I was at the wedding reception for a friend from work tonight.
Coming home through town wearing a kilt drew some inevitable comments from local smart-asses, including “Hah, where are you from?”.
There’s a fair amount of irony in a Scottish person asking a fellow countryman where they’re from as a sort of insult given that they’re wearing their shared national dress.
A couple of other sardonic remarks led me to think about conversations I’ve had in the past about Scottish ‘racism’ against English people, with the all-out derogatory comments that have been made towards them. Thing is, these morons that make such statements aren’t representative of Scotland.
The same idiots who have an aggressive problem with English people are the very same that treat fellow Scottish people with contempt based on how they look, or dress, or speak… or any other trivial reason they find. Proper, normal, decent Scots have no problem or inherrent racism against English people. There are genuine and legitimate issues with the formal administration and ingrained imperialistic attitudes of both people and the media, but nothing that would alter the way that people treat others.
The point is simple. Those Scots who are blindly aggressive and racist towards the English purely based on their race are the same who shout abuse at their own people for the most trivial of reasons. They don’t deserve to call themselves Scottish, and frankly, most English people are more Scottish than them in that regard. In short, they’re basically just arseholes worth little consideration.
That aside, I managed to mix up Pollokshaws and Pollokshields on the train. It might sound stupid to those that are local to the south side, but when the departure board in Glasgow Central only shows “Polloksh… W”, then it’s easy to get confused. As a result, I managed to turn up about an hour late.
Stylishly so, I should think.
There’s not much else to add. Words can often be superflous to such occasions. The part of the night I was able to share in was nice. Brian was on top form and bride Fi looked even more gorgeous than normal. After a few bottles of wine I even managed to crack out the camera and get some sly pictures without the pressure that I’ve come to be used to at weddings.
There’s no photos of me in my kilt though I’m afraid ladies.
Maybe next time.