Home Articles The Scots Lad Episode #4: The Scots Lad: en Training - Page 03
Episode #4: The Scots Lad: en Training - Page 03
Written by Gerry Hodes   
Tuesday, 07 June 2011 10:00
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Episode #4: The Scots Lad: en Training
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On further inspection of the gloomy compartment, I discerned that I had company, a weaselly-looking young bloke who greeted me in what sounded like a foreign tongue. Actually, it WAS a foreign tongue, being that peculiar, heavily accented English of the white southern African (not that my guttural Glaswegian staccato would have convinced him that he was sharing his travel with a member of the Royal Family). Nonetheless, his one word paragraphs were nothing like anything I'd ever heard before and I had mixed with Geordies. 'Chhhout, erryerakay, buoy, aiy wes tinkin aiy wes goan tee by oan may oan' said the weasel, without any menace, from which I deduced that it was a form of greeting. Without any idea of what was being said, I smiled enigmatically and carefully positioned myself with a clear route to the corridor and safety. 'Err yow eskaipin de blerry keffirs toi' he continued, with the degree of quizzicality in his voice, giving me the idea that I had just been asked a question. 'Aye', I replied, thinking that a positive, yet monosyllabic, response might close down the conversation, until I could gather some wits sufficient to allow me somehow to communicate with this garrulous foreigner. Never having been closer than halfway on the journey to Wit City, I was struggling in this situation, until relief came in the form of an elegantly uniformed African who enquired, in mellifluous, understandable English, if we wished to avail ourselves of breakfast in the restaurant car. Despite some desperation to leave my charmless fellow-passenger behind, I was aware that my personal funds were running low, so I demurred on the basis that I would find something in the buffet car. Not for the last time, I was looked at pityingly by a complete stranger, as he asked to see my ticket: 'Sah' he said, 'there is no buffet car and your fare entitles you to restaurant car meals on the journey '. Needing no further encouragement, I bolted in the indicated direction of the dining carriage and settled down at a table.

I could have consumed the proverbial equine, had sufficient HP sauce been on tap, but decided to be guided by the waiting staff. 'Is the Bwana having brekkers?', enquired my server. Answering in the affirmative, I seemed to have irritated him somehow, as he challenged me to boil my arse. There then followed an eyeball standoff for several seconds, whilst my mind churned over the possibility that posterior immersion in very hot water might be a normal precursor to railcar dining in Central Africa; possibly his was considering the very real possibility that he was going to have to draw a picture of a cooked breakfast, to bring the conversation to a close at all. Eventually, a strangulated 'wot?' emanated from my shocked head. 'Would the Bwana like some BoilYerArse with his eggs?' he yelled. Now the answer to that is simple: no-one in their right mind wants to eat fried eggs whilst having their backside simultaneously poached. Yet I was two days into a new job in a new country. Would it be politic to ask if I could perhaps just have a warm cloth rubbed gently over my nethers for now and leave the full immersion experience for a subsequent meal? I decided to go with the flow, so to speak, so answered in the affirmative, which allowed the server to leave with real relief on his face. Minutes later he was back with a plate of two fried eggs, accompanied by two lumpy, strange-coloured, penis-shaped appendages that looked like I was being served up the wedding equipment of a duo of long-expired hippopotamuses. Although relieved not to be suffering third degree burns on my rear end, I still was nonplussed about what I was being expected to consume and made the enquiry. 'Boil Yer Arse' was the answer, all expressed as one word. 'Oh Jeez' I thought, 'my arse is not yet clear of the bubbling dixie', but determined that at least I would eat something before the inevitable scalding, I asked again, this time several hundred decibels louder, the origin and content of the appallingly distended items on my plate. 'BOILYERARSE Sah', 'dey R sauskisses'. Comprehension, mixed evenly with anal relief, washed over me. They clearly weren't sausages of any sort known to normal humans, but at least I would be able to sit down for the rest of my contract, so I decided to settle for that and enquire no further, sullenly confining myself to consuming the proffered toast, toying with what looked like half an orange, fried (it was squash) and attempting to make a decent meal from a pair of over-cooked eggs. The boerewors, for that is what they were called, I discovered later, I wisely left for any vultures en route to Livingstone to enjoy, since they didn't look like any digestible comestible known to mankind. Slightly less hungry, I rejoined Charmless in our carriage. Only 90 minutes had passed and I already was missing Bryson. How sad was that?



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