The Story of the Black Grouse Read online

  The Black Grouse

  Copyright 2014 Dave Lassut

  Published by Reader’s Highjest e books at Smashwords

  EPUB ISBN: 978-1-910103-52-4

  EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-910103-53-1

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  GONW

  ***

  Frankie is a member (founder) of The Guild of Naughty Writers.

  The Guild protects writers who say what they think.

  Medmbership 0.0001

  Chance of a victory in court: 0.0001%

  THE UNBELIEVABLE STORY OF THE BLACK GROUSE

  An Anglo Scottish Fantasy containing more truth than a Politician’s purpose. Told by Jimmy McDongle and recounted by Frankie Lassut.

  To the memory of Rabbie Burns, who did a lot for the Scottish economy through the appreciation of the ‘golden necar’.

  No, this isn’t a grouse, black or otherwise, don’t you know a buzzard when you see one?

  The legend of the mysterious, still (very much) ‘living’ Black Grouse will be told by Jimmy McDongle, in the comfort of the ... a ‘secret’ pub location in Coventry. This wee fantasy is written in a Scottish accent by an Englishman who is half Polish ... it has nay been spellchecked because those involved haven’t got the years needed to fex the unfexable. Et reads ok if ye have a drenk ferst. Jimmy McDongle: (can’t be arsed with speech marks most of the time).

  Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. I cannae possibly give out the true identity of the Black Grouse, but I can give you the correct pronunciation of his name, aye, his ‘second’ name to be exact. His second name, only used when he was in character was Grouse. Black is pronounced black, so there’s no problem there, but grouse, when you’re in the wilds of Bonnie Scotland, pronounced ScoUtland, if you are native to these fair, untamed romantic acres, is pronounced Grouuuuuuuuuse. Aye, d’ye get that? Grouuuuuuuse.

  The Black Grouuuuuse (the number of u’s may vary).You would think that the Black Grouuuuuuuuse es Scottish, but nooo, he’s from that wee place full of Sassernachs the other side of Hadrian’s Wall, them lot who thinks they’re better than us. Those who would like to think they govern us! They do, but only because we LET them.

  Aye. Well ok, we could govern ourselves, but, we would have to be a nation of peple who actually wanted to be looked after by our own government, but we don’t! Why not I hear ye ask? Well, I’ll tell ye! Och, I’m gettin a weee bit dry in the thorax here.

  “Someone get Jemmy a drenk!”

  “Here ye go Jemmy.”

  Och! That’s better. Where was I? Oh yessss. Ye see, Scottish cheldren are independent enough to look after themselves in any situation, because of something called ScoUttish Parenting. Started by people like Frankie Boyle ...

  “Ets ‘Jammy Boyle’ Jammy!”

  “Och! Ahm sorry. Aye, wee Jemmy Boyle from the Gorballs ... well balanced a lad, because he had parents brought ep on cows melk, which became rife in our windswept lands. Let me tell you the tale of REAL ScoUttish cows melk. Och, my thorax is feeling rather dry ...

  “Someone get Jemmy a drenk!”

  “Here ye gooo Jemmey. Plenty more where that came from pal.”

  “Cheers! Och! That’s better! Well. ScoUttish mothers, not to be confused with Scottish Widows ensurance company ... have always been maternally keen to see their wee boys and gerls become independent and free from any danger posed by other people regardless of their origins. But, och BUT! The natural meternal enstencts of the ScoUttish mother is to feed and care for their cheldren. But, Och! Glasgees Molly Macardie one day said ...“Och! Aren’t we doing our cheldren a disfavour by molycoddling them? Shouldn’t we be teaching them endependence?! But, as we are so loving, how do we become even MORE loving?! Well c’mon, I’m asking ye all aren’t I?!”

  Therefore, Scottish mothers, because they are so beautifully souled they carn’t help bet look after their children to the helt of the claymore, they have to take measures el drastico i e. they have tae make themselves unavailable to the keddies, like an experienced pilot has tae make hemself unavailable to the trainee in order that the trainee can not only fly the plane unaided, bet also lane et. Scottish mothers therefore partake of the golden amber nectar which in etself is the very essence of ScoUtland in a bottle ... they drenk whesky! They purpousefully drenk whesky until they render themselves unavailable ... hey gosh, my wee thorax es getting a weee weeee bet dry. Og golly goush, ah cannae talk wolud ye ken ...

