The Gaelic Mistake

09/19/2005

I am invited by chums to attend a day or two of the Mull Mod; this is now an annual event and considered to be a warm up for the National Mod, which will be in Stornoway this year. I am a firm believer in our attempts to keep the Gaelic language thriving although a couple of generations of Trollaighs have passed since we could claim to be proper Gaels. Dearest Dottie can hold a simple conversation in Gaelic and I can buy a horse or ask for a dram in a tinker’s version, but little else. The Mull Mod is inspiring and I spend a day or two in the Aros hall listening to wonderful singing, recitation and music particularly by youngsters who are greatly encouraged by their schools. Gaelic singing differs from the English presentation in that the girls are frequently a low baritone and often larger than the male competitors who have a high, clear pitch and to a man sport gelled hair in that ghastly, nerdish saw-tooth fringe so beloved by Tommy Sheridan. There are, of course only two Gaelic songs. The boys sing of drunken remorse in Glasgow, where the hero is desperate to return to his home croft on Lewis but is thwarted by intoxication, not knowing where he is in the cruel, benighted city, and of course lack of funds that have been stolen by the beastly publicans. The girls also sing of remorse in Glasgow, but here the heroine knows she can never return to Lewis as, having resisted, she has surrendered her virtue to a sly city rogue, and wishes she had not been so silly. I am prevailed upon to present a prize, having watched the ripples of laughter and polite applause that greets other judges and prize presenters, I attempt a word or two of Gaelic congratulation to the prize-winning choir, however, this is met with stony silence from the stage, the only sound being the awkward shuffling of seats in the hall. Trollaigh blows it again! Your Aye, Archie, The Baron Trolliagh.