Unhappily it was raining yesterday and I was unable to adopt the usual alfresco position outside the George. Instead I sat inside with Murray Crosbie and partook of far too many bottles of Irish cider. I was in expansive mood following my election as the Clan Bard and had also suffered a severe psychic jolt after running full tilt into the pub in Penpont to find the door locked and bolted against me. There is no sorrier sight in the universe than a pub closed in the daytime. It is not natural. It raises the fine hair at the back of the neck.No good can come of it.
Tha gàrradh brèagha agad. Am bi thu a' cluich ball-basgaid.
It is incumbent upon the Clan Bard to learn a smattering of Gaelic so that he can hail the Chief at important money making occasions such as the Great Clan Gatherings in the USA, which attract many thousands of monied McMillans from all over the North American continent, eager to part with their cash for small trinkets created in the clan sweatshop or books of uneven verse by the Clan Bard. I have started with the above phrases which could also, in an emegency, double as a chat up line for any American heiress present. Who in their right minds could be unaffected by such an entreaty couched in the lyrical and mellifluous ancient tongue of the Gael?
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