  “Someone get Jemmy a drenk!”

  “Here ye are Jemmy! Keep that thorax oiled laddie.”

  “Och, thank ee very metch! Och aye. So, the caring ScoUttish methers are unavailable tae get the cheldren up fer school, so, the cheldren get themselves ep, make theor ain brekkies of Scouttish Porredge Oats! What we are ale proooood ef! Proooooood de ye hear meh?! Eh?! Anyone went tae argeee weth that then? Heee?!” C’muuuun?! I’ll punch ye fuggen leeeghts oot!”

  “NO one wents to feight Jemmeh, carry on wethe the stery. When yae genne tell us abert the Black GroUse?”

  “Och sorrae! Soon, soon. Well, the keds learn tae look afte themselves (grouse provides more trees so cheldren have more oxygen).because of ScoUttesh methers. They can make porredge, hagges, neeps, mince een tatties, cabbedge, and other stuff vital to health and bodily survival ye see. And our cheldren can can wash the oven, hoover, clean the loo, etcetera. Now, now ... let me jest tell ye thes. Cheldren in England cetees thenk that cow meat comes from a plastic packet in a suerstore ...”

  “Ach! Ye ked us Jemme!”

  “Och nea! Ah deeeent! Fa fackeeen argen?! Eh?! I’ll knock the heeeeead off thee ye traineee Jock ye!”

  He belches.

  “Aye. There’s nothing like seeing the whesky float come over the top of the glen ferst theng in the morneng. The sun will be rising in all of ets glory, batheng the good land of our Bonnie isle in its Devine light, and then, as et shines through the melk float, that light will be let in the golden colour of oor own amber nectar, the milk of the highland mother, for the highland mothers and fathers. The good people of Glasgee will wake early en anticipation, and when the whesky floats call jest after dawn, they, the great mothers and fathers of Scotland will partake of the milk and pass into the land of necatar unconsciousness again. Thes well allow the kids tae look after themselves. The keds well then gae tae school, and the cultured teachers will teach them thengs about Rabbie Burns! Aye! Raise your glasses tae Rabbie Burns, the Bard of Bonnie Scotland! Aye! And I’ll fight any sassernach who desagrees! And then they come heame again. In the erarly evening, lettle Jamma will say to hes sister Morag ... “Oooooch Morag! Daddy well be round soon for some sweet, whisky melk flavoured kesses with mother, and then he well give us a good beating to prepare us for the advent that the English may invade again.”

  But, that was a little of the glorious ways and hestory of our fair fair isle ... now, the story of the Black Grouse! Thes may make me weep, because the Grouse es English, noo Scottesh! How could God play such an awful treck on hes very own people?! Bet never mind, never mind, all et means es that God can never be granted citizenship of our gracious land, never be envited to take a ferst grouse on the glorious twelfth on a fine moor, and never ever be envited on a free tour of the Famous Grouse destellery ... an honour usually reserved for the English! Of course, we daen’t mind if they buy a crate or two. Ef G
od should ever turn up weth iffefutible proof of Nessie, we will accuse hem of lies!

  One fine day, an ordinary Englishman was walking throught the woodland of Glencoe. He was a good man, and responsible enough weth good values, coming from Coventry, to peck up the empty descarded whesky bottles dropped by Scotesh mothers out for an anti-depression walk on their motorised push bikes, and throw them in the many recycling skeps which were painted like rocks to look natural amongst the trees. There were that many bottles on the floor, the man had to hop and skip, whech is how he accidentally learnt tthe steps for highland dancing, which he would eventually master, to, ‘as so many Scottish men have done’ ... show off the muscular mastery in hes legs, which allow the Scottesh to run from the Englesh like graceful hunted stags.

