The Scottish Exodus

An Accidental Afternoon, or Because We Missed Our Train to Glasgow

7 October 2000
Merchant City, Glasgow

The dominos game at the Royal Oak Hotel Bar in Lanark was getting out of hand.

The youngest of the three blokes was rather upset at what he perceived as cheating by the older two, particularly the older and more dwarven gent in front of him. It seems there is such a concept as strategy in dominos that the youngest chap did not understand (it is much like a simple card game, according to McCabe, in that you can keep track of what is still in play because of the set number of pieces).

They rattled on at each other in that unmistakable Scottish brogue, bellowed ‘fooks’ and ‘shites’ the only distinguishable words to my ears. Oh yes, and the occasional middle finger to punctuate a particularly emphatic slur. The youngest, probably my age with flat pudgy features and a medium-sized gut, suddenly threw down his dominos and walked to the bar, cursing and ranting at the oldest dwarf the whole time.

That old dwarven man, drunk and incomprehensible, never let up. Andrea said later at the Lanark train station (more like a concrete platform outside by some tracks) that some of his jibes were pretty damn funny (such as ‘ya cannae beat me inna fight, boy; yuir still in yuir nappies. By th’ time you cahn take me inna fight, I’ll be dead.’). However, she can understand the natives better than I can, so I’ll take her word for it.

Events quickly escalated from there. The dwarven man slammed his whiskey (scotch, of course) down on a table, splashing it everywhere, and strode up to the youngest. They started shouting back and forth, with fingers poking in faces and protruding stomachs knocking. At one point, the dwarven man pulled his coat down around his arms, pinning them to his side, and challenged the youngest to get in the first punch.

The Scottish barmaid, always polite, screamed at them to sit down and shut up or she’d show them the door, at which point the dwarven man stormed outside with the youngest, presumably to do battle in the ancient ways with claymores and no underwear. Andrea, McCabe, and I all exchanged looks. My only thought at the time, honest to God, was “Wow, Andrea’s going to get to see her first bar fight.”

The other chap sat by the entire time fiddling with the dominos, sipping his lager, and watching with a bemused look. He noticed our astonished faces and leaned across his table. Imagine the thickest brogue you can and a wide, toothy sailor’s grin.

“Don’t mind ‘em. They’re father and son. They won’t come back with a bruise on ‘em.”

Sure enough, the dwarven man suddenly waddled in without a mark and sat back down on his stool by the domino table. The older gents muttered to themselves for a bit while the youngest, who had also returned unmarked, muttered to himself at the bar. Suddenly they caught us looking at them again. The dwarven man turned to Andrea and complimented her on her beauty and facial structure (I guess. . .who really knows what he said about her forehead anyway). Then they turned to McCabe and I. I’ll try and give you the clearest and most accurate translation I can.

Toothy man: “Wanna fight?”

Dwarven man: “Yeah, wanna fight?”

McCabe, dipping his eyes slightly as a sign of deference to a more powerful Alpha male, a useful tactic when dealing with drunken bar patrons: “No, that’s okay.”

Toothy man: “C’mon, we’ll give ya a fighting chance.”

Dwarven man: “Yeah, he’ll fight ya and I’ll be runnin’.”

And we all gave a collective sigh of relief. Before long, McCabe was playing dominos, with Andrea’s help (as he’d never played before).

Dwarven man: “So’s whereabouts do ye come? Denmark? Sweden?”

McCabe: “No, the States. The United States.

That, of course, elicited a loud and bemused round of ahhs and oohs from the blokes. Never fails, it does. I’m surprised they didn’t ask us if we’d been to Hollywood.

McCabe survived the first round but lost in the "finals." We soon exchanged pleasant goodbyes with the chaps and left the Royal Oak Hotel Bar, with its soiled bench cushions and disco jukebox, in the past; we had a train to catch to Glasgow.

---drew, of course all Scottish villages aren’t the same. . .

Copyright ©Andrew D. Devenney, 2009, all rights reserved.