Why stop at the Bible? Let’s translate every book into Doric, from Lady Chatterly’s Bidie–In to Captain Corelli’s Squeezebox

A Buchan man has translated the New Testament into Doric. J. FERGUS LAMONT, arts critic and author of “See You Neist Wik’ – A Post Brechtian Analysis of the Life and Work of Robbie Shepherd’ has been inspired.

When I learned that someone had completed a version of the Gospels in ‘the Mither Tongue’ it struck me that this should be regarded as only the first arabesque in a greater movement. What marks out the argot of the North-East of Scotland, along with its impenetrable obscurity, is its honesty, its blunt, matter-of-fact truthfulness. What better way to reveal the ‘intimmers’ of other great works of literature, until now hobbled by the misfortune of being written in standard English, than to translate them all? Poetry, prose or drama ‘the Doric’ illuminates all writing.

Daffodils; William Wordsworth

I trachled roon, jist on my Todd, confused by unfamiliar hills

Fan fit should I espy, by God, but heaps and heaps o’ Daffodills;

I’m lost nae mair, there’s nae a doubt, I’m on Mounthooly Roundabout!

The Fall of the House of Fraser; Edgar Allen Poe

Durin’ the hale o a dreich, dull day wi the rain batterin doon like stair rods – fit we cry “high summer” here in Aiberdeen – I’d been traipsing doon a verra gloomy and unloved piece o grun – Union Street.  And as I pushed my wye through the winos, pastry-eatin minkers strung oot on drugs and auld folk, strung oot across the width o the pavement, yappin’ awa and blockin the wye through, I cam upon a maist unhappy scene.  There, its wa’s damp and grey and soulless windows starin oout upon an unsympathetic world, unsympathetically butchered and split up into several gaudy shops, wiz the melancholy House of Fraser.

Aye. It’s nae fit it wis.

Hamlet; William Shakespeare

Hamlet: I am Hammy. Prince o’ Denburn. Here I stand atop my highest battlements. Ken ‘is, I’m knackered. Fit a steps there is up here. Hud on, fa’s that? Jings, it’s my da! But he’s deed! Fit is this, ‘You’ve Been Framed’?

Ghost: Wheesht, loon, I’ve somethin’ affa important tae tell ye. There’s been…a murder.

H: Like on Taggart! Fa’s been murdered?

G: Me, ye gype.

H: So that’s fit wye yer deid! Fit happened?

G: I wiz pizened by my ain brither.

H: Nae… feel Uncle Cloddy ?!

G: Aye! And noo he’s shacked up with yer ma.

H: I ken. Gadsy, is it?

G: I wint you tae ging an gi’e him a richt good hidin’.

H: Fair enough, da. I’ll dae it.

G: Swear.

H: Ok, I’ll bliddy dae it!

G: Magic. But Hammy, get a bend on. You’re an affa loon for faffin’ aboot! (gings aff)

H: Tae be, or nae tae be, Fit a scunner. Is it better tae tak it on the chin or gi’e it a square go – oot in the car park! Tae snuff it. The big sleep. Tatties. Wid that be better than hunders o’ wee electric shocks? Tae sleep, mebbes tae dream. Aye, that’s the danny o’ it. But fit dae ye dream aboot, fan ye’ve shoogled aff this mortal coil? It’s nae going tae be scoring the winner for the Dons at Hampden, is it!? My mither’s shacked up with my uncle. My uncle’s murdered my da. My da, fa’s deid, keeps nipping ma heed. And my blonde thinks I’m a nutter an a’!

VIEW FROM THE MIDDEN – Rural affairs with MTV (Meikle Wartle Television) presenter, JOCK ALEXANDER

There wiz excitement this wik in the village fan we saw got an unexpected visit fae fugitive Julian Assange.  Apparently, efter a pucklie wiks in the Ecuadorian embassy, he wiz sick tae the back teeth o’ cocoa an yucca plants, and decided tae try a different hidey-hole afore wee Wullie Haig made good on his threats and sent in the SAS. And if you need a place that’s totally unknown tae the rest o’ civilization, far better than Meikle Wartle?Wi’ jist the one phone box and nae CCTV we’re fairly ‘aff the grid’ here in the village. Ye cannae be traced fan ye use yer credit card in Meikle Wartle, cause we dinna tak plastic. In fact, we dinna tak Sterling; oor local currency is neeps and tatties. So Julian fairly thought this wid be the place for him. Unfortunately, his visit wisnae a total success and afore lang he wis back doon in Knightsbridge  chapping on the embassy door and smelling faintly of sharn. He’d turned up at Mains O’ Skitteryhippen fairm asking Wullie Kemp for Asylum. Unfortunately, Wullie’s getting a bittie deef, so he pit him in a silo. For a wik. But he’s nae the first fugitive fae justice we’ve hid in Meikle Wartle, ye ken. We hid Lord Lucan here for a filie, back in the 1970’s. He wis a fine lad, nae trouble tae naeb’dy and kept himself tae himself. Maist o’the time he jist hung aboot wi that great muckle sumpf wi the funny name, Elvis fae Persley. Mind you, he hid a rare singing voice. His bothy ballads wis second tae neen. Elvis I mean, nae Lord Lucan. He couldna cairry a tune in a bucket.