Travel Reference
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this is a mixed blessing, of course, because although this means there's less of the oily,
mealy mass to consume in each grisly mouthful, the whole dish takes longer to consume,
if you're in one of those I'll-finish-the-damned-stuff moods, or just don't want to disap-
point your hosts.
What is odd is that I do like oatcakes, which, once you've crunched through them,
produce a mouthful of something not unlike porridge.
Then, of course, we have barley as one of our other historically staple foods. Which
is fine when it's made into whisky, but, again, I can't stand it when it's in Scotch broth.
That glutinous thing again. And another national dish that I feel I ought to like but just
can't bring myself to eat.
But then for a long time I rejected a lot of traditional Scottish stuff, like the kilt, bag-
pipes, haggis and drunken self-pity. I was twenty before I wore a kilt because I associated
the things with the whole ghastly chintzy, gaggingly clichéd image of Bonnie fucking
Scotland; Eileen Donnan on a shortbread tin with a sprig of heather in the foreground and
the sound of Jimmy Shand or Andy Stewart in the background; Scotty dogs and some
thick-necked twat in a skirt trying to outwit a telegraph pole. For a long time I wasn't
even that keen - whisper it - on whisky.
Well, tastes change. I now own a rather splendid dress kilty outfit in one of my clan's
tartans; a simple black and white pattern that looks rakishly elegant with the black and sil-
ver Prince Charlie dress gear. Technically this colour scheme is the clan mourning tartan,
but what the heck. I still don't like massed bagpipes but I can tolerate and even enjoy a
well-played single set, I now quite like haggis - though the best form I ever tasted it in
was haggis pakora, an inspired example of Indo-Gael fusion that I did my best to take to
ridiculous extremes in
Whit
- and as for drunken self-pity, well, I'm still working on that.
I've not really had much excuse since I first got published, however there's still plenty of
time. Twenty-five years of desultory support for Greenock Morton Football Club, watch-
ing as they slid towards oblivion and the Scottish Third Division have to have had some
effect, after all.
Whisky I decided I liked long ago.
It's the last weekend of the season. Morton have one more game - a home game against
fellow promotion contenders Peterhead - with which to secure promotion to the Second
Division and the Third Division championship. Les, Ray and I think it behoves us to be
there.
We're going to stay in Glasgow for the weekend with our friends the Fraters. Bruce
is a partner in a surveyors' firm and Yvonne - an old friend of Aileen's - is a PE teacher.
Their children are Ross and Amy. Right now Ross, who's nine, wants to be anything
that'll earn him lots of money (though I secretly know he's going to be a famous artist).
Amy, who is a couple of years younger, is very lively, has bubbly blonde hair and is in-
