A dangerous thing wi style

Tae dae a dangerous thing wi style is whit ah caw airt — Charles Bukowski As a scriever ye’r no meant tae read ablo-the-line o yer ain airticles, gang gallus intae yon dour Apache laund o Unicode emoticons an racist GIFs an illíterate comments bi fowk wha micht mean wan thing an micht mean anither but naither thing maks ony sense. Ye’r no meant tae dae it, ah say, but …

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Toodily-doo, Flanderinos!

It stairts like this. Ye’r on yer traivels somewhaur — Malta, could be, or Spain. Weel, mebbe no Spain. But whauriver. Somewhaur warm. Touristy. Nice, but no too nice. Say, Turkey. An ye’r in a bar. This daurk wee howff for fowk wha cannae staund the heat. Weel, there’s a queue in this bar, an here’s you, staundin in it. Fower places back fae the front, an there’s nae twa …

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Billy Connolly broke ma hert

Gin ye grew up in a partícular pairt o Scotland at a partícular pynt in time — say the wast coast, say the Eighties — Billy Connolly wis the anely thing that maitered. Set by yer Sex Pistols, forget yer Clash — nane o that stuff iver got throu tae us. The C30s that we swapped around in cless warnae bootleg Bowie; they war taped fae dusty auld vinyls we …

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The First Mínister’s Readin Challenge

Wha kent whit, an whan did they ken it? E’er syne they catcht auld Dick Nixon wi his lug tae the Watergate waw, our politícians hae makkit a guid haundlin out o the doctrine o plausible deniability, itherwise kent as the virtue o unexpectit ignorance. Knawledge, tae our current crop o baby-kissers, is a volatile thing, ayeweys apt tae blaw up in yer face; an in fact is juist like …

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