Public Apology to Great Britain

Dear Great Britain,

I underestimated you. 

In my last article, I hinted that this country leans more towards the eccentric, rather than the athletic. I assumed, quite inaccurately, that you were best suited for an event with a horse, and probably some boats, because you struck me as a “horse and boat” kind of place.  A place that started Olympic events days before the actual Opening Ceremony, just to get them over with. A place that accidentally swapped the North Korea’s flag with their worst southern enemys’ emblem, just to test the age-old theory that World War III can be sparked by a drunken Glaswegian. A place that proudly advertised that their stadiums were full, only to frantically give away tickets before matches just to fill the side of the stadium that the cameras would see. A proud, athletic nation such as you? How wrong I was!

Jessica Ennis wins Gold in Heptathlon

I mean, obviously I struck a nerve here, because that article was published on the morning which is now titled by every British publication as “Super Saturday”.  The day you not only proved me (and your track record) wrong, but surpassed your highest medal count and came into the Top 3 Medal Holders. You’re right behind China – and the Americans! (In fact, you can keep climbing up – we’d much rather have you as our #2 man. China jus gets on our nerves, especially when they beat us in shooting – that’s practically our national sport!). You won 6 medals that one day– 3 of them in track and field! Where did THAT come from?! And, as much as I hate to admit when my husband is right, he, quite loudly, pointed out how incredible this achievement even is. China has over a BILLION people to choose from and wield into mighty athletes. America has over 310 MILLION. Britain, an island roughly the size of the state of Michigan, has 62 MILLION -- a FIFTH of the US and a SIXTEENTH of China. Compared to China’s billion, Britain’s got slim pickin's. Yet, here you are, World Number 2 (well, at least as of this afternoon as I write this after work without dutifully checking the validity of any of this). As Mike says (over… and over… and over…), it really is quite impressive where Britain manages to squeeze these super athletes from. (Mike would also like to point out here that “all the good athletes on Team GB are Scottish.” I think Sir Chris Hoy, with his record-breaking 6 Olympic medals, and Nicola Adamas, the new, historic Women’s Boxing Champion, would disagree.)

So, my dear Great Britain, I take back the sniggers and cynicism. Even if you did lose half of your horse races to Germany. And you’re not even in the top 6 of the Archery events (Did Robin Hood teach you nothing?!). And your mascot has too many sexual innuendos to count (Come on- it’s a walking one-eyed monster -- and he’s terrifying!). 
We aren’t judging. Not one bit…

But if you include MI5 or some other random government entity in your closing ceremonies like your NHS stunt earlier, then consider yourself severely judged.

Johnny English, MI7. He won't judge. But we will.

Photo Credit:
Image 1: http://www.channel4.com/news/british-olympic-stars-aim-for-super-sunday
Image 2: http://www.listal.com/movie/johnny-english/reviews

Bound by Eccentricity

It's the moment they've been planning for seven long years, and now all eyes are on London.

Dance, Victorian Men, Dance for Britain!

We always felt bad for any host country that had to follow the masterpiece that was Beijing, and it’s safe to say GB is feeling the pressure. They have been desperately trying to stand out from any past Olympics, but, quite honestly, I think they have been 100% successful. For who will forget the dancing Mr. Monopoly men in the 4-hour long Opening Ceremonies? Or Wenlock, the cyclops blob carefully chosen as the Olympic mascot. Or the revolutionary "Boris Bikes" and controversial "Olympic Lanes" that shut down main flows of traffic in the city centre, pushing angry plumbers to be interviewed on the BBC to blast the government for letting toilets all over London overflow. And we will always remember the blinding colour scheme of Magenta and Red. How did the Brits know?! Nothing brings out a gymnast’s youth more than wearing massive amounts of glitter and jumping on a hot pink trampoline in a stadium that looks like it’s sponsored by Benadryl allergy capsules.

