Reply With QuoteThere's a whole book of these stories
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Morrice-But.../dp/095433650X
Hall Of Fame
Ach, why nae?Originally Posted by blowupsheep
Quality stuff, ony mare?
I wis engrossed in the Channel 4 racin fae Newton Abbot yesterday, when morrice the butcher’s brither came into the Torry Bar, bocht us baith a pint and then splootered aboot half o’t on the sawdust and tabby-encrusted bar fleer as he burst intae an uncontrollable fit o gigglin.
“For fox ache, morrice the butcher’s brither min,” girned Jocky fae ahin the bar, “Mind far ye’re splooterin yer beer. I only swept that ****in fleer last week and I’m nae deein it again”.
I wis shocked as weel, for morrice the butcher’s brither is curmudgeonly by repute. He has studied at the feet o the greats – WC Fields (or Pish-Hoose Meadows as we used to ca him when we were loons), the mannie that used to work ahin the desk at The King’s Pavilion sweemin pool and his big TV hero, the Punch and Judy boy oot o Hi De Hi fa detested kids and wis the grumpiest aul cratur I can mind on.
Tae tell ye the truth, I wisna ower enamoured wi life masel, nae doot influenced by the behaviour and performance o some o the coal mannie’s cuddies reputed to be thoroughbred racehorses that had seen a considerable proportion o my hard-earned siller find its wye intae Bobby Morrison, the bookie’s hipper. I wis eence stoppit by a wifie wi a clipboard ootside Jimmy Wilson’s pub in Market Street, and she asked me, as part o her System Three-commissioned market (street) research fit my views on charitable donations were. mrs blin answered on my behalf afore I could comment, “He gies a lot o his siller tae seeck animals, except he disna ken they’re seeck until he sees the racin results in The Green Final”, An affa cynical woman whilies, is mrs blin.
Onywye, sic an outburst o overt joy fae morrice the butcher’s brither is an affa rarity. The last time I heard him laugh as heartily as that wis the day Hearts lost the League in 1986. He worships at the High Germanic Kirk o Schadenfreude dis morrice the butcher’s brither.
“Fit’s the joke then, morrice the butcher’s brither? Has Laidlaw’s been prosecuted for sellin underweight bags o carrots or Cain’s been lifted for pittin ower muckle preservative in their inferior mealy jimmies? It must be somethin big for you to laugh like that,“ I spiered o him.
My query merely set him aff again, and there were tears in his een which he wiped awa wi a snottery hanky when he eventually calmed doon,and revealed the reason behind his uncharacteristic mirth.
“I wis in the back shoppie afore dennertime. My brither, morrice the butcher, wis awa hame haein his potted heid and that impident young quine wis servin ahin the coonter. Jim the Jute wis in the shop and I overheard the conversation she had wi the boy.” And wi that he took a sip o his export and gave anither short giggle.
“Ye ken Jim the Jute. Moved up here fae Dundee and bocht a flat in Menzies Road when he got a job affshore wi Santa Fe. Regular customer o oors for years noo, except when the Dons have gien Dundee United anither mither and faither o a thrashin and we dinna see him for weeks.” I nodded my assent. I wis weel aware o Jim and his strange angle on life and fitba.
morrice the butcher’s brither went on, “Weel, the impident quine looked at a’thing Jim the Jute had ordered. There wis a single mealy jimmy. A single steak pie. Twa carrots. Ae bakin tattie. A quarter pun o beef mince and fower pork sassidges. She lookit at his meagre set o purchases and said, ‘Ye’re nae merried, are ye?’ ‘No, eh’m nae,’ he replied in that affa funny accent he’s aye got, ‘Whit wye dae ye ken?’ ‘Because you’re a richt ugly *******’, said the quine, nae blinkin an eyelid.
“Now, I’ve nivver been on a customer care course, but I ken fine that’s nae wye to treat a customer, and I came through and scolded her. ‘Quine,’ I said, ‘That’s nae wye tae address a customer. Ye should aye gie them their richtful status at the end o a butcherly transaction. Fae noo on, ye’ll hae to address customers as ‘min’ or ‘wifie’, so you should have said, ‘Because ye’re a richt ugly *******, min.’ Gie the quine her due, she realised her mistake and apologised to me, and said that she wid be affa grateful if I didna mention her retail politeness faux pas to my brither, morrice the butcher.
“Onywye, Jim the Jute seemed to be a bit doon in the moo, although if I supported a team wi Alex Smith as manager, I’d have thrown masel aff the Suspension Brig by noo, so I spiered him ben the back shoppie for a cup o tae and a syrup saftie.
“Ben he came and he perked up a bittie, for such is the therapeutic effect o an Aitken’s saftie liberally spread wi finest Tate and Lyle’s. And afore lang, he telt me why he wis sae depressed, apart fae his regret that he chose his fitba team lang ago athoot walkin the full length o the coonter.
