Preface
Uniquely amongst European jurisdictions, Scotland recently introduced a law that blurs the distinction between what constitutes a criminal offence and what gives rise to personal offence.
The Offensive Behaviour at Football and Threatening Communications (Scotland) Act 2012 passed into statute the concept that a criminal offence is committed if a person acts in a manner “that a reasonable person would be likely to consider offensive”. The law is applicable only in the domain of football, and an offence is committed whether or not persons likely to be offended by the behaviour in question actually witness it.
An unintended consequence of the new law is an emerging phenomenon whereby football fans listen intently to live radio and television broadcasts of matches involving rival teams, and attempt to identify songs or chants that they might claim to be offended by. Thus, Scottish Football is now characterised in part by a parallel, less noble competition in which grown men compete to find offence in the songs and chants of supporters of rival teams at matches they are not themselves attending.
In the process, defining what is and what ought to be offensive has degenerated into a puerile game of tit-for-tat between rival supporters, police and prosecutors, played out in the criminal courts in front of increasingly vexed Sheriffs.
The working class game of football that gave rise to the culture of “Come on over here if you think you’re hard enough” has spawned a generation of supporters seemingly so in touch with their sensitive side as to be the spiritual heirs of the National Viewers’ and Listeners’ Association.
In this context…
Parrot Fashion
One of the charms of holidaying in Gozo is living cheek by jowl with the Gozitans, lovely people. This is by no means a purpose built package holiday resort, rather more a Mediterranean Arran, with the beauty of the island enjoyed by tourist and resident alike.
Thus our apartment block, overlooking the terraced harbour of the old fishing village of Qbajjar, in addition to providing holiday accommodation for our family – me, my wife and son – is home to number of local families: parents and kids; fishermen and insurance brokers; cats and parrots.
Yes, parrots. Or more accurately, a parrot and a mynah bird, who live in their own cages on the balcony opposite us.
Each evening they like to sing and whistle. Whether to themselves, each other, or the rest of the block is not known, but sing and whistle they do, and some fine tunes at that.
The parrot will start the performance with a wolf whistle. The mynah bird responds with a verse of “Happy Birthday”. The parrot then goes into a segue of exotic whistles and caws, the mynah upstaging him with the chorus from My World by Tim Kay – presumably his owner is an avid viewer of ‘Jamie Oliver at Home’.
The whole repertoire goes on for about an hour each evening before the pair of them finish up the night by taking requests.
Over recent evenings, my son has taken to requesting the chorus of “With Cat-like Tread” from the classic Gilbert and Sullivan opera Pirates of Penzance. He’s got rather eclectic taste in music you understand, notwithstanding that this popular tune was adopted decades ago by supporters of Celtic FC as a club anthem, the very club the boy supports.
Of course, he has had to spend some time each evening whistling the chorus across the yard such that the birds could pick up the tune, but sure enough, after 4 evenings of dedicated tutoring, and to great delight, the wee yellow billed mynah bird picked it up and carried it off pitch perfectly.
Saturday is changeover day in Gozo, and a new family arrived on holiday at the apartments, a Scots couple with their teenage son and daughter. It’s a long trek from Scotland, an early morning departure for a 3½ hour flight followed by a coach ride across Malta, before the ferry to Gozo and onwards to Qbajjar. We had spotted the new family arriving late in the afternoon, hauling their cases and bags from the main road up the narrow cobbled boat path to the reception, and it was clear that the combination of travel fatigue and the Mediterranean summer heat had taken its toll on our new friends.
While the kids were eager to drop their bags and get onto the beach, the parents looked somewhat less energetic. The man’s polo shirt had apparently shrunk, a middle aged spread bursting out below a top that was a duotone butterfly print rendered in pure sweat. Harsh words were sent in the direction of the kids, by now in the sea, bags abandoned on the boat path.
His wife was in little better mood: Dragging her case across the cobbles, heels and wheels clacking like errant castanets, her face pink and puffy following the long journey and the stuffy coach ride. The humidity had clearly taken its toll on the tangle of seaweed that was the poor woman’s hair. It was impossible not to feel for her.
That evening, while enjoying our by now customary aperitifs in the harbour-side bar below the apartment, the newcomers came in and took up an adjacent table. It was clear that a couple of hours in their air conditioned apartment, a nap, perhaps a glass of wine, had quite restored the pair of them. Indeed, she was utterly transformed, the very vision of East Kilbride elegance in a printed summer dress and slingback sandals, the beautifully shaped hair framing a perfectly made up face. Thank god for GHDs. What an effort. What a result. Brava!
She and I exchanged a polite smile as her husband ordered their drinks from Benard, our charming host. At the time I made nothing of his odd reaction to being served a Magners cider rather than the Dry Blackthorn he had requested. Perhaps the hot Maltese sun and cold Cisk lager had dulled my instincts. Perhaps I had left them far behind in Glasgow.
Nevertheless, everything seemed as it ought to be as we supped our drinks and chatted, the turquoise harbour water lapping the stone terraces in front of us. A perfect evening.
On cue, the birds started up, moving through their repertoire of whistles and caws, Happy Birthdays and Jamie Oliver numbers. The newcomers were quite taken by the performance, the two birds receiving great attention and applause from our new friends, each song recognised and whistled along to in turn.
Until…
Until, lapping up the fuss and attention from the audience, the little mynah bird launched into a rousing chorus of “With Cat-like Tread”.
There was a gasp from the next table. A cough. A splutter. A dramatic splatter of cider, followed by a screech, the dreadful screech of a woman ruined. I turned in alarm. The poor dear was covered in her husband’s Magners, the hair devastated, the gargled cider dripping down her face, her makeup melting in the slabber. With her mouth set in a trembling, dumbfounded gape, she looked for all the world as though she had just been dunked head first in the harbour.
It was really rather funny. Indeed my son went off on one, bent over double trying to keep the laughter in. Of course, this set off me and my wife, the pair of us, hands slapped across mouths, choking back the laughter for dear life. To no avail whatsoever. We were, in the vernacular, pishing ourselves.
The infection quickly took hold of the other guests in the bar, the Gozitan fishermen and insurance brokers, the Dutch and the German tourists, parents and children alike, and the whole place rocked with laughter. Poor Benard, waving his serving cloth in vain around the stricken woman, was quite affronted.
The fellow at the next table, recovering from his coughing fit, was now standing, pointing in turn at the bird cage, at his wife and at us: “That!” he exclaimed. “That’s… That’s SECTARIAN!”
It was a curiously sobering moment. I caught my wife’s eye as it slowly dawned on us quite what had occurred. I looked at my boy, then at the mynah bird, and again at my wife. The three of us turned to face the fellow on his feet and his poor, drookit wife, and we simply creased up. Stomach-cramping, table-rattling, knicker-wetting laughter bounced out of the bar and echoed off the harbour buildings around us.
The man’s bewilderment turned to anger, puce faced, finger jabbing anger:
“Look what you’ve done!” he yelled.
“You people. Look what you’ve done!”
“You’ve corrupted a Mynah!”
Treading cat-like, here’s Kevin Kline and the bhoys giving it laldy: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WdJg6Duzzf4
Some Old Hat 