The DRINKARD's Aberdoniensus
The Combined Technical Jargon of Bev
These are all words and phrase which we have picked up from researches into the Scottish-Aberdonian way of speaking. We are three American students from New York who are in Scotland because of the unique words which they use here, and the Peter Burnett Website has let us publish what we have collected so far.
We hope that you enjoy the words and that you send us more if you hear any while you are in Aberdeen!
From The Golden Bough:
"In some parts of Amboyna, when the state of the clove plantations indicate that the crop is likely to be scanty, the men go naked to the plantations by night, and there seek to fertilise the trees precisely as they would impregnate women, while at the same time they call out for "More Cloves!" This is supposed to make the trees bear more fruit."
Which explains no doubt the desperate, guttural cries of "More Lambs!" heard throughout the Spring in Scotland.
More at Gimcrack Hospital
King James I and VI, advice to smokers. King James Ist and 6th, for he was famously and simultaneously both — was King of Scotland as James VI from July 1567 and King of England and Ireland as James I from the union of the English and Scottish crowns on 24 March 1603 until his death.
As well as being the first big Unionist on the scene (#indyref) the King was a keen writer, and among other things, now described by academics and critics as 'minor prose works', wrote what we would now call an essay, titled A COUNTERBLASTE TO TOBACCO.
The kingdoms of England and Scotland were individual sovereign states in those days, with their own parliaments, judiciary, and laws, though both were ruled by James in personal union. I can't work it out either, although his stance on tobacco was clear.
Supermodulated information can be put into the brain at varying intensities from subliminal to perceptible. Each person's brain has a unique set of bioelectric resonance/entrainment frequencies. Sending audio information to a person's brain at the frequency of another person's auditory cortex would result in that audio information not being perceived. A 1994 congressional hearing reported that nearly half a million Americans were subjected to some kind of cold war era tests, often without being informed and without their consent. In addition, experimentation law is well grounded in constitutional and international law. It is an under-reported fact that two major reports on human rights and torture in the U.S. recently listed illegal radiation experiments. Many more facts are documented below. Therefore, human research subject protections should be a high priority and are just as significant as current issues of torture and illegal wiretapping. It is time for people to protect the Whistleblowers who are our last line of defense against dictatorship and despotism. It is time for people to take responsibility for oversight of our tax payments. There is no Special Access Program beyond the oversight of political leaders elected by the people and for the people. That is the true definition of Communism and a Police State, no oversight. So fellow World Dwellers, you may hem and haw in the face of truth but know that one day you will realize that your planet has been USURPED from the very people from whom it was intended; you.
After the Celts and the Anglo-Saxons were forced into Christianity, the sacrifice of animals was frowned upon and discouraged. What did carry on however was people’s adoption of skins and horns, yet one more diversion which bugged the early church fathers, even as far back as St Augustine’s time:
'If you ever hear anyone carrying out that most filthy practice of dressing up like a horse or stag, chastise him most severely,' he said.
This custom derives from sympathetic magic, which is a kind of intimate communication with the natural world, and appears to have carried on as an aspect of Celtic life. The very last surviving relic of Celtic horse magic is found in hill figures, however, long after people stopped adopting their skins and heads. Another surviving aspects are horse effigies, which are paraded through towns, sometimes known as an Oss. The oss is accompanied by a man with a club called a Teazer, and his name suggests he teases the horse under and about its body with his club.
Some of these rites, or part of them at least were assimilated into Christianity, and St George absorbed many of the qualities of then horse god, and horses were even sacrificed to him. And the Christian knights became riders of white steeds — as readily as other aspects were soaked up into Christianity — such as the brazen sun-disc and the festival of Christmas.
The horse as a pagan symbol was steadily unseated, and mounted by St George, St Margaret and St Michael, and the horse’s spectral association with both the apocalypse and the underworld — at least to Christians — was forgotten.
Falling asleep, and cortical vigilance doesn't fall at a uniform rate, it shifts up and down, tending to becoming lower in steps. Alpha rhythms rise in bursts but less often and with longer periods of slow waves, and little by little ideas escape us. In intervals we return to attention realising that we've just had some weird thoughts about something that weren't even related to the thoughts previous to them, and we feel we are talking inwardly to ourselves and that we've just said something that doesn't make sense, or is a made up word or phrase. The voice is accompanied by an equally unfamiliar but striking display of visual imagination. Faces are common, sometimes moving. Abstract forms, patterns, nature scenes, becoming more complex, until they are brought to an abrupt end . . .
The be-an-adult-agony of the week is over, and I can sit and write without the dump-danger of being bagged-up as obsolete, useless or irretrievably damaged (although I am all three, and proud in my exemplary failure) booted and bunged into the local incinerator. Too many unwholly necessary working tasks from my employer, and the need for a cleansing storm overwhelming the senses. Selfish? Oh yes, and so full of ugly pity, witless rage and futile sympathy for my situation, that the coming-home-to-the-self seems the only rational thing to do - the only other alternative is random ranting on Facebook . . .
ROYAL OPERA HOUSE
67 seats in a row
Box Office : 0121 POOP
Ballet plus Swalley
LES RENDEVOUS DES FRITES
Wed (last perv) 7.30
LA FETE DE SWEAT
Tue (Last perv)
First UK Performance of
GARY SINISE in
SHITEY DAYS OF BEVVY
“Don’t miss the pan when peeing at the interval” TIMES
Thurs (First perv) 6.30
Petrus Bonus, author of The New Pearl of Great Price, wrote about 1330, that "God would become man on the Last Day of this art, when the work is accomplished…. Now, since no creature except man can unite with God, on account of their dissimilarity, God must needs become one with man." Could do with him about, Petrus Bonus. I could have done with him during my kidnapping. The two of us would have made a spiffing brace of doppelgangers, double Peters, all the Petrocs. I would have done the brutal stuff (Pete) and he would have explained the above passage.
