Thursday, April 24, 2008

Fine Literary Debate in the Tartan Bunnet

Shunning my usual custom of weekday abstinence from alcohol, I spend the evening in the courtyard of The Tartan Bunnet which is fast accruing the reputation of being Drumsleet’s premier literary salon, a magnet for writers and artists and those who enjoy the cut and thrust of well informed and exquisitely presented debate. In the Bunnet a man may relax among his intellectual peers while sipping from a pint glass of Arran Sweater Premium Budget House Whisky and listening, between porky scratchings, to the soft peal of bells from St Graffiti’s, summoning the faithful from across the river to evensong.

Present on this occasion is Theosyphillis Neill, holder of the Drumsleet Tattie Scone patent, Tesco Willie, First Gulf War veteran, Dean o ’Jones, Green Spokesman for the Galloway Independence Party, and, notably, MacDuff, ex-marine and prototype for the first Territorial Army Cyborg Killing Machine. MacDuff is in fine form, having spent the afternoon in the company of Theosyphillis Neill on a bus tour of some of Galloway’s finest herbal allotments.

The rapier like badinage begins almost at once. “Order, Order” shouts MacDuff, jabbing a finger at Tesco Willie, “What *****ing age are you ******ing meant to be anyway, you ****? How could you have ******ing fought in the First ******ing Gulf War? You’re only 19, you *****ing lying *****

This is the penetrating and passionate analysis that has resulted in the Bunnet being listed on the net as one of the ‘Top 10,000 places to be in Scotland on a Rainy Sunday Night.’
MacDuff drains his tumbler then addresses the table with a knowing sneer.

“What’s the population of Scotland?”

“5 million?” Theosyphillis tentatively suggests.

“5 *****ing mullion?” roars MacDuff, You fat dozy ****** Any ******er knows the *******ing population of Scotland is ******5.12 million!”

I sip from my Dubonnet aware that I am listening to one of the Bunnet’s finest verbal jousts, comparable only, perhaps, to the rarified flyting between MacDiarmid and MacCaig in the ‘Little Kremlin’ in Edinburgh 50 years ago.

“What’s the gaelic for Clatteringshaws?” asks MacDuff grimly.

Neill shrugs.

“You pathetic ******er” screams MacDuff, pounding the table, “You ignorant *******ing twat. Call yourself ***ing Scottish? You ****ing piece of ****ing ***** To think I died for ******s like you!”

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