Lowlands-L Members' Gallery
Lowlands-L : "My Lowlands" -- List members sharing their discoveries, ideas and feeling


Members' works
Mark Brooks
Sandy Fleming
Reinhard F. Hahn
Hannelore Hinz
Arthur A. Jones
Jakob Liek
Thomas Mc Rae
Tomás Ó Cárthaigh
Andrys Onsman
Wesley Parish
Pat Reynolds
Arend Victorie
Marsha Wilson

The Pin Wall



Short Prose
For Children




Offline Resources
Lowlands Shops
  · Canada
  · Deutschland
  · France
  · 日本 Japan
  · United Kingdom
  · United States
The Crypt
Language Tips
Members’ Links

Thomas Mc Rae
[To Thomas Mc Rae’s index]

Jimmy Goldie an The Three Baer Bruvvers

By Tomas Mc Rae, Brisbane, Queensland, Australia, © 2008

So Ye reckon him at the bar pu’in taps aff the boattles wi is teeth’s, a right hard man, di Ye? Lit me tell Ye: he’s nuthin at aw … Noo stey here! Dinnae Ye dare gang ower tae tell him whoat ah sed. Jist git me anither pint an ah’ll tell Ye aboot sum richt hard cases ah kent years ago.

Aye, the three Baer bruvvers wiz real keelies fur Ye, an the size o’ thum! Cload wiz richt big; Cyril wiz awfy big; but as fur Tummuphy thair wiz a muckle great shooge big fellie fur Ye. Hard! Ah’ll tell Ye hoo hard thae wur! They yaised tae wash thur faces in broken gless fura lauff, an they nivver yaised that Birleycream stuff oan thair hair. Naw, they didnae, jist gied the tap o thair heeds a belt wi a hauf brick tae mak the hair lie flat, an it did tae. It hud tae or thayed hae pu’d it oot in tufts.

Iz fur fechtin, that wiz thair hoabby. See hoo sum blokes coallect stamps an that? Weel, thay yaised tae cullect fechts aw ower the place. Thay wur that tuff they’d tak the Fitba Special tae Glesca fur Rangers an Celtic matches an belt hell oot o’ baith loats o’ supporters. They lived in a tainiment up at Cumly Bank whair they hung the scarfs o’ a the fitba supporters thay’d dun ower frae the stairs. (Huvven hailp onubuddy whae tried tae tak thum doon.).

Seein hoo thay wur eether at the Burrew, at the Bettin Shoap, oar oot fechtin thay didnae need much o a place tae stey, so aw thay hud wiz a room an kitchen wi three camp beds oan the flair. Thur wiz three siziz … a richt big yin fur Cload, an awfy big yin fur Cyril, an a muckle great shooge big yin fur Tummuphy. Nivver boathurd much aboot ither furnityoor. Nae table or that, an jist three boaxes tae sit oan … a richt big tea chaist fur Cload, an awfy big packin case fur Cyril, an a muckle great shooge thing thay’d pinched frae a coantainur ship fur Tummuphy.

Noo, ye’d nivver see oany o thum in a pub; the drink wisnae stroang enuff fur thum, Cload yaised tae drink methylated speerits wi a droap o lumanade added fur reefinemint; Cyril thoat that wiz poofy, sae he drunk his meths as it wiz, aw purple an aw; but muckle great shooge, big Timmuphy hud hiz ain creashin he cawed ‘Stairheed Dynamite’. Furst he poored hauf a boattle o lumanade doon the sink, thain he poored a wee tin o Brasso in wi whoat wiz left an toapped that up wi meths. E’en that wiznae strong enuff fur him, so he’d knoack aff the mantle oan the stair gas an bubble that through his mixture. Tuik a real he man tae smell the stuff, nivver mind drink it!

Thay nivver boathered much aboot fuid but aye hud three poats on munthe an tatties oan the stove. Course thur wiz a muckle grait shooge big poat fur Tummuphy; an awfy big yin fur Cyril, an a richt big poat fur Cload. Ah cun tell Ye it wiz an giganoarmuss big stove tap they hud tae!

Noo, yin moarnin thay aw went oot tae airn thur livin at the Burrew, nuvver shut the door; they’d burnt it up fur firewid lang ago an awbuddy else had moved oot o that tainiment when they moved in. The three Baers kent that naebuddy wi ony sainse wid go intae thair ruim an kitchen door or nae door.

Aye, but wee Jimmy Goaldie didnae huv oany sainse at aw. A richt jeeyuveneel dulleenquaint he wiz, wid pinch the sugar oot o yir tea if Ye didnae stir it fast eneugh. Thay’d pit him in that Doakter Guthrie’s hame fur bad boayz, but he wiz hardly in when he wiz oot the windae an awa again. Fur dayz he roamed the Toon roabbin shoaps, pinchin washing oaff claes lines an poanin it, an sleepin in shoap doorz. At lang last he goat tae Cumly Bank. He sniffed the air, “Oh Ah’m hungry, that’s munthe an tatties ah smell, whaur iz it.?” He foallied iz nose tae that tainimunt bildin, “Hey this luiks O.K. Great place fur a sqwoat, so it iz.”