The brief spell David Balfour spends on Erraid is one of the most evocative in all of Stevenson, I think so. The chapter titled ‘The Islet’ is a Treasure Island in miniature; it is the ghastly pain of Jekyll and Hyde; it’s even its own travelogue. David Balfour, soaking, and becoming more wet and exhausted by the minute, living off mussels, some of which go down well, some of which make him vomit - he never knows which, and the isolation - all are stunning drama.
‘The Islet’ begins with these words: ‘With my stepping ashore I began the most unhappy part of my adventures’; and ends with these words, some of the best in the book: ‘I have seen wicked men and fools, a great many of both; and I believe they both get paid in the end; but the fools first.’
Only the first BBC version of Kidnapped makes an attempt to portray the Erraid set piece on film. The 1960 film replaces it with a mean Scots persona created by Duncan Macrae. In RLS’ Kidnapped, this character which appears in the chapter ‘Through the Isle of Mull’ is the impudent Gaelic cheat that attempts to guide Davie.
To say that language in art and letters have been stunted is very true. It’s not that there’s a lack of eyes to look at pictures, and not that there’s a surfeit of people talking about them, or people reading books, but there is now a self-consciousness which demands improvement on a weekly basis.
When in conversation, one notes that one must say not simply what one feels, but what one considers to be brighter than what has come before. It’s a constant fight out there. A competition is raging, and it’s adjudicated by people who think the brain is for the rational snapping of the jaw, and that ideas are for dissection. The fact is that speech is the ideal that shows us what we are.
All of this, I became skilful at avoiding, but only through the indulgent twisting up of words — I called it my writing! Liska was naturally never a part of it. She couldn’t have taken a part if she had wanted to, she could never produce any of that verbal twat that makes our civilisation as arid as it is.
Liska’s work defied criticism because she defied viewers. Artistically, she and I are the end of the process. We are both speculators, and we both lack ideas. In our work, there are no concepts, just as there is nothing high and nothing guarded. She paints and I write, and these are the ends in themselves. It is as if we couldn’t be bothered with anything, else, any of the shit and smack of the media, of sales, of having websites, twitter feeds, anything that made us a part of that grand, public popularity contest ....
This snippet concerns the origins of the Aikey Fair, or Aikey Brae Fair.
But on the event of the first Aikey fair, which must have been in the early 1800s, the tinker lady who brought her wares dropped them while crossing the Ugie, and laid them out on the grass to dry, thus offering the locals a chance to browse them. This led to the development of the fair as a venue for people to purchase trinkets, baskets, pegs and tinwares.
Hymn Number 32 :
Grace Upon the Lord of Christmas
Grace upon the lord of Christmas,
Blessings on his head we heap
Harvest time is over people
Winter's crop we yearly reap.
Find a way to Season's wishes
Turkey breast and bacon dishes.
Jesus wept to see the Christians,
Fight like they were foreign strangers,
Christmas barneys in the city
Parkhead : Celtic, Ibrox : Rangers
Papistry is throwing bottles
Holds the neck he gently throttles.
Festive longings we are feeling,
Underneath the Christmas Star,
What a wonder is the Christ-child
Baby Jesus Motor Car
Driving you I feel much bolder
Satan's children : the hard shoulder.
Christmas wishes we are sending
To our brethren round the earth.
Turkey cake and dumpling Mary
Four pound fifty's what it's worth
Blessings on the Virgin Mary
Shave your children, they are hairy.
Yes that was Peter Burnett. Including recent problems in publication and remorse this moo based website has made my Peter soggy. He's sorry. Heard one sermon too many and ended up feeling foggy. I'm bored with time and choosing my next word. 'Oatcake' is not in the Microsoft spell-checker so why should I not try and make computing better? Poor education means damn there goes another kid. Hence : I've given up on copyright. Look at your cancer. You don't need a specialist answer. I came to bring it and I brought it. Nobody will reply to my telescopic type topics cause my argument's too simple. Your argument is complex but I squeeze it and it bleeds like a red pimple. My trips to Inverness locked it and a further ninety-seven times I went to Fraserburgh, my teachers spoke shit but I blocked it, now a grown man, I proved it, I superseded their average line and I blew it, I combine a scholar with a shock caller, I still want to convert my poetry to pounds and dollars, but typically speaking, I BAKE like a Mohican, I'm not writing like they say for myself but for flip's sake writing for someone else. Now don't that make a change? Not to hate? I'm drunk enough to stay up late, drunker in my stature than a bull, but not drunk enough to catch you if you fall. I don't need to count my friends cause we're still starving artists, that's starving not hungry. I want to see the whole of Africa come and live in this country. I'd get out of bed for that. I can still spit out enough to end a four year drought, with my first line outs, and my second line shouts it out again. Written words of mouth flowing til my ink cartridge runs out. In the meantime I got Scots slang teachers and human internet creatures, broken pencils and scribble pad poets, dudes equipped with routers and dial tones, pimping mobile phones, none of that shit features, not in any advanced society. I'm obliged to live as I can be, that is to the same tune that could be a symphony. I mean to say : look at what the bastard petty Bourgeoisie did to me!
Marcel Duchamp's Three Great Putative Gestures were:
1. Adding a moustache and beard to the Mona Lisa in L.H.O.O.Q (1919);
2. Bottling Paris air (1919);
3. The creation with Man Ray's help of his artistic alter-ego, Rrose Selavy (1920 and 1921), who featured on an empty perfume bottle, whose purpose was to provide a bottled version of the artist.