Knees-up highland style
Cauld winter was howling o'er moorland and mountain
And wild was the surge on the dark rolling sea
When just about daybreak I spied a wee lassie
Who asked me the road and the miles to Dundee.
I'VE been a couple of times to the Edinburgh Tattoo and the Fringe Festival; to John O'Groats, northernmost tip of mainland Scotland; to Hawick, Queen of a' the Borders; to Loch Ness; to Glasgow. I've hoisted a pint or two in all these places. But never before had I been to a ceilidh – until the other night, that is.
A ceilidh (pronounced kayley) is the Scots version of a knees-up. All kinds of things happen. Pipes and drums – even though it's indoors. Scots ballads. Scots folk songs. Scots chamber music. Scots dancing by the most lissome lassies. Long recitations off by heart of humorous verse; bawdy jokes – everyone has a chance to take the stage. And shove the shillin' – a contest in which you slide coins across the floor (a bit like curling) to win a bottle of whisky. And, of course, quite a lot of whisky, whether you won or not.
This particular ceilidh marked the start in Durban of the congress of the Caledonian Federation of South Africa. Laddies and lassies from all over the country (not all of them in the first flush of youth) were there in their tartan. (Maybe I was invited because of my origins in Dundee – KwaZulu-Natal, not Scotland.) I was one of the few chaps in troosers but they made me feel at home.
It started with the pipes and drums of the Durban Regiment and the Natal Mounted Rifles. These fellows always produce a decibel or two. In the confined space of the Pool Deck of the Blue Waters – which has a ceiling and is completely walled in – they made themselves heard.
Then, as the evening progressed over dinner, traditional dancing by the lovely Wood twins, Samantha and Melissa, in all kinds of costume. Then Scots chamber music by Friends of Note; the ballads and the folk songs.
Then it was open to the floor. There seemed to be at least one saucy rugby song (if not a rugby song, it should be) that everyone seemed to know because they joined in. Zany verse and jokes, (one of which I have purloined for today's Tailpiece). Things got better and better.
And then some lovely solo ballads by Ian Lamb. What did he wind up with but The Road To Dundee, as quoted above?
Then closure and a piper playing Auld Lang Syne as the whole scrum linked with crossed arms and surged about the way they do.
Now you know what a ceilidh is. A lot of fun.
Gout?
WHERE is Kim Jong-un (The Young 'Un), the North Korean leader? He hasn't been seen in public since September 3 and then he was limping badly. Recently he missed the annual pilgrimage to a mausoleum where the bodies of his father and grandfather are embalmed (they're big on that kind of thing in North Korea).
Speculation is rife. Has there been a coup? Has Kim been chopped up and fed to the dogs the way his uncle was recently?
Western diplomats seem to think not. But otherwise they are guessing.
Does he have an attack of gout? Or has he gone incognito to Nkandla to discuss nuclear matters?
Nobody would wish gout on the Dear Leader, but most of us would probably prefer the former.
Tailpiece
A FISHERMAN on Durban's North Pier hooks a big one. He fights it for hour after hour and a crowd gathers. Eventually he manages to reel his catch in close. A submarine pops to the surface, so encrusted with barnacles it's almost lost its shape; also draped in seaweed.
The hatch on the conning tower pops open. The submarine commander is there with a pistol. He has a very long beard.
"Hande hoch, Englanders! You iss prisoners uff der German navy!"
"That's crazy. The war ended years ago."
"Vot you say? Der var ofer? Who von?"
"We did."
"Der Englanders?"
"Wi' a bit o' help from us Scots."
"Himmel!" He calls down the conning tower. "Hans, der var iss ofer. Ve lost. Take down der picture uff de Kaiser!"
Last word
The wit makes fun of other persons; the satirist makes fun of the world; the humorist makes fun of himself.
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