But for me, the most memorable part of the Olympics by far is Britain's extreme optimism in the race for medals. Right now, they are showing themselves worthy, but for the first few days it seemed Team GB was just praying to get on the scoreboard. Radio announcers were playing “Songs to Lose To”, and TV announcers were constantly afraid of saying anything that might jinx the team. After so much hype, only three days ago Britain won their first gold. For a host country of the Olympics, under-athleticism is a bit embarrassing. But here's what I love about this country – in EVERY event, without fail, the British announcers talk as though their British Olympian is going to win. Even if they came last in the qualifications, you would never know without seeing the scoreboard yourself, the way the presenters put their athletes, no matter their skill level, on lofty pedestals. And this is what I absolutely love and admire about these plucky Brits. I'll give you a prime example:

Rejected Monsters Inc. characters in rehab

Mike and I love to watch the swimming events. There seems to be one surprise after another, and you can never call who's going to win. A few days ago we were watching one of the women's swimming relays, and Gemma from Team GB was in the far end lane, and Team USA's newest superstar, Missy Franklin, was in the centre lane, where the cameras usually focus. As the race begins, the cameras zoom out to see all the swimmers. Missy is off like a shot, but where are the cameras? They have swept over Missy to focus on Gemma, way off in the back. Missy is halfway done but it sounds like Gemma has a sporting chance of coming back... "Well, Missy Franklin is leading the pack- but look! Look at our Gemma! She's really making a sporting effort! We just have to BELIEVE!"

And this was my favourite part. Missy and half of the other swimmers are leagues ahead, but the cameras are centred on Britain’s only contestant. All the BBC presenters are now shouting, "Come on, Gemma! You can do it! Look at that form! Lovely effort!" In the end,  I don't think the presenters or even Gemma herself realised she had lost the medal. When she touched the wall, the announcers were on their feet cheering, "Well done, Gemma!", as proud as an obsessive Soccer Mom. 30 seconds later, the BBC interviewed Gemma, and I was extremely impressed by her attitude. She walked up to the camera, all smiles, and just repeatedly said how proud she was of her score, and how happy she was to just be a part of the experience. It didn't matter that she had missed the elusive medal because she did something that no one else had done - she made Britain actually get interested in sports for a change (and a female sport at that). And, even more impressive, she had Mike on his feet shouting cheers for Team Great Britain, a feat I never thought could be accomplished. In a time of fervent nationalism in the Welsh and Scottish nations and calls for breakaways and independence, the Olympics have done something incredible and unpredicted. They have bound these separated nations together as one – well, at least for two weeks. 

(As I write this, Mike just rolls his eyes and says dismissively, "The Scots invented the modern world, mind you," and continues watching the great Scot, Andy Murray, play his way into the finals.)

Photo credit

Image 1: http://assets.sbnation.com/assets/1261800/kungfulincolns.gif

Image 2: http://wemadethis.typepad.com/we_made_this/2010/05/2012-olympic-mascots-launched.html

The African Mating Dance

We all have this friend. You know the one, the special friend who gets herself into ridiculous situations on a regular basis. The one who starts fights in night clubs due to a "misuse of a ladder" or who gets put into hiding in the backroom of a homeless shelter because one of the clients mistook her for the "tart tha ruined me an ma brothers! Aye no, cauz aye never ferget ah face!" (true stories). Well, in my social circle I am this crazy person. And last night was just another typical evening.

Mike and I had not been "out" out in a long time (going "out" out, for all you men, means having the opportunity to spend an hour on makeup and wear a new sparkly dress), and since it was a holiday we decided to temporarily leave our hermit lifestyle and make a night of it. After spending hours on hair (Mike) and makeup (me), we were fit to be seen, and met up with old friends at a packed out swanky pub near town.  After a few drinks we all hailed cabs and made our way down to the main event of the night. One of the popular night clubs was hosting a large, glitzy party, and the place was packed out. The drinks were pouring freely. The music pumping deafeningly. Just by those three elements, we should have predicted what was to come next.

The club is situated between two floors. The ground floor is lined with bars but doesn't have much dance space. After 11:00, however, the intimidatingly large bouncers pull the heavy velvet drapes back to reveal a wide spiral staircase, leading to the "VIP dance room", which is really just a larger and wilder dance floor. This is where we were all headed.

The dance floor in the VIP room has several large platforms to dance on, all at various heights, and each can hold a large amount of people. For a laugh, a few friends and I jumped up on one of the lower platforms, mainly to get out of the hot mass of people dancing on the floor below where Mike and his mates still were. After a few minutes, all of us on the platform were having fun and competing for the stupidest dance moves (a game I usually conquer). At one point I gracefully tripped into the rail and nearly fell off, but regained my balance, and we all carried on our merry way, completely oblivious to anything else going on in the club.

