanes intae their hankies an shawls, some were drappin their knickers an turnin them intae slings. Then at a loud cry fae yin o them, yin that ah think wis fae Fife, gaun by the beehive hairdo an the yellae leather mini-skirt... ah ask ye... so, they aw come steamin across the Grassmarket, straight at the auction...

Fowk were gettin pushed oot the way, knocked aw ower the shop, by this monstrous creature, formed fae hunners o lairy lassies, screechin like banshees an swingin their knickers abune their heids. Never let onybody tell ye the Grassmarket's gettin awfy rough. It wis nivver ony other way. Ah'm right up fer it by this time, aw the excitement had got tae me, that an the sherry, so ah'm aff wi the knickers an ah'm up an runnin wi them.

"Doon wi men!" ah'm screamin, "Gie us oor hoosekeepin'! Aw ae it! Gie us it noo!" Ah'm haein a rare time tae masel. Some o the wummen hae set upon Jocky an they're giein him a right batterin. Aw o a sudden ah find masel staunin square in front o big Tommy McGuigan, if ah may say so, he's the real villain o the piece. He's the man that thinks he can jist pick up a wumman, an drap her jist as easy if he's no happy wi her. Whit aboot Mary ah say? Where does she gang? Whit dis she dae if he turns her oot? It's nivver the man's problem, is it?

Big Tommy's glowerin afore me like a thunderheid aboot tae burst, an ah've got a hauf-brick in ma haun. Well, the invitation wis laid right oot there, wrapped up in ribbons wi bows oan it, so ah think ah shouted somethin in his face like "This'll learn ye tae sell yer wife ye dirty swine!" an then ah battered him. Flat-oot. Kyboshed...

Ah wis miraculous... ye should've seen ma smile, ye could've hung yer washin oot oan it...

Until he got right back up oan his feet like a Jock-in-the-box an skelped me in the face. Oh. Ma nose wis aw burst, ah'd cut ma lip, the paper said ma een came up like twa October cabbages. No that ye should aye believe whit ye read in the papers, but that goes withoot sayin, ye should see some o the other shite they wrote aboot me. They said ah wis a sweep's wife! Jist cos ah hadnae had a chance tae wash ma face that mornin! Well, ah'd slept in, an ah wis in a hurry tae get ma messages done. Aw the same, ah'll 'sweeps wife' them...

Still,it wis guid o Lachie the Lum tae step in fer me at this point tho, that wis a bonus, ah'll hae tae mind him come Hogmanay. Luckily he had his brushes an poles wi him. He wis jist aboot tae lay intae big Tommy wi his equipment when the Toun Gaird showed up, late oan the scene as ever, an things startit tae quieten doon again...

Ye widnae credit it tho, even efter aw that bother, big Tommy still insistit oan gaun through wi the sale, an it aw startit again fae scratch. Jocky got some young laddies fae the Scouts tae gaird his box fer him, they did it fer sixpence atween them, whit they'll dae fer a bob ah've yet tae find oot. The twa Irishmen dropped oot o the auction at this point cos they said it wis mair bother than it wis worth. First then, this camp auld seaman comes up, an he starts slaverin oan aboot Mary's tarry top-lights, whitever they were, an makin crude references tae her tight riggin. Mary? Tight riggin? Ah've nuthin against the lassie but the only ship ye could compare her tae wid be the Vital Spark! Aw puffin an blawin an nae amount o scrubbin wis ever gaunnae turn her intae a Maid o' th' Mist...

We were aw windin the auld sailor up, jist fer a laugh, afore we set oan him, when up rides this fermer fae Ecclesmachen, oan a white charger... well it wis a horse, he says he's lost his wife tae the pox in September past an he needs a new yin. Here he says, he's got two pound five shillin an could he hae her?

So, £2.25 it wis. £2.25 eh? It's no much is it? Fer a wumman's life. Still, Ecclesmachen's supposed tae be a nice place, an Mary aye said she fancied livin in the country. The last ony o us saw o Mary Mackintosh wis her sittin oan the back o a horse ahint her new man canterin through the West Port wi a muckle big grin oan her coupon, swiggin fae a bottle o Buckfast fortified. Ah hope she settles...

If ye dinnae believe me that this aw happened, jist tak a look at the newspaper. Ah'm tellin ye it wis aw aroon 6 o'clock oan Wednesday the 16th o July, in the year 1828, in the Grassmarket in Embra. Because it wis in the papers awbody wis talkin aboot it fer weeks efter. It's no a night ah'm likely tae forget in a hurry. Tae this day folk are aye comin up tae me an askin how come ma een are sae cabbagey. If ah've got a hauf-brick in ma haun an a sherry in ma belly ah show them...

There gangs a tenner

The Eurovision Song Contest is in its mid 50s. Can ye believe it? No a wrinkle in sight. Now, ye may think it's an ugly crater, ye may think it's a bit like yer embarrasin cousin Elsie that could only get a job in the bakehoose, that turned in oan hersel an' got aw religious. Mind she widnae come oot oan bonfire night cos she felt sorry fer the guy? She wisnae bonnie...

Aye she looks a bit simple, an' she's let hersel get a bit hairy, but the Eurovision Song Contest's a beauty tae behold. She wis startit thru the idea that if ye sing th'gither, ye'll no shoot each other. Disnae aye work like that as we aw ken, but we'll gie that a bye. They were unco tired o' shootin each other back then, an' wid dae onythin fer a pairty. They were desperate. It's been a guid habit tae get intae tho. It's as naive an idea as ma auld christenin shawl, but that's no a reason fer fault. Back in 1957 it wis aw 'von Trapp' an' a bit twee, fu o' yodellin Austrians an' cheese-oan-a-stick fae the Netherlands, but ye cannae say, no efter 'Diva' an' 'Hard Rock Hallelujah' that it's no at the very least developed a sense o' irony. An' that wee bit o' self-mockery dis ye good. The fact is that we're aw daein it, fae Malta tae Iceland, fae Ireland tae Israel. It's the yin time o' year ye can put away political difference. It's only other folk, sittin roon their tellys, laughin their tits aff, fae yin end o' Europe tae the ither, jist yin Saturday night a year.

