Yes, but is he really a Scotsman?

If he is, he'll claim Glasgow is the be-all, end-all city of the land of Lochness. I'm partial to Edinburgh but I'm just a yankee gal who is easily impressed by castles and palaces and numerous pubs in between, including the World's End pub (site of the famous World's End Murders.

What is all this gibberish about? Why it's Next Blog Tuesday! Where else would I find all this Scottish inspiration than at Up Yer Kilt, today's Next Blog.

Up Yer Kilt is chock-full of Scots words, which look like gibberish to me. Fortunately, the author provides a link to a dictionary for translation purposes. Unfortunately, I was too lazy to look them up. I was, however, able to piece together than one of his posts involved "a fair bulk o a man" in boxer shorts on his porch with police in the wee hours o tha morn. Sounded interesting but not interesting enough to continue.

The best part of the blog? No sheep being taken advantage of. Second best? The "Things to Do in Boring Office Meetings" post. This one was in English (cut and pasted from a Yank site, no doubt). My favorites included: "Bring a hug jar of Vaseline to the meeting. Display it prominently", and "Bring an doughnut cushion to sit on", and having a poor looking young woman with a baby interrupt the meeting, stare at the speaker, then cry and leave. Good stuff. Do they even work in Scotland? I thought all the did was wear kilts, drink beer and eat haggis.

I did realize there is a word for me in Scottish: gash-gabbit. Look it up.

All this Scottish stuff reminded me of my time in England when I would take the bus up to Edinburgh to meet my Scottish crush, Ian King. When I met Ian he was in the Royal Navy and we were working on a joint task force project outside of London together. I was a wee 18 and living it up after the Gulf War (part 1). By the time I left England, Ian was unemployed, lived with his parents and smoked like a chimney. I called him "Nosmo". Get it? Nosmo King? Yes, I've always been like this. I can't remember what I liked about him other than hanging out at the pub together until one of us fell off our barstool or he was asked to leave. And his mother's stinky couch that I slept on in Edinburgh (I was still innocent back then). Oh, and hiking up to the top of some hill in the dark when it was freezing one night where Ian began singing then fell over and rolled down about twenty feet. One thing about Ian: I never saw him wear a kilt.