A few seconds later, we heard loud shouts coming from below us. I peered down to see a guy in a far-too-tight white Armani t-shirt -- well, it had been white at one point, but now it was a blotchy pink colour -- arguing with Mike, and they both looked furious. I was trying to figure out what had happened, when Mr. Armani scowled and started shaking his fist at me, his face contorted into some Red Phase Picasso design. Because of the loud music and my obliviousness, I still couldn't figure out what was going on. Relying on the strength of Girl Power, I decided to look to the the guy's date for some kind of sign. And boy, did I get one. She glared up at me (quite an achievement considering the 10 pounds of heavy eye makeup she had painted on) and made some crude X-rated hand jives so creatively I was almost impressed, then took a large swig of her drink. That's when I noticed all the drinks lined up along the edge of the platform. Mr. Armani had been using the ledge as a drink counter -- bad judgement on his part, I might add -- and as I had stumbled, I had kicked his fruity red drink (really, HOW unmanly could this guy get!?) all over what had once been a brand-new £120 ($190) t-shirt. And he wasn't too pleased with me for it.

Now, Mike's tactics weren't exactly helpful either. If anyone has ever watched Madagascar and seen the Lemurs do their "I Like to Move It, Move It" dance, that is Mike. For those unprepared, it can be quite disturbing. So while Mr. Wastes-Money-On-Ugly-Shirts was yelling at Mike to "control his woman," Mike was still obliviously swinging his hips all around the dance floor, which, to the untrained eye, can seem more like threatening spasms. His weird African mating dance moves must have intimidated the now Very Angry Armani Man, and before Mike even realised I was the cause of all this mayhem, Mr. Armani girlishly shrieked at Mike, mid-pelvic thrust, and the shouting had commenced.

Not wanting things to escalate further, I bounded off the platform to save the day like Superwoman. Unfortunately, my heel caught in one of the steps, and I ended up doing more of a Mr. Magoo stumble-turned-somersault onto a very sticky floor. By now I had managed to piss off half the people in the club. The Bouncers must have agreed, because the next thing I knew there were two of them on us, took one look at Mr. Armani in Pink, and we were booted out without even an "excuse me" or an "off ya go."

Needless to say, I think there was a reason we were living a hermit lifestyle. Perhaps Scotland just isn't ready for me yet. Or perhaps society in general isn't ready for Mike's dancing.

*Picture credit to animatedtv.about.com

A Troll Named NED

Over the last few months Michael and I have been casually house hunting (and when I say "Michael and I" I mean me), and one common issue has been quite recurrent: False Advertising. Ads will claim "beautiful Victorian home, 2 bedrooms with real character." The picture (and there's only one provided) will show the outside of a stately home, half-obscured by shrubbery. At the bottom, in fine print, the ad states "Buyer Beware- property comes as is." All in all, tha ad is deceptively saying, "This house is terrifyingly old! Termites have carved "creative" designs all throughout the walls! Fleas are dancing in what remains of the carpets! The atmosphere is so heavy the house will probably collapse next week!" These are all tips and signs I've learned over the years, but when I initially arrived in this country I was much more naive.

When I first moved to Scotland I was living in Glasgow's West End, which sounded quite posh. The brochure for my new flat showed pictures of upscale cocktail lounges and designer shopping, and I imagined myself living the high life. The reality was a bit more stark. My flat was in Maryhill, which I quickly learned is the long forgotten outskirts of the West End. The "spacious and clean" rooms advertised were the size of a typical walk-in closet and suspicious stains littered the carpet and mattress. The biggest shock were the thick steel bars on my window. Whether they were to keep dark intruders out or keep me locked in was a true mystery.

In order to get to my flat from the "real" West End you had to cross 2 bridges. At the entrance to my flat was the first bridge arching over the dirty canal water. Every week there were new surprises littered along the banks: a stolen bicycle, a car engine, a few discarded murder weapons. The NEDs ("Non-Educated Delinquents") used to love hiding under the bridge and jumping out when you came to pass, like ugly trolls from those disturbing fairy tales. It was hard to avoid these creepers. The second bridge was much larger, spanning across the River Kelvin just past the beautiful Botanic Gardens. Now, as I stated earlier, Glasgow's West End has a reputation of being quite high-end, and certainly it is in many places. But on my daily walk from Glasgow Uni, at the centre of the West End, to Maryhill, the scary borderlands, the serene atmosphere could change instantly once you hit the Kelvin Bridge.