Ma ain Eurovision pairty startit wi' Sandie Shaw, wi' her classy tune 'Puppet oan a string'. It wis aye a big night in oor hoose. Ye kent that cos ye got ice-cream fae Cabarelli's. It wis the only time o' year ye got tae see Miss Katie Boyle, she obviously had history cos she wis dressed like a lamp-shade an' wis fadin away tae skin an' bone. An' whit ye've got tae mind is we sent big stars, an awright their songs were a bit cheesier than their usual, but no by much. Cliff wis giein it 'Hello Sam, Goodbye Samantha' just as much as Lulu wis 'I'm a Tiger'rrring. They were cheesy. Pop wis cheesy. Whit's yer point?

Aye folk laugh at ye. Well if they're gaunnae laugh, ah'd as raither hae it fer that than onythin serious. They still end up watchin it bye an' large, just'll no admit it.

Ah'm no gaun tae labour the point an' assault ye wi' aw ma thochts oan this year's entrys, but ah will gie ma tips at the end, fer whit they're worth. An' forbye, dinnae be thinkin ah'm gaunnae blog aboot Eurovision aw the time. It'll jist be nice, every year, when Eurovision comes roon, tae think 'oh aye, ah startit a blog so many year ago', if ah've still got ma mind that is.

Now, ah'm no a gambler, but if ah had went intae the bookies a fortnight ago an' got ma purse oot, ah widda put ma money oan Azerbaijan. An' ah wid be regretin it now, efter her tepid performance in the Semi-final. Ower-rehearsed an' self-conscious, Safura's likely lost whit wis hers tae win, wi' a great tune, an' aw the help that money could buy. Ah cannae see her in the top 5 now, an' there goes ma tenner.

Ah think we're now lookin at a German win, an' mibbe that's as well, seein as how they'll be the only country that can afford it next year. Lena's awready been number 1 aw ower the continent, it's a sweet wee tune. Ah can see Norway makin it top 5, Didrik's the maist likely o' the power ballads tae hit the notes. That Israeli guy Milim wis flat as a pancake th'night. Belgium hae another contemporary entry, an' if Tom Dice cairrys it aff, they'll make the 5. The biggest performance dividend ah wid gie tae Portugal. The song's straight doon the middle, but the lassie can belt it, an' she's sittin pretty, third fae last, a great position. Ah'm aware they're aw western countries, so tae balance it ah've gaun fer Armenia tae fill the top 5. That's no true, ah love their song, it's the dark horse o' the contest. Ethnic but awfy catchy. Gets ye a bit misty tae, aw lovin yer motherland, an' plantin things, warm feelins. Bless.

Whit ah dinnae see in the top 5 is UK an' Josh Dubonnet. Ah dinnae think Pete Waterman's seen the show fer donkeys, judgin by his reaction oan the telly th'night. Ah dinnae think he grasped the possibility, an' that's a shame. He's no done hissel ony favours an' we'll be lucky tae be aff the flairheid. Bottom 5 ah say.

Whitever happens, it'll be a great night. It aye is.

Be kind tae ma mistakes

"Bloggin eh? Whit's thon then?"

That's a question ah've been askin masel a lot lately. Is it a diary? Is it tellin stories? Is it like a megaphone oan the Internet? Is it jist a sign o' an inflated ego?

Well dinnae expect me tae gie ye an answer. No yet onyway. See, ah'm no verry sure masel. Whit it feels like is hard work. Hard work if ye're postin regularly that is, an' a bit pointless if ye're no. This big messy Internet seems tae be littered wi' half-startit blogs, fu o' great intentions but tailin aff intae occasional mutterins an' apologies. That may be ma fate an' aw, wha kens? Ah've got stories tae tell, but wha disnae? an' ah want tae tell them, through a megaphone so folk'll hear them, but tae be honest ah've no got a big ego. Ah'm sairly aware that ah'm jist a biddy bidin up a stair in Leith, jist up fae the Fit o' th' Walk (hence the 'shootin fae the shin' joke, an' aye, ah'm sorry) an' ah've nae great insights intae the workins o' this world. Jist ma ain opinions.

So, ah got up this mornin an' ah says tae masel "Sophia, ye're jist gaunnae hae tae gie it a go." "Whit hae ye got tae lose," ah says "except yer dignity, an' ye've no got much o' that onyways." Ah should stop talkin tae masel ah ken, ah only get cheek.

Whit can ye expect fae me then, that ah think's sae great tae publish oan the Internet? Well firstly, as ye've probably sussed awready, ah'm bloggin in ma ain Scots tongue, the yin ma mither gie'd me. Ah love ma leid an' ah'll use it as ah see fit. Ah'll try tae be consistent wi the words an' the spellin, but seein as it's aw comin fae ma heid an' no fae a book it'll likely vary wi the weather. Sae bite me if ye dinnae like it.

Ah'll likely be talkin aboot whit's 'current' in the world, especially ma wee corner o' it, whit's gaun oan in Leith, in Embra, in Scotland, in the 'United' Kingdom o' 'Great' Britain. Ah'll tell ye ma story, an' how it fits intae Scotland's great an' untold story, but if ye're lookin fer facts then ye may be disappointit. Awa ye gang tae Wikipedia if that's whit ye're efter.

This is Sophia Pangloss's blog, like it or lump it.