  Exhausetd after the four thousandth bottle pick up on the area of a crecket-wecket, the Grouse found a suitable tree to set down and lean against. Et was perfect groung for magec meshrooms, but someone had pecked them and then had had to go hame to give them to her drunk husband when he called round for sex and tae give the keds a ‘toughen up’ beating. He closed his eyes and breathed in and the fresh air, laced with a fine blend of many cheaper wheskies, strolled into hes nostrils and after a while, he dozed off. Now, rumour has it that some really depressed Scottesh Mother had mixed into the bottle som mushrooms they had crushed using stones like our ancestors ... and these mexed toxic fumes crept into his brain, found the opiate receptors and the pituitary. They then replicated, morphed, weggled around a bet, did the highland fling, tossed a few mind cabers ... and our kind man then awoke.

  The first theng he heard was the mating call of the black grouse so there must have been a lek nearby. It was then that he heard the sweet song of the pipes over the noisy birds ... and the pipes grew closer, mesmerising hem. The temperature stayed the same and it wasn’t getting dark as et was only dennertime, but a mist formed, which grew quite theck. The pipes grew louder and louder. The tune was a strange disjointed version of ScoUtland the Brave. The Grouse, unfearfully looked deep ento the mest in front of him. Et was then that the figure of a female with longish blonede hair in a Jamma hat and full scottesh regalia appeared in front of hem ... she had pointy ears like an elf. She stopped playing ands smiled at him with a wonderful ‘full’ smile ... “Hello!” she said “I’m Billie, the Piper, I’ve come to supply you with my mist cloud when you’re on your mission.”

  “What mission’s that?” asked the Grouse, in rather muffled tones.

  “You’re going to buy some land on Glencoe and plant trees on it, and you’re going to build a special robot that picks up bottles and throws them accurately into any one of several skips nearby which have been dropped by depressed alcoholic Scottish mothers on anti-depression walks on their motorised pushbikes.”

  “Humflu mumffle muffle fluffle.” said the Grouse, which meant ... ‘why do your bagpipes sound odd?’

  “Oh yeah. Well when I first discovered my mission from DR Whooo whoooo the one eared, long eared wise owl, I had to get them in order to sort of Pied Piper the eerie Scottish mist to hide you in so that you can appear mysteriously on the sides of hills and stuff when you’re on your mission. I had to go and see Golence, the Glencoe Troll no one knows about, he has a bit of a gagging order on him since the council at Loch Ness found out and thought they may lose business if people come here Troll spotting. That Troll film didn’t help either.

  Well you see, Golence is a brilliant bagpipe maker, but he has a blind spot in his right eye, which is his drilling eye. He missed the D and the A holes off my fingering pipe theng. I said, Golence! Ye stupid old bastarrrd, look what you’ve done! He could nae drill them then because the Fairy of the Skirling Pipes had gone and never ever returned to do repairs and alterations. Every set of Scottish pipes are blessed by the fairy. Golence apologised but said the fairy never came back, especially after she’d been paid. If she added holes now, the pipes would curse every person who came within earshot of them; that’s good for wars weth the English, bet a wee bet cruel at the Edinburgh Tattoo.”

  Now people, as the Grouse is very softly spoken, I should really speak in Grouse-esh, his own language, but that is tae much like hard work, so I’m gaen normal with his voice. I’m calling him the Grouse, but he wasn’t the Grouse yet as Billie the Piper hadn’t yet arranged his Christening. She simply said to him, “Follow me! We have a date at a lek.”

  She began to play her pipes and turned, turned ... she had sewn in glittering letters on her back ‘Long Live Rabbie Burns!’ ... a mist bank formed around them, and she marched off ... he followed.

  THE LEK AND THE CHRISTENING.

  Ferstly, a berd fact that you will nae know. The only reason I know is because Mester Attenborough told me.

  “Yeah right Jemmy!”

  “Och! Are ye argein weth me! Heeeee? Heeee? Well come oootside and well see abooot that!”

  “Ok Jamma! Calm yersen daen now, would you like a drenk to soften those wee nerves?”