Quite often I would spend my evenings with my flatmate and friends who had had enough sense to spend more than 5 seconds on the brochures and, consequently, lived in beautiful, large high ceiling flats next to the university. Usually we would take a cab back if it was dark, but one unlucky evening I was attending a party at one of these flats and somehow misplaced my purse amongst the rubble on the floor. As it was still early by Glaswegian terms (earlier than midnight), and it was a clear night for once, my flatmate and I decided a moonlit walk would be a nice change. One thing I should mention is that we lived in a large block of student flats, and typically on a Saturday night everyone else was making this migration from the centre to Maryhill, so it was very rare to be without at least a few other students walking nearby. Since we had left a bit early, however, we had unintentionally beat the usual migrating herd. After a few minutes walking, Sarah asked if she could make a quick stop at the chippy around the corner (the fish and chips shops are open all hours of the night). I wasn't hungry, so I slowly continued walking towards the bridge to wait.

The streets were eerily quiet. Even my footsteps echoed softly. As I approached the Kelvin Bridge, I could hear another sound mingling in with the whoosh of the swirling river below and the faint murmur of the chip shop. It sounded like... a bell. On a bicycle. I turned around, saw nothing, but quickened my pace as I crossed the river.


Ding! Ding!

I heard it again! But this time it was different...

"OI YOU!" 

I whipped around, and coming at me at a surprising speed was tiny bright pink and floral bicycle, and riding it was a mammoth of an old man with a long beard and an angry Scottish accent. He looked absolutely livid.


"OI YOU LASSIE, GEET AFF MA BRRREEDGE!"

He was pedalling furiously, the glittering pink ribbons on the handlebars streaking through the night air. I was cemented to where I stood, jaw dropped. I didn't know whether to be petrified or rolling on the ground laughing on his "brreedge" (bridge).

That's when I noticed something.

The now heavily wheezing old man was not riding a bike, but a trike -- a little girl's trike -- with fragile training wheels. Not your usual Britain's Most Wanted criminal. Even at his unthreatening speed, the tiny training wheels were spinning so fast they were in danger of flying off. As he came closer, I decided to get the hell off the man's bridge. I was racing in my 3-inch heels like a sprinter in a Miss America contest.

"What the hell? What the hell!" I shouted back. What else can you say when a crazed pensioner is trying to run you down on a 5-year old girl's tricycle?

"AH AM THE KEEEPERRR OF THA BRRREEDGE!" screamed the man, who had obviously mixed too much booze and theatre together in his day. I was now close enough to see his twisted mouth open widely as he laughed insanely (this man must have escaped from a high-security nursing home). I was also close enough to witness the sudden confusion in his eyes when his trike was abruptly stopped mid-air. One of the training wheels had hit a rock and unbalanced the imbalanced man, suddenly careening his glittering trike down the embankment and stopping just short of the river.

I ran to the edge of the bridge and peered over. Without missing a beat, the man looked up and announced, defeated, "You shall pass." I didn't need permission -- I booked it out of there, heels in hand, until I was around the corner at the shop. When Sarah saw me she didn't believe my story, and we began laughing hysterically at the insanity of it all.

Looking back, I often wonder if the brochures for my flat had shown Glasgow's true character, would I have chosen this city? If Glasgow was represented by a picture of Ned the Pensioner Bridge Troll, I hate to think I would have turned away. Because really, I wouldn't have wanted to miss a single crazy story in this mental town. And I speak from experience.

The Wannabe Local

After living abroad for over 3 years by now, you would think I would be quite settled in, no longer the "Outsider". For the most part, I can understand the extremely varied Scottish accents and can even direct you to the nearest loch or tavern in most of the country's main cities. On more than one occassion I have been stopped in the street by a passing tourist (usually Australian- they are everywhere!) or just an extremely drunk Scotsman to be asked to give directions. Nothing makes you feel more like a local than to direct a staggering drunk to the nearest bookie.

 Every now and then, however, small incidents occur that tarnish that thin layer of pride. Small, stupid things that make even the most mature ex-pats feel like a complete idiot. This happens quite often to me. Only last week I was sending a package to the States from my local post office in Wishaw. In fact, it was my friend's lingerie party gift, and I was late in sending it, as usual. I rarely send packages, and if I do I'm with Michael, my locally-knowledgeable hubby who is fluent in Glaswegian and "Wishy", amongst other Scottish variants of what was once the English language.

Now, just to justify my actions of this day, in the States when you send a package abroad you are given a large customs sticker, on which you are required to write your recipient's address as well as your return. Apparently this is not the case in Scotland. After waiting in the queue for at least 15 minutes (Post Office lines are always ridiculously lengthy because most people don't actually use it to post anything), I was called by a mechanical voice to approach the counter. I had already been raising eyebrows by others in the queue by lugging around an awkwardly large box (the only one I had in the house), and, having ran out of clear packaging tape, piecing it together with bits of black duct tape and bright yellow Scotch tape (I believe at one point the tape was white, but after several years of ageing had somehow transformed into a papyrus-like state). Needless to say, it was the least attractive package in the queue.

