Lost in Translation

Judging fae a' yon comments on PeePee's post, folks is haein an affa time makkin oot fit I wis bleeterin on aboot.

Weel on Friday nicht I wis oot in een o' yon hoolivans wi' 3 ither loons and een quine in Toytoon's toon sinter. Noo, in true profeshnel mannir we a' thocht it wid be richt guid if we renamed oorsels the Trotters.

Bein the auld mannie it wis my jobbie to tak on the mantle o' Uncle Albert, the Speshel, bein as she's a wimmin, was Marlene, the new loon wis Boysie, the young een wis Rodney an' the stripey wis Del Boy.

Yiv ken it's fair set fer a lang nicht fan yon maun is fool an' the nichts short in these pairts, bit it disnae help fan the Spesh says, "Ken is, it's affa QUIET." Chorus o' firstly, "Nooooooooooo!" followed by (in best Boysie spik), "Marlene, get your handbag, you're leaving."

Trawlin the toon sinter o' Toytown, the Trotters turn doon a een wiy laney doon the side o' a kirk an' fit shid they keek there? There's this quine squattin doon, breeks and keks aroon her enkles haein a number een. Mind 'is taks place next to God's hoosie. A bonnie sicht it wisnae. Marlene and Boysie gets oot the Transit like scaulded futrets an' remonstrate wi' the quine. The rest o' us tak bets on far she bides in toon. We settle on een cooncil estate an' I wander across to the quine an' ask. "Far div yi bide?" "Northfield" she says. I walk back to the motor, leevin Marlene an' Boysie open mooed and report back to Del Boy an' Rodney wi a "Close, bit nae cigar." The quine wis geein a flee in her lug an' sent on her way and reminded o' God's wrath. Marlene an' Boysie ask, "Fit wis a' that aboot Uncle? Yiv jist cam o'er and asks far she bided an' en walked off." Explanations made an' abidy wis happy.

Eftir a few wee scuffles, we drive doon a cobbled street wi pubs and clubs doon each side an' a puckle o' chippies an' kebab hoosies. Noo, the young eens wi a buckit foo think yon street is a pedestrian only laney. It's nae. Oot waddles this Michelin mannie in front o' oor mobile jail and the stripey shoots oot, "Watch the van min, you'll damage it ken." Windaes are shut, it wis jist for oor benefit. Onywiy MM walks doon the street and we follow makkin observations on 'is loons girth wi much mirth as he gings closer to een o' they chippers I telt yiv aboot. Bets are placed agen o'er if he'll go in. He gets nearer an' Rodney pipes up, "Go on. You know you want to." As he gings intae the shoppie there's a chorus fae the Trotters jist like fan the Huns goalie taks a goal kick at Pittodrie. Coorse I ken, but hey min, it wis a lang nicht.

Noo, up at the end o' yon street, there's a puckle o' Chinese asylum seekers and folk fae a' they newcomers to the EEC, sellin sinnel roses, flashy lichties an' the new craze fer cooboy hats. We are then stoppit by a glaikit Joe 90 lookalike stottin aboot a bittie who regales the stripey wi the famous, "I ken you're bizzy, bit can i ask you a queshun, hic." Stripey replies, "Are you capable?" "Aye min, i'm capabubblehh," the gifted een replies. He gings an tae enquire if yon street vendors shud hae a licence. Aye weel they shud really, bit at eftir 3 in the mornin yer nae gaunna chase them up. Joe 90 taks umbrage at 'is bit o' commin sense an tells the stripey, "Dis at mean I can ging up to yon folk an tell em 'Yer fuckin shit is bollocks'? Trotters dissolve intae hysterics and Joe 90 staggers off in a huff. Ferthir up a street we see anither soak wi a cooboy bunnet. We pull alangside an' enquire. "Have you lost summin? Soak is fair dumfoonert an looks aboot himsel. Trotters in chorus shout oot, "Far's yer horse?" Soak taks a minty, bit 'en' maks a fair impression o' Frankie Dettori as he gallops nagless up the street to chorus o' YeeHah or was it Yahoo (Toytown Polis 'in' joke)

It helps the nicht pass an' aff we went tae oor hames chucklin.

The public....we love you honest.

Regards,

Uncle Albert.

Jox Vox - Vol. 3

Time for a skirl fae the loon o'er the happenings up in yon pairts.

First off there's little 'n' large. Go on guess which one interests me more? Staying on topic, this is just plain daft. Where on earth are you going to get a Scotsman to pay 10K for a comparatively wee bottle? As it happens, Glenfiddich is one of the few drams I would turn down anyway. Not for me, even if I had a hotline to Derren Brown. However, this does interest me.

Meanwhile a local brewery has a novel approach to helping tackle the country's binge-drinking culture.

Linking on the theme of alcohol, I liked this crumbly's honesty.

Conversely, as an antedote, the following story jumped out at me and in my best Sun headline mode I decided on: Little Toads!

Apparently, Sir Terry Wogan has said, "I can't go back to Toy Town™." As folk up here would say, "You big Jessie."

It's now official, a heap of money has been lost in translation. Teaching English is not going to help when our visitors are confronted with the Doric!

..... and finally a word or two about our apparently shrinking ovine friends.

I started off this post whining about being fleeced, but there is only one winner in that category, especially as our roasting hot summer has done for a predecessor.

Dun.

© McNoddy
Published by Toy Town™ Times

Lost in Translation - Pairt Twa

There I wis loupin aboot on my 7am shift a' day on Friday. Ahbudee wis chavvin awa gi'en 'at ers naebidy an till the next yokin time at 5pm.

Weel, yiv jist ken 'at there's aywiz gonna be a shout 'at will keep you ower your lousin time an' sure enough 'ats fit happind.

"Noddy, fit like loon" asks the controller. "Wid ye mind affie bit there's a bittie of a stooshie doon at Sainsburys. Ging doon and see if yiv can sort oot twa Eastern Europeans, a mannie an' a wifie, 'at hae taen a barra foo o' shoppin wi oot payin'."

Hearin 'is a ma freens are on the radio pint ta pintin' me and offering virtual bosies an' bein' nickum. Weel their lugs were fair derlin fae ma responses.

Aff we ging doon the shoppie an' huckle the twa using oor best Doric twang tae scunner them fan, as usual, they baith assure us they cannae spik English.

They wis baith rigget oot in cheap black leather jackets. They must issue 'em at birth o'er there.

The quine began to greet and say it wis a' a mistake. Aye, aye.

Onywiy, we get them back to the stashun an' en stairt trying to get an interpreter. Fit a' stooshie wi had. Div you ken far the nearest bides? Weel losh bihere.... Galashiels. That's nearly in Sassenach Land. Could they kindly come up and assist. Nae chance. We were dumfoonert. Fit tae dae noo then?

Tae cut a lang blether short, we muddled through wi' Language Line an' eventually finished up.... at midnight. Seventeen 'oors, coont 'em. I needed tae get hame and don my baffies. We were baith fair forfechan and ready to hae a buckit. Yiv ken 'at wis a sair chaave!

Aye min, Boysie fair picked a guid day tae be aff.

p.s. You'll be glad to know I speak English. I learnt it from a book!

© Mr Plod
Published by Toy Town™ Times

Lost in Translation - innit?

Wotcha,

Jist every so aften I scribble doon a few lines in the Doric. 'At' s fit Toytooners spik, min.

It seems some folk cannae get a grip o' fit a' these new folk fae the continent are yappin on aboot.

Well, it seems that even the natives fae the southside of the Smoke cannae get themselves understood either.

© Noddy
Published by Toy Town™ Times