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Auld Scotland Wants Nae Skinking Ware


Blue = Andreas Lind
Green = Fiona Mcintyre

   When Lorna MacKenzie wis a wee lass, (and a right thrawn yin at that) , she would stuff crowdie intae her oxters till her crabbit mither wiz right scunnered. 'Yer aff yer heid, ya boggin Quine', said she. "Dinnae fash yersel' wumman, weans wi' big oxters take it a' in their stride. Yer fair glaikit yersel' onyway so shut yer howfin gob or ah'll gie ye a skelp on the lug, ya cow!". There wiz a kerfuffle an' they baith got into a fankle they couldnae get oot ay till the mither cried, "Jings but yer a gallus yin!" an' threatened to batter Lorna's erse an' gie her her heid in her haunds wi' a Glesga kiss oan toap. Lorna threatened: "Yer jaicket's oan a shoogly peg an' ye ken it, ya auld hackit bauchle. Yer nowt but a haiverin' blether an' a bowfin hogbeast, mind. Ah'll rip yer lugs aff an' gie ye yer final flit an' a kist tae go wi it."
Lorna's mither gawped at her
wee, plooky oafspring but couldnae think ay where the haggis-heeded lassie had come fae. "Ah'm strugglin tae make baith ends meet; yer auld man's away the Crow Road, yer brither is oan the dole, yer grannie's been shoved aff a bus withoot gittin a refund, an' oor tike got his teeth tae play wie last time he pished oan Father MacLeod's wooden hurdy-gurdy. It's auld claes an' purridge noo, ken, an' ye needna fash yer thoum aboot it. So git oan yer bike an' daurnae come hame agane till yer feenished stravaigin' an' ready tae git merrit!". Lorna didnae ken whit tae say or dae: she wiz right flummoxed. Wee sleekit cow'rin' tim'rous beasties gaithert roond aboot her and pit a panic in her breastie. "Ah'll cut ye up wi' ready sleight, trenching your gushing entrails bright, like ony ditch, an' fill yer weel-swall'd puddin-face wi' mony a sair fecht. Efter a' that, yer coupon wudna leuk ony waur than ony tattie-heided keelie," she girned at her gobsmacked mither, wha wished she haedna mentiont onythin at a', and started tae greet. "Jings, wumman. State a ya! Wheesht, or the tattie-bogle man'll come an' get ye! Ah'm sick o hearin yer gobshite."

the Polis came an' oxtered wee Lorna. "Guid thing it wisnae the bailiffs!" thocht her mither, keekin' doon the close tae mak sure naebody wis lurkin ahind tha midden in the back court. Fair forfochen, skelly, an burstin fur a Turkish delight, she wheeched doon the pakkies fur fags. Hirplin aboot in his baffies, Mr Razzaq, skelly-eyed an' mingin' av curry sauce, slowly leuked ower his glesses an pit doon his copy of the Daily Record, gobsmacked by her imposing figure. "Yes, Madam?" he politely enquired. "Wit wiz it ye wur..." "Gie us two packets o' Silk Cut an' a packet o pickled onion crisps, ya ferry louper!" she slurred, ruder than even Mr Razzaq was accustomed to, despite his background in fitba refereeing. "Ah'm afraid the pickled onion's finished. Hedgehog flavour instead? We're fresh out of porcupine drops, but   


Auld Scotland Wants Nae Skinking Ware

Andreas Lind
2004-06-24, 08:29:40
I’ve no idea what Mr Razzaq actually did at this point, I’m afraid, but I’ll spend the next few weeks trying to find out (I'll be back online and in full swing by mid-July). Until then, then, Hen.

Anders Bylund
2004-06-20, 14:56:54
I'll change it by hand... That's annoying though.

Fiona Mcintyre
2004-06-20, 14:23:26
Still unable to change the mistake....should we just continue anyway??

Administrator: Anders Bylund