Heaving my poor, awkward parcel onto the counter, I announce to the teller that I am sending it abroad.

"Contents?"

"What?" What kind of greeting was that?

The woman glanced up from her computer screen and looked at me like I was purposely trying to be difficult. "What are the contents of your parcel?"

Already flustered,  I start to stammer because I suddenly can't think of a more tactful way to say, "the entire back shelf of Anne Summers." (My best friend is getting married, so I figured I might as well give her a present worth remembering).

As I'm still thinking of a better fib, the woman gave a disapproving glare at my pathetic wrapping skills and said, "I'm not accepting that."

At this point I'm a bit shocked and getting angry, so I replied, "It may be an eye-sore, but you can't deny my package based on looks! What kind of judgemental institute is this, anyway?" and I looked over my shoulder at the line of people behind me, trying to rally support at this injustice.

Rolling her eyes, the irritable woman said, "You can wrap it in 10 more colours for all I care, but that package is going nowhere without an address. Where did you think you were coming?" and with a sharp dismissive wave of her hand she called on the next customer without another glance in my direction, leaving me to walk out through the obvious sniggers of the other customers.

The moral of the story is: there is always more to learn. And: never send embarrassing presents without a solid cover story first! Or just stick to online shopping ;)

Gushing entrails and slagging off

Oh dear, I have been very neglectful of writing these past few weeks. I can assure you, though, you did not miss out on too much. In the past month I have had food poisoning twice and the flu in between. Lucky me. But, I have learned from these experiences. For example:

1. Indian food should never be “experimental."
2. Never let your Scottish boyfriend try to cook for you an “authentic American dish.”

One exciting thing that happened recently, though, was Scotland’s annual holiday of Burns Night, which celebrates Scotland’s national bard, Robert Burns. The traditional Burns Night includes the procession of the haggis, where a bagpiper leads a silver-plated haggis between the dinner guests. This is followed by the recitation of Burns’ “Ode to a Haggis”, which is written in Scots dialect and is therefore completely incomprehensible. Here is my favorite stanza:

“His knife see rustic Labour dight,


An cut you up wi ready slight,


Trenching your gushing entrails bright,

Like onie ditch;


And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm-reekin, rich!”

You are about to eat this food, which, I will warn you, is banned in the US because it consists of sheep’s livers, lungs, and other organs, and the bard is trying to excite you about eating it by describing the sight as “gushing entrails.” Yum.

"Warm-reekin', rich!"

Of course, I cannot say anything against the poor haggis, as I have eaten it for breakfast, lunch and dinner before. Nothing like some sheep lungs to get you energized for the day!

At the Burns Supper, I was asked in advance to write and recite a toast. Formal toasts are an official part of the evening, and I was honored to be chosen, though slightly daunted. Traditionally, the first toast is a toast to the Bard, describing his life and accomplishments. This is followed by a Toast to the Lassies, where a man lovingly teases the women. Women have the last word, though, as the toasts end with the Reply to the Toast to the Lassies. This was my bit.

Since I had never done a Burns toast before, I was unsure of the traditions, so I asked locals. The women told me, “Just make sure you slag off the men as MUCH as possible!” Often this was accompanied by a whispered, “We’re all counting on you!” Apparently some of my female friends have built up anger against the other sex. Mike, for his part, just told me to make it rhyme. I spent quite some time perfecting my rhyming toast, and with some pointers from Mike, I finally finished. When it was my turn to present to the hundred or so folks in the room, though, I realized I had put myself into a bit of a pickle. I had been told by all to tease the men ruthlessly, and I had done so quite happily (perhaps too easily…). But when Lawrence, the lad giving the toast to the lassies, was speaking, he called us women “pure angels” and “lights of the world” and on and on with deep respect and love. What was this?! I was not expecting such praise! And here I was, poem in hand, with nothing but jabs at the poor men. Whoops! Luckily, the toast ended up being a success (I gave a good disclaimer at the beginning apologizing for being a soon-to-be-married woman and therefore having a lot of material to use against the men). I will leave you all with the very toast I recited. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed performing it!

Ashlee’s Reply to the 'Toast to the Lassies':

"For all you folks who find my speech odd,

I’ll first admit that I’m from abroad.

