I AM indebted to reader Stewart Herring for providing me with a reason to appreciate Robert Burns.
"God help the teacher, if a man of sensibility and genius, and such is my friend Clarke, when a booby father presents him with his booby son, and insists on lighting up the rays of science in a fellow's head whose skull is impervious and inaccessible
by any other way than a positive fracture with a cudgel…"
While I empathise with Burns's respect for the teaching profession, I don't share his nationalism. I've never worn a kilt: it doesn't appeal to me, even if it's only for a few hours at a kitsch Scottish wedding reception in the local miners' welfare club. As a fervent internationalist, it saddens me when I see a Jimmy Shand wannabe wearing a hire kilt like a patriotic badge of honour, his sgian-dubh at the ready to chib anyone who laughs at his knobbly knees.
The Scottish Government is celebrating the 250th anniversary of the bard's birth as part of its Homecoming Scotland initiative to boost tourism (Nessie is hardly a must-see attraction). Methinks the collapse of sterling against the euro will inspire more overseas visitors to our lochs and glens than any snippets of "sentimental doggerel" (© Jeremy Paxman 2008).
Doubtless, schools will join in, perhaps by translating Burns so that Weegies like yours truly can understand his verse. I'm sure the good folk of Garnock, Patna and similar outposts of human settlement in Ayrshire fully comprehend Burns poetry; indeed, at a political level, Labour's Cathy Jamieson does her utmost to keep the couthy language of Rabbie alive. But for many of us, his sonnets are well-nigh unintelligible unless there is a glossary in the margin or a bilingual resident of Cumnock close at hand.
I recall the stout efforts of my teacher of English, Mr Lynas, to bring the mirth of Tam o' Shanter to his teenage charges. Reading aloud, he would laugh and smile, not missing a beat, as we stared at him blankly. Holy Wullie's Prayer did momentarily excite our interest, as we had been forewarned by Sir that it contained a reference to sexual intercourse. Alas, the glimpse into the world of erotic prose was as fleeting as Sharon Stone's cross-legged scene in Basic Instinct.
Psychoanalysis would reveal that my indifference to Burns has its roots in a primary school day-trip to Butlins. I was as high as a kite as the bus hurtled down the A77 to the Heads of Ayr, home to Alba's ramshackle version of Disneyland. Tragedy struck when a thunderstorm broke, causing the teachers to abandon a rain-sodden day of tramping around Butlins in favour visiting Alloway Cottage. Instead of bumping dodgems and riding the ghost train, we were dragged round a thatched-roof hovel and told to appreciate the hearth, the iron kettle and a rustic lantern.
In hindsight, all my school's efforts to instil a sense of Scottish identity failed, most notably the singing of the Mingulay Boat Song. To enhance the ambience, our music teacher had us act out the lyrics, rowing in unison as we made our way through the Minch to Mingulay. Later, as I climbed the stairs to my tenement flat in Easterhouse, I reflected on how my reality had nothing in common with Hebridean puffin-munchers.
Being a non-nationalist means I am not upset that Prestwick Airport has for its slogan "Pure Dead Brilliant", rather than "For Auld Lang Syne". The owners of the airport received negative publicity for resisting the clamour to rename it Burns International. Had they acquiesced, doubtless some dullard kids would have thought it was a specialist unit for victims of arson attacks.