“Blin, min, it seems the boy has had affa trouble doon below”. morrice the butcher’s brither broke off for a moment to affirm to the barman that he wid hae anither pint and that I wid pit up the siller for it, then he continued, “Jim the Jute went to the doctor efter he came back onshore last week, so worried wis he aboot the condition o his meagre genitalia.
“He sat doon in the surgery, and efter a conversation wi the doctor aboot the absolute necessity o haein a higher rate o taxation to fund a free at the pint o delivery NHS, includin prescriptions, the doctor spiered, ‘Well, Mr Jute, I’m sure you’re not here merely to debate the fragile state of our underfunded welfare state, and alternative means of providing the real resources required to bring it back to tolerable standards, how may I be of assistance?’
“Jim the Jute wis fair embarrassed. Near as embarrassed as he wis when the Dons humpit Dundee United fower nothing this season, ye mind the nicht that we endit up break-duncin on the tables in The Cragshannoch? So he said to the doctor, ‘Eh’d better show ye doctor’ and he took his tadger oot, or raither took doon his dra’ers and let it hing since takin it oot wid have been difficult sic a wee sharger o an apology o a pogerin stick it wis. Apparently blin, it wis as orange as Davie Narey’s sark. Wi the bit hair roon aboot it, and fae the right angle it looked like Johnny Neeskens in the Dutch team in the 1974 World Cup.
“The doctor wis puzzled and, jist in case, pulled on an extra pair o latex gloves, but still widna touch it. He rolled it ower een o thon lolly stick things he uses on yer tongue when he looks at yer throat, and I hope that he uses a new een next time I’ve got a sair throat”. morrice the butcher’s brither looked alarmed for a minute at the thought, but continued, “The doctor then started to whittle doon the reasons for the odd hue o Jim the Jute’s tangerine-tainted tadger.
“He spiered, ‘ Have you changed your diet recently, Mr Jute?’ Jim the Jute replied in the negative, explainin that he wis weel-nourished on a diet o Aitkens’ fine bakery products, and morrice the butcher’s potted heid, sassidges, frilly tripe and diploma-winnin mealy jimmies, as weel as the royal repasts he enjoyed affshore. ‘Have you suffered any other symptoms, then? Any change in your urinary habits?’ Jim the Jute explained that the only time his pishin habits changed wis when he wis in the boozer wi us lads and had sunk mair than fower pints and his desire to ging to the lavvie increased exponentially.
“The doctor then tried anither tack, ‘Er, what about ***, Mr Jute? Have you had casual intercourse with any man or woman recently, whose ***ual history you may not be aware of and who may have passed on some exotic uro-genitary lurgy to you?’ Jim the Jute explained that although he wis nivver sure far Forfar Meg had been, she aye had a wash afore he ivver did the business wi her, but in fact that his last such dalliance had been ower a year ago, since she’d gone upmarket and wis now a table duncer at The Broadsword Gentlemen’s Club in Tillydrone.
“The doctor wis getting mair and mair puzzled. ‘How about hobbies, Mr Jute? Do you have any hobbies which may cause your hands to impart some chemical to your genitatlia when you urinate? I have seen examples of men who pick up undetectable dye from, say, golf balls which have rolled along a weedkiller-treated fairway, and have had an effect on more sensitive parts of the body. Do you think that’s a possibility?’
“Jim the Jute replied that he didna hae ony hobbies, and that he wis affa worried aboot the state o his tackle, and that he wis hopin that the doctor wid be able to help him, but it lookit like it wis a waste o baith their time. ‘No hobbies at all Mr Jute?’ enquired the doctor, ‘So what do you do with all your spare time?’
“Jim the Jute looked up and telt the doctor, ‘When eh come hame fae meh job affshore, eh sleep for twa or three days to re-acclimatise efter the North Sea shift pattern, then I get so bored that I spend maist o my time watchin the **** channel on Sky and eatin cheesy Wotsits’. “
And wi that, morrice the butcher’s brither went intae anither uncharacteristic spasm o laughter. Until I reminded him it wis his roon. Only then did he return to the grumpiness we’re mair accustomed till.
Hall Of Fame
There's a whole book of these stories
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Morrice-But.../dp/095433650X
Hall Of Fame
Pfffffft...
That was SO 2002.
Fluck Amazon and their tax-dodging.
Hall Of Fame
A lot better read than the other forum these days.
I only heard the term 'siller' being used the other day. Never heard it before. Does it just come from silver? Or is it something different all together?
Hall Of Fame
Aye, the etymology would point to its being a derivative of ‘silver’.
Loving that avatar, mondo!
Hall Of Fame
Vintage stuff (ken...)
Hall Of Fame
That’s all very well, young man, but fiddiyemean ‘stuff’?
Hall Of Fame
I have a signed copy..........aye signed by the great Neil Simpson, nae the radge o' an author.
Hall Of Fame
Ye ken..............................STUFF.
