One boy shot up his hand. “Get twa aipples.”
LATER in Bob’s career, in Angus, he found himself with a class of what, today, would be termed special-needs pupils. One of them, Brian, with an IQ of about 70, was having a bad day. He couldn’t draw a square, despite help. He couldn’t give the months of the year, and had great difficulty with the days of the week.
Before giving up completely, Bob thought he would try to touch on a subject which might evoke some meaningful response.
“Tell me, Brian,” he said. “Who won the Derby yesterday?”
“Tae tell ye the truth, Mr Cooper,” Brian said. “I’m nae really interestit in fitba.”
ONE OF the sweetest people the North-east has produced was Lilianne Grant Rich, teacher, devoted daughter of the area and latterly a fine writer and poet.
Lilianne had a healthy sense of fun and often recalled her teaching days in the farther-flung rural airts. At one such two-teacher school, Lilianne often had to do double duty and was one day heading the cookery class. She found herself preparing a vegetable medley, mostly using old foodstuffs from her own larder because the school budget wouldn’t run to buying fresh.
She confessed later that the results weren’t quite what she had hoped, but she presented the finished dish to the class with a theatrical flourish and asked: “Now, boys and girls, does anyone know what we call this?”
From half-way up the classroom she heard a low voice: “Well, in oor hoose we’d ca it a bliddy kirn, bit you please yersel.”
ONCE, WHEN a representative of His Majesty’s Inspectorate was paying a professional call, Lilianne, like all teachers, was on edge in case the class misbehaved. Things appeared to be going well at the introduction stage. All the pupils duly stood and chimed: “Good morning, sir”, as had been prescribed.
She experienced a flash of panic when, as the inspector was looking round for a spare chair at the edge of the class, young Ian shot up from his own seat, ran to the other side of the room and retrieved a stool that was designed more for a pupil than a burly chap in his forties.
Nevertheless, the inspector thanked him kindly. “Nae bother,” said Ian, heading back to his seat. “I wis feart ye’d pick that big cheir in the corner and there’s a nail in it that wid ca the erse fae yer brikks.”
“Boys and girls, does anyone know what we call this?”
A TEACHER from Mintlaw got in touch to say that several years ago when she was setting a wee geography test for her pupils, one of her questions was: “How are clouds formed?”
One returned paper included the answer: “I am not sure how clouds are formed, but as long as the clouds know, that is the important thing.”
PRIMARY TEACHER Sonia Murren was teaching a playful assortment of five-year-olds and had drawn the discussion round to the alphabet. The first child was required to give the first letter of the alphabet, the second the second, and so on.
All went well until he came to the 16th child, who confessed eventually that he was stumped.
“Come on,” Miss Murren said. “What comes after O?”
After a moment, a voice from the back offered: “Yeah.”
ABERDEEN PRIMARY-SCHOOL teacher Mary Rennie asked her charges to write about their saddest day. One pupil, Colin, delivered an essay about visiting a graveyard for the first time, which included the line: “It was very sad to see so many people lying in peas.”
Mary also recalled the last day of term before the Christmas holidays when she asked her class what song they would like to sing. There was silence for a moment, then one wee girl’s hand shot up. “Please, miss, could we sing Miniza’s Song?”
“Miniza’s Song? Miniza who?”
“Don’t know, miss.”
“Well, how does it go?”
The little lass cleared her throat and began: “Miniza seen the glory of the coming of the Lord . . .”
IT’S ENCOURAGING to find in archives 200 years old that there is evidence of Doric wit. According to education records, a farmer living in the Glens o Foudland at the start of the nineteenth century told the local dominie that his daughter would not be allowed to learn to read or write as “she’ll mak ill eese o’t and jist start writin tae lads”.
ONE OLDMELDRUM teacher in the early 1960s had asked her mainly rural pupils to write a short essay about a happy event that had occurred at home in the previous week. One such essay explained: “My father has bought a new raping machine. It does the work of five men.”
ANOTHER OLDMELDRUM teacher tells of inviting a tourist-information officer to talk to a class of 13-year-olds about why tourism is so vital to the economy of Scotland, and why tourists should be treated royally.