  “Och! Ayeee, daen’t mind if I dae! ... Well ye see, the Black Gouse, when mating in the lek, has problems weth wend. By that I dinnea mean the early morneng breeze, but the gas produced by the berds diet. It es actually called the black gross by locals. Sometimes the accumulated gaseous output gathers when there in no breeze, and people who have gone oot frae an early morneng barbecue, but in their tired absent mindedness, have forgotten the barbecue ... well all is not lost. Many a great barbecue has been had through the throwing of a loighted match into the lek. But, that’s of no consequence. Billie the Piper and the pre Grouse stood by the side of the lek, accepted by the berds. At the end of the scrapping and the mating of the strongest male bird, known as the ‘Walesa’ ... the Walesa flew onto pre Grouses head ... shrieked into the early morning, and shet on the pre Grouse’s forhead, a great great honour. Bellie the Piper was crying as a Keng was born. As the poo dripped off the Grouse’s nose, he raised his arm ente the air and gave out his call, “Black Grouuuuuse-i am! Och-aye!”

  All the berds shrieked and Belklie the Piper played Scotland The Brave, minus two notes of course ... it sounded disjointed, bet ok.

  The Black Grouse was born. Welliam Wallace and Jemmy Boyle and Rabbie Burns faded entae the background.

  Och gosh ... ah need the loo before ah carry on.

  ***

  The Grouse was felled with a power, a power tae do good, make good, and tae thrive ... with particular attention tae trees, the lungs of the planet. Ahl cam back tae hem in a second, nae worries.

  Meanwhile, the ScoUttesh fathers were still veseting the drunk mothers frae sex, and geving the keds a good slapping tae harden them up in case the Englesh dogs enveded again. The whole tone en ScoUtland was that ef the Englesh ever invaded again, even under the guise of tourests, we would nay let them gae hame agen, och no! NOT, and I repeat NOT untel they had either repaired, or paid for repeirs tae Hadrian’s wall which they climb over every time ... whech es a bet sneaky when we’re all waiten weth our claymores at the Iron Bredge inn on the M8 tae sort the sassernachs! We dedicated! Passionate! ScoUtland’s protectors! Those of us who care for our wild and wendswept lands blessed by the feet of Liam Nees ... sorry, demigod Robroy McGregor! Och! Aye! ScoUtland the Brave! ... May also stand in two lines along a four metre length of the the M8 reciting the work of Rabbie Burns, whech as ye know es tae guid, tae guid ah says! ... tae, tae guid for the diluted, weak, watery second rate quazi piffle poetry culture of the Werdsworth sassernachs ears, and es like holding garlec up tae Dracula ... and constructs a pow-errrr- ful ‘poetic firewall’ to keep the uncultured rabble oot! Och Aye!

  Noo, as a lettle recreational break and a cultural scrub for the mind, my mate Patreck from the jolly emerald green isles of our friends the Oirish. Patreck playe the herdy gerdy and sengs, so he’s gean tae dae us a couple ag good ehld Rabbie Berns poems written when he wes en the true character of ScoUtland ... drunk!

  As ye ken see, en thes pecture I have of Rabbie, he has the characteristic red nose, fort
unately not shared by all of hes cheldren’s ancestors.

  Red Red Rose

  By R S. Bun (a name he sometimes used on hes finest werks tae see ef he was stell popular when hes fans thought et wasnae hem).

  My love had got a red, red nose

  Because she likes a tepple or three

  But I can’t complain

  Because she likes a tipple, or three, just like me

  My love is a true Scoutch lassie

  Who thenks a drink makes life unboreng

  However, when she’s had a few

  She ain’t leveng the dream, she’s making Zzzzs snoring

  Aye, my love she has a red red nose

  And pretty high blood pressure

  Maybe I should get some leaches next time i fall drunk in the pond

  And of a wee bet of blood, blood let her

  I had better be careful though

  Cos I know not where to place it proper

  I don’t want to hit a main artery

  Cos she may bleed out and become a cropper

  Anyway, I’ll steck on the leach on her ample rear and leave it a while

  And go and write some poetry classy

  I wouldn’t have the time if she weren’t mostly sleeping

  Och, I have a loving red, red nosed, tippling wee lassie

  Stanza 2

  My gloves I got from the red gloves rows