So I won’t use words like “wee” or “blether”

Unlike Burns and his “Tam O Shanter.”

Still I can speak of our fine lads here

Even if my speech is slightly unclear.

For men are men from sea to sea,

And I’ll speak of them quite happily.

Every Laddie needs a Lass

Just as every girl needs someone to harass.

For men are nothing if not charming

(Despite their noises, which are most alarming!).

From their love of toys and cars

To their wont of brawls in bars,

Men are something to adore

Until you ask of something more.

When men are asked to do the dishes

All your words are hopes and wishes.

Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile –

All the clothes are in a pile!

The brand-new iron’s on the brink;

There’s loads of dishes in the sink;

All the socks are on the floor—

I just can’t take it anymore!

A fuse is blown in the telly,

The toilet’s getting kinda smelly.

The drain is blocked, the faucet leakey,

Men’s DIY is kind of freaky.

Here he comes with tools in hand

If only he could understand

That screwdriver up in the air

Doesn’t mean that he should dare.

The toilet’s gone, the sink is missing

I’m pretty sure the oven’s hissing.

All they do is moan and groan

While we get a professional on the phone.

But maybe we should not dismay

For men, they just get carried away

They get these ideas in their minds

But to women’s intuition they are blind.

Despite this fault they certainly excel,

For who else can eat and sleep so well?

They’re always quick to answer your call

As long as you promise dinner and all.

With strength and bravery they have no rival,

Although their displays can be quite tribal.

Like the painted face of William Wallace

The men are quick to show their boldness.

Give them a drink and they have nerve to display

A box full of chocolates and a pretty bouquet.

They’ll romance us with dance moves on Saturday night

(And let me just say, it’s not a pretty sight!)

They can flatter and court the ladies so well

And make us feel like a right Southern Belle.

And let’s just admit it, ladies, you know

We all like a little boost of ego.

So really we need the men in our lives

And not just for someone to tease and chastise.

The two of us go hand in hand

No matter where you claim your homeland.

Having met my share of men

I have only one conclusion

Without a doubt there’s no contest,

The Laddies from Scotland are always the best!

So Ladies please raise your glass to toast

These fine men we love the most."

Raise your Pipes with Pride

Actor Gerard Butler shows Scottish Pride

January is kind of an exciting time in Scotland. Sure, the temperatures barely hover above zero; and yes, the wind it so strong it continually sends your hat on long adventures through the crowded city streets and into random people’s faces. But besides all of that, the first weeks of January are an exciting build up to one of Scotland’s biggest holidays, Burns Night. To prepare, every January Scotland hosts a series of concerts, Robert Burns poetry recitations, and haggis promoting. Really it’s just yet another excuse to get drunk (just like Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays…). But it’s also a nice time that the country reflects on its roots and celebrates its cultural highlights, something more countries should do, in my opinion.

The main festival to promote this party/introspective time is called Celtic Connections. The festival has many positive points. On the one hand, the blustery January weather is made slightly less bleak when you can dance a little jig in it. And there are some great artists and up-and-coming talents promoted, including one of my favorite pianists, Craig Armstrong. On the other hand, the lines that define “Celtic” music are bit blurred in these festivals sometimes. My friends and I went to one of the Celtic Connections concerts on Saturday and found this first-hand. Although the first act was the expected fiddle-stomp-and-clap-your-hands music that I love, the following acts were just stretching the definition. One of these interlopers had the saucy stage name of the “Wild Women of Edinburgh.” However, the band ended up being five middle-aged and slightly out of tune women who tried to be “American jazzy”, which was confusing at a Scottish Celtic music concert.

Electric ceilidh music, album by The Borders, 2009

Despite all this, I am not trying to bemoan the traditional festival. But, really, I miss the fiddles. And the jigs. What happened to my university days when you could walk into a local Gaelic pub and be guaranteed to hear at a least a little Gaelic spoken and definitely live music playing. Locals would bring their bagpipes and violins and play together, just for fun, in the pubs. (I like to think every true Scotsman/woman carries these around on their daily commute, just in case they should happen to pass a Gaelic pub and be moved to dance). There’s nothing wrong with a little experimentation – go ahead and add that electric bass guitar! – but it would be terribly sad to see this wonderful genre of music diluted and dulled by adding too many “global influences." I would be interested to hear other people's opinions on this...

Come on Scotland, let’s go back to your stereotypical roots and stop trying so hard to be American or French or anything else (and certainly not “jazzy”.). What’s cooler than kilts and ceilidhs, anyways? That’s right – nothing!