In he went tae the stair, “Heh! Whoas’ aw thay fitba scarfs daein thair? Ah cun sell thum at the matches or tae Mr Aza Woazziez ragstore.” Jimmy cuid move quick an he suin hud aw thae scarfs tied up in a big bundle an stuffed doon unner the stairs. “Noo whairs that fuid?” he sed checkin oot the hooses. “The smell’s cummin frae that yin wi nae door. Is onybuddy thairrrr?” Course thur wiz nae ansur so in he went.

“My! Whoat a crummy dump o’ a place! It’s wurse than Doaktur Guthrie’s.” Intae the kutchen he went an foond the stove wi the three poats oan it. He grabbed a spuin an tried the stuff in the muckle great shooge poat. Took a big moothfie … “Ooooooch!” His mooth goat aw puwed in fur that stuff wiz richt saltie, telt Ye Tummuphy wiz hard.

Nixt he tried Cyril’s poat, jist a wee taste this time, jist in case. “Yuch! Nae salt at aw! The uther yin better be awright.” He tried the wee’ist taste oot o that richt big poat o’ Cloads … “Hey! That’s yummy!” he yells and gits stuck intae it. In nae time at aw he’s poalished oaff the loat but he leaves the emty poat oan the gas. Telt Ye he hud nae sense.

Back he gangs tae the ruim. “Ah need a seat,” sez he an tries climbin up oan the coantainer frae the boat. It wiz too high an he fell doon again, scratchin the wid oan the wey. Nixt he tried that packin case, goat oan it O.K., but it wiz too high fur cumfurt.

“Ah ken whoat Ah’ll dae: Ah’ll jump frae here tae the tea chaist.” An the wee nyaff did jist that, landid oan tap o the chaist an waint richt through the thing. “Crash!” “Oh, michty me! Ah’m aw shuik up!” moans Jimmy, “Ah really need a drink, so ah do.”

Thair oan the flair wur three boattles, he picked up Tummuphy’s ‘Stairheed Dynamite’ an tuik a moothfy “Grooooacccchewweeee!!!” iz a bit like the noaize he made whain he fell doon oan the flair. ‘Whoat soart o’ man drinks that?’ he thocht as he picked up Cyril’s boattle o’ purple meths. “Eeeeeek!” sez he, “That’s enuff tae pit thunder an lightnin in onybuddys’ braith. Wunnder whoat like’s the ither boattle?” He opened Cload’s boattle, tuik a wee sip, liked it, an dooned the loat.

“Man, Ah’m awfy tiret efter aw that fuid an drink. Whaur’s thae beds?” an aff he went tae Tummuphy’s muckle great shooge big bed. “Naw, this is too long fur me.” So, ower he went tae Cload’s richt big camp bed an fell doon oan it. The frame couldnae tak the strain an the hail thing broke. “Aw, weel! Thair’s yin mair tae try.” Cyril’s bed wiz jist richt an he wiz soonin the airms o Amorphorus himsel’.

But see thae three Baer Brytherz? … Mun thay wiz right mad so thay wiz. Whain they goat tae the Burrew it wiz shut so thay went tae the Bettin Shoap tae seek thair foartyoonz an loast aw thair munny. Couldnae even hae a ficht fur when awbuddy seen thum they run the ither wey. Back they traumped aw crabbit tae Cumly Bank, intae the stair they went, “Hey! Whair’s aw oor scarf turroaphiez?” shouts Cload, “Sumbdyz stole thum frae us. Whain ah git mah haunds oan him ah’ll myrther im so ah wull.” “Aye!” sez Cyril, “An efter Ye’ve murthered im Ah’ll moallicate ra creep so Ah wull!”

“An see me?” sez Tummuphy, “Efter yoose huv feeneeshid him oaff Ah’m gonnie kull him an pu im intae wee bits an send them hame tae his mammie so ah will.” Noo it wiz dark under the stairs, so they didnae see the big bundle o scarfs. “Thair’s an awfy smell o burnin,” sez Cload, “Thurz smoke cummin oot o oor hoose,” sez Cyril. “Quick! We’re oan fire! Pit it oot!” yelled Tummuphy as he run intae the kitchen.