When the call went out for questions, one perceptive young lad asked if the tourist-information officer approved of caravanners.
“We like anyone who comes here,” the man said. “Everyone’s welcome. Why do you ask about caravanners?”
At that point, it became clear that the young lad’s family had a vested interest in the tourism business. “Because,” the boy said, “ma dad says caravanners is parasites. He says they arrive wi a £10 note, a pair o socks and a shirt and they nivver change ony o them.”
THE SAME teacher recalled a Monday-morning class when she was a primary-school teacher and picked up the buzz in the classroom that one of her pupils had suffered a tragedy over the weekend.
She asked the boy to stay behind at playtime, and broached the subject gently. Yes, he said, it was true that there had been a death in the household. The family dog had passed away in its sleep on the Saturday night, so the rest of the weekend had been extremely sad for all concerned.
The teacher empathised, for she had lost two dogs in similar circumstances, but advised from experience that the best cure was to go right out and get another dog.
“We’re deein that this wikk,” the boy said.
“Well, that’s good,” the teacher said. “You’ll never forget the old one, but you have the new one to look forward to.”
“Aye,” the boy said, making to go. Then he turned. “Ma faither says if it wis atween a new dog and a new wife, he wid tak the dog ivry time, for a dog’s aye pleased tae see ye.”
JIM EWEN was a principal teacher of physics at a celebrated North-east academy and still revels in the antics of a particularly difficult janitor, who ruled the school as if it was his own. Neither was the jannie afraid to stand up to authority.
Jim witnessed the rector approaching the jannie one day and asking him to move some flower tubs for the sake of safety. The janitor refused, adding: “Look, I can only please ae body a day. The day isna your day.”
He paused for dramatic effect and added: “And the morn’s nae lookin good eether.”
THE LATE grandmother of Aberdeen PR executive Neil Robertson was an English teacher at Peterhead Academy, who used to enjoy telling of her first encounter with a particular class that was, shall we say, less academically inclined.
As usual in such circumstances, she asked the class to introduce themselves, so off they set, in desk order. Eventually, the self-introductions came to one big bruiser.
“Robert Red, miss,” he said.
“Red?” she said. “Robert Red? That’s a strange name.”
“Weel, miss,” he said, “it’s really Robert Reid, bit ma mither says I’ve tae start spikkin better.”
WHEN FAMED HM Inspector Dr Kerr was examining a country school near Huntly early last century, he decided to test the knowledge of one class about the usefulness of animals.
“What,” he asked one boy, “does the ox produce?”
“Beef.”
“And what does the sheep produce?”
“Mutton.
“Yes, but what else does the sheep produce?”
The boy hesitated, looking nervous, so Dr Kerr took hold of the sleeve of the boy’s jacket and said: “Well, what is this made of?”
The boy seemed unwilling to give an answer, but Dr Kerr insisted, and at last the boy admitted tearfully that h
is jacket was made “oot o ma faither’s aul brikks”.
A SICK NOTE from an Elgin direction read: “Please excuse Gary for not being at the school on Monday. I’ve been upside down with the painters all weekend.”
Good for the Soul
A lively sense of humour is a valuable asset to men and women of the cloth, and many of their stories were among the most colourful we were offered.
RETIRED trawlerman George Buchan recalled sitting in a Fraserburgh hostelry one evening, a few years back, trying to console a neighbour whose daughter’s marriage had just broken up, whose dog had been run over the previous week and whose mother-inlaw was about to visit for the entire summer.
“Ye’re nae haein muckle luck aenoo, min,” George soothed.
“No,” said the companion, reaching for another swig of his pint. “Frankly, George, I think I hid a curse put on me ae day 30 year ago.”
George wasn’t sure if a punchline was coming or if his neighbour truly believed in the black arts, so he pressed further. “Really?”
“Aye,” said the neighbour. “April 14 1956.”
“Fit kinna curse, like?” George asked.
“Well, as far as I can mind, the minister said: ‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’”
THE REVEREND James Simpson used to tell of consoling a small boy whose grandfather had died, and explaining that the old man was now safe in the arms of God and Jesus.
