You’ll have to excuse me but this post will need writing in forms of the English language that cause my spell-checker to have heart failure. The Southerners amongst you will have to google half the words or check with my beloved friend Mr. Gallagher.
Today we discovered that “identity” and “ethnicity” have absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with place of birth. Our hound Titch is Spanish. We rescued him from hanging and slow death as a puppy but his origins are pure “Govan”
Let me fill you in (in Govan-speak that would mean punch your face but …) He is a native of a tenement in a Glasgow district that makes Paisley look refined. His preferred Saturday evening pastimes are getting pissed out of his head and shagging himself stupid (I know this because every litter of puppies born in this village have the tell-tale Titch V neck jumper in tan colour).
He is a footie fan – dog style. Anything else can be on the TV and he ignores it, being engrossed in kipping, licking his nether parts or other dog delicious activities but… another canine on the screen and he is glued to it, ears up, head cocked and obviously following every move – I swear he even screams “Referee’s ferkin blind” when another dog loses.
Today, however, he nailed his colours to the mast when my husband inadvertently made “deep fried Mars Bars” … he left some pain-au-chocolat on the top of the stove for a bit too long and only when they were smoking did I realise and rescue them. Titch was in heaven. Black on the outside, supremely crunchy, melted chocolate in the middle, a paradise that only a Govanite would understand (I speak, you understand, as a fully paid-up, card-carrying, back-teeth permanently-clenched Morningsider – you have to be Scottish to understand this)
I adore him. My darling wee keelie. I really do not know what slum or favella he came from originally but he is a Govano…up to his enormous teeth and drunken cuddles, calling everyone Big Man and only respectful to Father Léon… a total Govannite! Jaysus love ‘im.