i kid you not, this is pure joy
“We’re not in Scotland”, scoffed the barman in response to my perfectly reasonable request for Irn Bru, a carbonated soft drink very close to many a Scots-man and -woman’s heart.
I was in Cambridge on an overnight cultural study with some of the students and was on a mad search for something resembling a Burns celebration, held every 25th January to mark the day Robert Burns was born. Unfortunately my search was in vain. Turns out the people of Cambridge (represented by the three people I queried) have never heard of Robert Burns, the great Scottish poet who gave us some absolutely belting songs (hello, Auld Lang Syne). Guys, what’s going on? You’re missing out on a perfect excuse to eat haggis!
However, I must confess, I think I’ve celebrated Burns fewer than three times in my entire life. The only time I actually recall celebrating it was when I was on my exchange year in the Netherlands. It seems the ‘being out of Scotland’ brings the Scottish out in me, and where else would I feel more Scottish than in England?
I’m by no means a nationalist but I am proud to be Scottish: all I want for Scotland is for it to be recognised on equal terms with the rest of the UK. When it isn’t, the wrath of CatMac descends. Scary. Several weeks ago, when I was in Battle with Silvia, we went to a café and ordered cream tea. I handed over a Scottish note, at which the girl serving me screwed up her face in confusion. “Can we accept these?” she asked her boss who was standing nearby. Thankfully his response was much along the lines of my thought process. “Of course we can. Don’t be ridiculous; it’s legal tender,” he said. The girl went on to explain that the café had had trouble getting their local bank to accept the Scottish notes. Pfff. This is not the first time Scottish money has come under scrutiny in my presence and it really infuriates me every time.
Last week, I was bopping about London after a field study and I discovered my new favourite shop: Stanfords. This shop specialises in maps and travel books which, if you know anything about me, you will understand basically equals the dream. I was extremely excited to find my ideal map of Europe, with every country name written in the language of that country. This is awesome, I thought. I carefully pulled out the map from its container only to be confronted with the worst possible error. There was no Scotland. The top of the map stopped at the north of England, as if Scotland didn’t exist at all. In my fury (not really) I stuffed (carefully edged) the map back into its container. Not cool, Stanfords, not cool.
These are little things, I know, but they are things that repeatedly occur and niggle at our sense of national pride. But to be quite honest, I’d probably get over it; just give me some Irn Bru.
some of the burns classics
Cat Mac in the Castle 