North Sea Tales

“Radio 3” was playing in the cab, a bit of a surprise to be honest for an “Aberdonian Taxi Mannie”.

Bart was greeted as he opened the door of the large “top of the range” Mercedes with – “You dinna mind a bi oh culture div ye?”

Bart was from Aberdeen he instinctively understood the Doric dialect, and nodded his approval, – “Aye min it’s great to keep a guid eye on these skitty roads”.

So the conversation had been.

“You don’t mind some classical cultured music, do you? “

Then followed by, – “It helps one concentrate on these traction less routes.”

Aye, The Doric! A dialect of Old Scots and Norse and heaven knows what else mixed in, but it was “The Local Tongue ” of Aberdeen and its surrounding areas, don’t even mention Gaelic, it simply doesn’t exist on the East coast of Scotland, especially here in the North East.

A flurry of snow fell from the large oak tree above, with a whoosh onto the roof of the taxi.

Bart reacted, – “Aye, the council were supposed to prune these buggers months ago, but as usual those lazy bastards haven’t gotten around to it. Aye, that’s what we pay these inflated rates for around here, bugger all, haven’t even been around with the ploughs yet?”

“Aye, the fucking cooooncil”, was the taxi drivers reply, nothing else was needed!

The large Mercedes smoothly negotiated around the fat arse end of the hulking great Volvo estate wagon, and they progressed towards the heliport.

“Bristows?”, the destination was checked.

“Aye!”, said Bart, – “fucking Bristows, in this shite!”

“Better you, than me! I would rather do a 12 hours shift in this shite doon here on the grund, rather than get up in one of those paraffin budgies”.

“Aye, you have a good point there, but bills and mortgage to pay, kids to feed, I have no choice!”

They spent the next 20 minutes appreciating “radio 3” culture from the BBC with some posh twat raving about the plus and minus of some abstract questions about some composers motivation, or some other crap, that to be honest seems surreal at this moment.