The same small boy was dispatched to see Mr Simpson a few months later and explained through sobs that his goldfish had died.
“I now pronounce you man and wife”
“Well, well,” the minister said. “Don’t you worry about that. Your goldfish is safe in the arms of Jesus.”
Far from consoling the boy, this news sent him into uncontrollable howls, alarming Mr Simpson.
“Mercy me,” said the minister, “What’s ado?”
“Ma goldfish,” sobbed the boy. “Jesus’ll feed him tae the five thoosan.”
MR SIMPSON also recalled the household where the husband had died and had been laid out in the front room for neighbours to come and pay their respects. He had been a notoriously bad husband and a grouchy individual with virtually everyone in the area all his life. As is the North-east way, however, all of that was conveniently forgotten in death.
Indeed, neighbours poured out eulogy after eulogy as they stood in the kitchen, drinking tea and nibbling biscuits.
The widow sat patiently at the table; then, when she could stand it no longer, she got up and made for the lobby door. “Excuse me,” she said, “I’m awa ben the hoose. I jist wint tae see if it really is John that’s deid.”
A PORTGORDON stalwart wanted to tell us of a celebrated tale from Fochabers Sunday School, where the teacher had been explaining to her charges that “Jesus was a man of peace.”
She waited for a few seconds to let the information have full effect, then asked: “Now, does anyone know what that means?”
A hand shot up. “Please, miss. It means he likit loaf.”
THE REVEREND Jimmy Smith, whose charge took in vast swathes of Donside, told of an older and much sterner colleague of the cloth who spotted a man rolling and singing in the gutter at Kemnay one New Year before the war.
“Good gracious, man,” said the minister. “Is that bottle the only consolation you have left in the world?”
“No,” said the drunk. “I’ve anither een in ma pooch.”
THE LATE John Mearns used to tell of a young couple visiting his nearby manse to discuss their marriage plans and the wedding arrangements. As they left, the minister’s parting advice on the doorstep was: “Oh, and dinna forget the banns.”
“We’re nae needin a bann,” said the groom-to-be. “A fiddle and melodeon’ll dee’s fine.”
THE SENSE of humour of the clergy sometimes manifests itself in delightful ways. For several weeks in 1991, a church in Holburn Street, Aberdeen, had the following billboard in its grounds:
WHEN THE DAY OF RECKONING COMES
WILL YOU BE SMOKING
OR NON-SMOKING?
THE LATE Reverend James Davidson, who was possessed of a fine and twinkling sense of humour, recalled visiting Market Place School, Inverurie, one day in the 1960s and speaking to a class of seven-year-olds.
“Now, who says grace at home?” he asked, but there was complete puzzlement on the children’s faces.
“Do you say prayers before you eat?” Mr Davidson explained.
“No,” came a small voice from the back. “My mummy’s a good cook.”
WE HAD better not reveal the location for the next tale, nor the name of his church, but when he was a young minister doing relief pulpit duty, he had to begin one of his preaching to one Donside congregation by apologising for the shortness of his sermon. He explained that one of his puppies had eaten a couple of the pages of his prepared text that morning.
At the end of the service, one of the locals approached him and inquired: “Ye widna hae a spare pup for wir usual minister, wid ye?”
WE’RE OBLIGED to North-east exile Mrs Leslie Finnie, now of Neilston, near Glasgow, who recalled a young minister arriving in her old Buchan country parish between the wars and going for a walk round his new flock. He came upon a very old woman hyowin neeps in a park.
After introducing himself, he professed admiration for her being able to do such hard work at her age, and asked: “Have you no family to help you?”
“Aye” she replied, “I’ve three braw loons, though they’re aa set up in places o their ain and they canna aye be at my biddin.”
“I see,” said the minister. “Have you been a widow for very long?”
She stopped her work and looked up. “Bless ye, Meenister,” she said. “I wis nivver mairriet.”
“But I thought you said you had three sons.” “Aye,” she said. “I wis nivver mairriet, bit I wis nivver negleckit.”