“Weel, mah poat’s awright, but sumbdyz been eatin ma munthe an tatties,” sez he. “Ayean mah poats aw right as weel, but sumbdyz been eatin mine tae,” sez Cyril. “Aw naw! Luik, wull Yeez! Sumbdyz ate up aw mah munthe an tatties an left the poat tae burn,” yelled Cload. The brithers wiz newnonomus that they wid teer whae’er hud dun this dire deed intae bits sae sma they’d gang through the eye o’ a needle.

Awa they went tae sit doon efter they’d cleaned the mess, “Hey! Luik! Sumbdyz been tryin tae climb up mah big coantainer boax,” growled Tummuphy.

“Aye, an sumbdyz been sittin oan tap o mine,” sed Cyril. “Aw, nawww! Luik, wull Yeez! Sumbdyz jumped richt through the toap o mah nice wee tea chaist!” Tummuphy wiz richt oot o the brain wi his temper noo. “Thurz goannie be bludd spilld the night Ah cun tell ye. Wuh’ll juist hae a wee drinkie an then wuh’ll find this nyaff an skin im alive. Hey! Luik! Wha’s been drinkin mah meths?” Cyril picked up his boattle. “Aye, an wha’s been drinkin my meths an aw?” “Aw, nawwww!” shouts Cload, “Luik, wull Yeez! Sumbdyz tuik ma meths an scoaffed the loat. Aye an mah bed’s broke as weel”

The three Baer bruvverz wiz verra much upset. “Weel, at least he showed sum reffeniment purfairin mah meths tae the muck youz twa drink,” sez Cload. “Whoat did Yew say?” asks Cyril toorin ower his wee bruvver, “Are Ye cawin me a pheasunt or somefun? At least Ah’m no that faur goan iz tae drink ‘Stairheed Dynamite’.”

Muckle great shooge big Tummuphy wiz fair affruntit ut this insult tae his favrite drink, “So Ye dinnae like mah dynamite, eh? Try the hale boattle fur yersel.” An he hit Cyril ower the heid wi iz boattle an it blew up wi a big bang. “Noo luik whoat Ye’ve made me dae!” roared Tummuphy uz he flung Cyril oot the windae. “Noo yew, Cload. Cummear!” He luiked fur is bruvver but coulnae see him. That’s accoz he wiz richt ahint him wi that muckle great shooge big poat o munthe an tatties. Thair an thain he stuck it oan Tummuphy’s heid. Rroon an roon the ruim staigert the big man, luikin like Frankensteen or sumthin. E’en though he couldna see he managed tae catch his bruvver an start tae thump im.

Oh, whoat a fecht it wiz fur Cyril climbed back in the windae an the three o thum goat tore intae each ither. Even folk livvin at Cumly Bank cun only staun fur so much, Sumbdy went fur the polis. When the polis saw whae it wiz they went fur The Black Watch Raigiment that wiz at the Castle at the time. Tuik the hale Raigiment tae subdyoo the three Baers an tak them awa tae Saughton Jeil tae the strains o’ “Amazin Grace” frae the raigimental pipe baund.

Oors later wee Jimmy Goldie woke up, “Hey it’s right cumfy here. Think Ah’ll dae a squat fur a while.” He wunderret aboot aw the mess fur he’d slaipt aw through the big fecht. Oan Setterday he tuik the twa hunnert Herrts scarfs an the 300 Hibs yins tae Tynecastle an sellt the loat at the Match fur twa poond each. Noo he wiz a rich man.

Nixt week Rangers wiz playin Partick. So awa he went an selt a few hunnert mair tae thair suppoarterz. Naebuddy kent thae wiz oaffen buyin back thair ain scairfs. He’d mair sense than tae sell Celtic scarfs at a Rangers Celtic Match but selt thum at Easter Road when Celtic played Hibs.

Wi the munny he made he boat mair stoack an umploayed unemploayed folk tae sell them ut the gemmes fur him.

That’s him ootside in the choaffur-driven tartan Ferrari. See him? He’s a toon coonsillor noo. Aye, an a director o Doaktur Guthries school fur bad boys forby.

Whoat aboot the three Baers? They’ve dun awfy weel fur thurmsells as weel, a rehabyoolitashun man at the jail turnt thum intae new joabs when they goat oot.

Cload’s a meenistur at the church doon the road. Cyril designs lassies’ claes an daunces fur the ballet. But Tummuphy’s goat the best joab … an executerive wi IBM. Every time they make a new moadel coamputer they gie yin tae hum tae test. If it survives they ken they’re oan a winner.

Weel, the last race is ower. Ah’m away ower tae the Bettin Shoap tae see whoat Ah’ve wun. Dinnae Ye dare tell that hardman whoat ah sed aboot him, mind.


[To Thomas Mc Rae’s index]

© 2005, Lowlands-L • ISSN 189-5582 • LCSN 96-4226 • All international rights reserved.
Lowlands-L Online Shops: Canada · Deutschland · France · 日本 · UK · USA