The Butcher the Swedish Sojourn and the Torryloon

Aye, well…that's right, this is the strange tale o' the Blue Toon butcher, the Boddam abbatoirist, and the beautiful game.
There we were, sitting at Gothenburg airport, waiting for the coach t'tak us Doon the hairbour t' the boat, Tor Scandinavia, far we were biding the night.
Across fae us were two mannies, looking fair puggled already and we had only landed thirty minutes ago. Well, I mean, I had had ma sunshine breakfast a'na, but they were two days into blootered territory.

"Fits up loons?" I enquired of my fellow Dandies. Thus unfolded their affa garbled story, which was kinda hard to folly on account o' their near-impenetrable accents. These lads were five-hunner percent teuchters, so I listened affa carefully and fan the bus showed twenty minutes later, I hid the picture, mair or less.

It appears they were a butcher fae Peterheid, and his meat supplier fae Boddam. They had bin on the whisky the night afore and then got on the ootside o' a bottle o' Grouse on the plane. Hence they were gie ropey and it was only half eleven in the morning. Seems they had cooked up a scheme to demonstrate to Gothenburg in particular, Sweden in general and to the hale o' Europe as well that we were nae fitba hooligans. Dandies fae Aiberdeen, Tartan Army foot sojers fae Scotland; neen o' yer Millwall, Chelsea or Rangers English palaver here. So over some time they had lovingly made this mega Haggis, a veritable squadron leader o' the puddin' race, probably aboot twa stone in weight. A thing o' scarcely seen beauty, trimmed in red and white ribbons at one end and in tartan ribbons at the ither end. Hagzilla.

"But why…?" I enquired, realising even before the words left my lips that I was gaan to regret asking. So they telt me. The idea was for our Ambassadors of Offal, accompanied by a piper gein' it laldie wi' The Northern Lights, to formally present the monster Haggis to a local, randomly selected Swedish butcher. A gesture of fraternity fae Aiberdeen to Gothenburg. A cultural endowment bestowed upon Sweden by Caledonia. A Buchan butcherly bequest. All things considered, a clinker o' an idea. We parted at the boat, the Torryloon to ditch the kitbag and start singing in the rain, them to "hae forty winks and then we'll be a'richt."

Fast forward through gallons of fizzy Pripps lager, torrential rain, thon Spanish gadgie wi' the drum, 1-0, 1-1, extra time, 2-1, the fountain, bed at five for a couple of hours and then waiting by the gangway for the coach to return us, elated beyond description, to the airport.

There they were, sat on the quayside, heids in hands, groaning. I thought t'masel "Hing on, there Torryloon, that's Mutt 'n Jeff o'er there: I wonder how they got on wi' their enormous offering of traditional Scottish scran?" So I gied them the shout and chipped them aboot their exploits. The Doric derring-duo looked up through eyes that were shot-blasted fae the inside and shook their heids sorrowfully.

"Na na" they sighed "It didna tak' a trick a 'va." So I had the last swig oot o' the duty free Blue Label and got doon on ma hunkers next to them to listen up. It took a good half an hour but eventually I'd got the story. Nae fine.

It transpires they had, in fact managed a good four hours in their bunks and had felt fairly human after a shower and a bite to eat on board the boat. They retrieved the Haggis from its customs-evading hidey-hole, phoned a Joe Maxi and headed for the bright lights, big city. The real mistake they made was to follow, like rats efter the Pied Piper, the tune o' Davie Crockett King Of The Wild Frontier and the words "Graham, Graham Leggat, The King Of Pi-ttod-er-ie" emanating from a pub packed wi' singing, dancing Dandies. Well, it only took a couple o' pints afore the duty free was being passed roon again and bugger me if they werna bleezin' again. And wi' time getting on for the game, they hauled themsels oot o' there in order to mak the formal presentation. The best-laid plans o' mice and men and drunken butchers… staggering across into thon big shopping mall, they slid their wie into the big meat shoppie.
Turns oot that the aghast mannie a'hin the coonter spoke not a word of English and even less Scottish. Not a sausage. Nae that it would hae helped in the slightest, jist aboot naebody ootside their ain femily hid a clue fit they were saying, the accent wis stronger than the smell fae Snuffy Ivy's draars. So picture this, if you will, from the position of the Swedish butcher who hitherto had been minding his ain business, washing up his shelves efter a busy day and preparing to put up the shutters. . . two imbeciles, oot o' their heids wi the booze, speaking in tongues (incoherent bleezin' Doric yappy-babble, big style) lobbing you a can o' McEwans export, raking in a black poly sack afore producing an unexploded bomb tied up in ribbons and slapping on your coonter shouting "Hemmin Ingemar, bet ye've niver seen 'een 'aat size, eh?"

Well…such an attempt at fostering international friendship must surely be admired but what they actually achieved was to scare the shite oot o' the peer mannie; he hit the panic button located next to his till. Next thing they kent they wis up against the wa' wi' their airms twisted up their backs and guns stuck in their throats, afore getting dragged aff t' the anti-terrorist nick. Finally, only twenty minutes afore kick-aff, the bomb squad concluded their examination o' the UXB, decided against a controlled explosion, and kicked the Dangerous Brothers oot into the monsoon shouting efter them "hoordy foordy" which translates, according to the phrase book, roughly as "Awa ye pair o' radges."

And thus ends the strange tale o' the Blue Toon butcher and the Boddam abbatoirist. For some time afterwards, it bothered me that I never asked the butcher "Do you have a sheep's heid?" But on reflection, I think he jist had a crappy haircut... I mind him spikkin' about one freezing' cald day in his shoppie fan he was sitting on the radiator and a wifie asked him "Is that your Ayrshire bacon? " and he telt her "Na na lassie, I'm jist warming ma bum."

The two lads eventually got hame fae Sweden five days later. They found that their freezer had defrosted itsel' the day they had left. Aye, in them days the steaks were very high indeed.

I tried to talk turkey, nae to rabbit on, and I didna mince these poultry few words. The Editor got into my ribs wi' a grouse so he had to chop a few loins as he disna want to fillet wi' tripe. But here is a happy ending for you from that rainy night in the Ullevi…we played them aff the pork.

Further reading: "Venison: Is It Affa Dear? Morris The Butcher, a Biography" by Morris the Butchers Brither.

Torryloon