Hall Of Fame
North, sooth, east and west. Fower pints o the compass, but Aiberdeen disna seem to be divided that wye. But for the purposes o wir tale, ye’ll hae to imagine it.
In the sooth, is Torry, the very epicentre o the Universe, to far a’ roads lead, eventually. Some fowk in Torry have been accused o bein parochial. Nivver. But the Torryloon’s oft-repeated epithet, especially efter he’s been at the Guinness at The 19th Hole, that “they should nivver have built that ****in brig” is a sentiment shared by mony a citizen o that fair southern jewel.
In the north is the wasteland. Brigadon and Seaton and the University. I hinna been further along King Street than The Bobbin Mill since 1978. There’s nothing there. It’s a concrete jungle. And onywye, I’m owe a boy in Martin’s Bar a tenner, so I keep awa jist in case I run intae him and he minds on it.
Cities traditionally seem to be divided into East End and West End, and although nae ower muckle is made o the former, there are Aiberdonians that’ll tell ye that they’re proud tae be eastenders. I like the area o the toon they frequent. The Castlegate has some quality alehooses, and if ye want to go upmarket a bittie, The East Neuk and The King’s Bar are east end pubs as weel, and of course The Pittodrie Bar is a favourite haunt o hoors and radges when the Dons are at hame.
The West End, though, is alien territory tae me and that birn o outlaws and desperadoes that dog my every step. Toffee-nosed territory this, so it taks a lot for ony o us to heid intae Deliverance country. Beyond The Grill is a no-go area usually.
Usually. But at the end o last year, Johnny Norrie, Ernie Winchester, Bobby Bland, morrice the butcher’s brither and me had cause to heid ower that wye. Bobby Bland had lent a hunner poun to a boy fae Kerloch Place fa’s “landlady” (translation: stop-ower bidie-in that the boy’s wife disna ken aboot) has a flat on Great Western Road. It wis peyback time, and the boy suggested meetin for a pint in The Short Mile.
Now, prejudice and preconception are dangerous things. On wir wye ower, we were expectin this to be anither plastic west end theme bar, wi plastic fowk drinkin plastic lager oot o plastic glesses, but we were affa pleasantly surprised. It’s jist a pub. A bit mair upmarket nor we’re used till, of course. A TV wi Sky, and nae permanently tuned to the racin. Seats wi cushions. A tap on the lavvie sink that actually emits watter. A CD jukebox. Affa stylish. We thocht the carpet a bit ostentatious though, and morrice the butcher’s brither took ill wi it, for he’s nivver happier than when his feet are clarted in sawdust.
The Kerloch boy wis good company as weel, and we spent a pleasant evenin, musin that maybe we’d been unfair to the west end, although I’ve heard some affa horror stories aboot fit exists boozer-wise up in Albyn Place and Queens Road. Ae thing’s for sure, I’ve nae intention o findin oot if the rumours are true. Nae chunce.
The boy ahin the bar cried time, and afore lang we had hailed a taxi and were on wir wye back ower the watter, stoppin only at The Double 2, far there’s aye a chunce that the back door’ll be open, and a radge or twa will be in enjoyin some late hospitality. “Nips only,” is the watchword, and, “If the tarryhats come roon, ye’re a’ residents, a’richt?” The dearth o onything like a room for rent at the Doubler is a loophole to his excuse that the barman has yet to spot.
Aboot fower days later, I wis in morrice the butcher’s shoppie, purchasin mealy jimmies and morrice the butcher’s renowned pork sassidges, when morrice the butcher’s brither cried oot fae the back shoppie, “Come ben here, blin lemon min, ye radge, I’ve an affa tale to tell ye.”
So ben I went. morrice the butcher’s brither already had the kettle biled, and had twa steamin mugs o coffee waitin for us. I arrived jist in time to see him secrete the half-cutter o Watsons Rum ahin the back shoppie biler, and as seen as I tasted my brew I kent fine he’d slippit a sly dram in. Ye can aye rely on morrice the butcher’s brither for a surreptitious toppie-up when ye need it on a caul Torry December efterneen.
“You didna notice, did ye?” wis his openin gambit. I lookit hard at morrice the butcher’s brither, suspectin the aul feel had got bleezin in The Auld King’s Highway and endit up wi a tattoo or a nose ring or some ither sic cause for regret. “Maybe a wig?” I thocht, “Tae cover that affa baldy bit that’s spreadin on tap o his aul butcher’s brither’s heid,” but nae sign o onything o the kind, although the rumour is that Garstang Lil has a hairpiece. Or is it herpes?
morrice the butcher’s brither spied me lookin at him quizzically, but thocht nothing o it. “Ye didna notice, blin, that when we got the Joe Baxi hame fae wir outin tae the Wild West, that Ernie Winchester didna come hame wi us, did ye?”
I have tae admit that morrice the butcher’s brither wis richt. Strong drink had been imbibed and my powers o observation werena fit they micht have been, although I did detect a missin presence. That wid have explained it. Nae Ernie. [...continued]
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