IN THE 1913 edition of Bygone Days in Aberdeenshire, the author recalled a church beadle who dug a grave to accommodate the remains of a niggardly farmer’s wife.
When the interment was complete, the farmer said that he was obliged to the beadle for the trouble that he had taken.
“Oh,” said the beadle, “there’s nae sense in bein obliged tae me. It’s jist fower and saxpence.”
“Fower and saxpence!” the farmer spluttered. “I thocht you beadles did this for nithing.”
“Faith, nivver,” said the beadle. “I jist gets fower and saxpence.”
“I’ll gie ye half a croon,” the farmer said.
“No,” the beadle said firmly. “It’s fower and saxpence.”
“Please yersel,” the farmer said. “If ye dinna tak half a croon, ye get nithing ata.”
“Fine,” said the beadle as he rammed his spade into the new ground. “Up she comes.”
He got his fower and saxpence.
ANOTHER BEADLE from the turn of the nineteenth into the twentieth century was showing a woman round the church one day. When the visit drew to a close, the woman offered her guide profound thanks and headed for the gate.
“Weel, ma lady,” the beadle said after her, “fin ye ging hame, if ye find oot that ye’ve lost yer purse, I hope ye myn that ye didna hae it oot here.”
BEFORE THE war, the Reverend John Davidson got wind of a rumour that one of his beadles at King Edward had overcharged for the burial of a well-known farmer, so he challenged the beadle for the truth.
“Weel, sir,” the beadle said, “that fairmer eence took a nip o me wi the price o a calf, an I nivver got a chunce tae get ma ain back.”
THE same minister was preparing for Sunday sermon and became aware that the bell appeared to be ringing for a lot longer than usual.
He stepped out of the vestry to find the beadle yarking on the rope, oblivious to all around him. He tapped the beadle on the shoulder and said: “The bell’s ringing quite a while this morning, beadle.”
“Aye, sir,” the beadle said, with a flick of his thumb towards the body of the ki
rk. “Ye hinna muckle fowk in the day, and I’m jist makkin sure the rest’s nae aa at hame sleepin.”
SHORTLY BEFORE the war, a kirk at Foggieloan found itself with a visitor in the pews at Sunday Sermon. “A queer-like English gadgie,” wrote our correspondent, “but whenever the minister stopped to draw breath, the visitor would clap his hands and shout: ‘Praise the Lord! Hallelujah!’
“This drawing attention to himself was some much for the good folk o Foggie, so there was a great deal of muttering and disapproving scowls until three elders took it upon themselves to go back to the visitor and whisper: ‘Jist behave yersel. We dinna praise the Lord here.’”
Mony a Gweed Tune
The older generation is one of the richest humour sources of all, mostly because they have far more years to call on. Once again, this was the chapter for which the keep-in / leave-out decision was most difficult.
THE BLOOD TRANSFUSION SERVICE runs periodic trips round the North-east countryside, setting up mobile centres in school car parks and community halls to collect pints of the best from country arms.
At one such stop, Sheila, one of the nurses, explained to an older female donor that the blood was vital to the country and that the woman was performing a great service.
“I hope so,” said the woman. “Tell me, fit happens tae the bleed efter it leaves here?”
“Well,” Sheila said. “It goes for testing first.”
“Testing?”
“Well, you know, Aids and viruses and things.”
The woman was suddenly horrified. “ye’re testin my bleed for Aids?”
“It’s just routine.”
“Well,” humphed the woman, “ye’re wastin yer time testin my bleed for Aids. I dinna ging oot at nicht.”
RETIRED BUS-DRIVER Alan Ogg remembers the long-standing love–hate relationship involving his father and one of his father’s closest pals, who lived across the road in Kittybrewster, Aberdeen.
“Ye’re wastin yer time testin my bleed for Aids.”
“Bill and my dad had been through school together, through the war together, raised their families together and done everything together,” Alan wrote. “They were also hellish stubborn and were prone to falling out and not speaking for weeks, even though both families could see they thought the world of each other and were lifelong devoted pals.
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