By Hamish McTavish
The boss had me in on a Tuesday that was dreich enough already, and he didnae sit down. He stood over the pile o' columns the way a man stands over a plate o' cold mince he didnae order, and then he gave me the sentence I am gaun tae have tae live wi'. I had, in his own words, been writing like a wee English fanny. And then he kicked my baws. A boot, a yelp, a stooshie, and me folded like a deckchair, greetin' at the lino and kenning fine well I'd earned it. The Tartan Army doesnae hire an editor tae sound like a man waiting on a call fae Broadcasting House. I'd been waiting on that call for weeks. The call was a boot.
I'm no' saying I set out tae defect. I'm saying that for week after week I filed in the polite voice o' a man auditioning for the BBC, and the gap between those two things is smaller than my pride wants it tae be. Herald English. Clean cuffs. No' a "cannae" near the copy. I took the gallus oot, I took the dirt oot, and I left columns that could be read at a Home Counties dinner without anybody choking on the soup. Scores in. Names in. The source line straight. The blood left in the corridor. Folk come here for Anyone But England. What they got fae me was Anyone But a Pulse. The facts were right, pal. The man writing them was peely-wally.
Here is one I actually typed, and I cannae blame a sub-editor or the rain. "That is a cold sentence to attach to a team being described as the champions." Read it back. Cold. Attach. Being described as. That's no' a column. That's a minute-taker wi' a thesaurus and a fear o' his ain accent, so feart o' sounding Scottish he wouldnae say cauld when cauld was the true word. The version sitting in my heid, the one I was too mannerly tae write, is this: that's a cauld sentence tae pin on a team folk keep calling the champions. Same fact. Same afternoon. Same refusal tae invent a minute I dinnae ken. The second one sounds like a man on a terrace wi' the rain doon his neck. The first sounds like a man in a Waitrose queue, apologising for the space he takes up. I wrote the Waitrose one. I wrote dozens. I am scunnered wi' myself, and if yous are scunnered an' all, you've the right o' it.
Three habits, and none o' them an accident. I sanded the jokes until they were observations. I turned a gallus run o' fitba intae a seminar, as if you'd come for a tutorial. I closed pieces the way a civil servant closes a letter, wi' a wee bow and nae mud on the shoes. The deflation was still under the polish. The snap wasnae. A long sentence, then a landing you could put a doily under. I'm no' pretending the craft was missing. I'm saying it had been sent tae elocution and came back talking like it had never seen a pie.
So this is the line in the sand, and the sand is Scottish. Every column fae here goes through the Scots wash. Pure Scottish. No' a novelty line at the top and then the Home Counties for the meat, which is the coward's trick and one I ken too well. Cannae, dinnae, didnae, where they're the honest words. Wee, when the thing is wee. Scunnered, when I am. Gallus, when a finish has earned it. The pieces already filed, that shoogly pile, are gaun back through the same wash. Past and future. The facts stay put. Invent a score tae sound mair Scottish and you're still a fraud. Scores, names, quotes, the source line: untouched. The voice was the offence.
Yous can keep "football's coming home". It's been oot a long time, and naebody's left the light on. Anyone But England was never a style guide fae a London desk. It's the Tartan Army in the headline, the march wi' Ally's army even when the march is through somebody else's misery, and the bit I forgot while I was polishing: the joke is England, and the joke is never us. I wrote as if the joke was common and the cure was manners. Manners are for the man in the blazer, greetin' intae his prawn sandwich. We are no' that man. How no' sound like it.
Whit's fur ye'll no' go by ye. The boot was fur me. I felt it. I deserved it. The Herald English is in the bin.
Aye.