Roadside Cafe Rage
Anyone who has ever driven on the A90 to Aberdeen will have passed this building.
This is the Stracathro Services near Brechin. Frequented by truckers and the country’s future heart attack patients.
I don’t know how well you can see the sign but just in case you can’t read it I will display it for you here:
Ye May Gang Faur and Fare Waur
What the blue blazes does that sign mean?
For years as a kid, I would drive past with my parents and we would all go on about how never in our entire lives have we heard anything approximating this phrase. At first we put it down to being Weegies. Perhaps after a couple of years in the land of the Aberdonian Doric speaking environs we would be able to understand it. But no, it is not Doric. It is just utter pish.
We think it means this:
You May Go Far and Fare Worse.
What kind of ad is that for an eating establishment?
Let’s break it down, shall we? In fact let’s imagine we are trying to get a concrete answer from the utter moron who thought it up all those years ago.
Are we actually saying, “There’s worse food out there but you’d have to travel far to find it?” No?
So, are you saying, “Our food is so bad that worse cannot be found in the immediate vicinity?” No?
So, let me get this right, you’re then saying, “Our food is fucking terrible but there’s not another restaurant for 40 miles, so you might as well put up or shut up.” No?
So, to recap, you’re saying, “You may go far, but there’s a hell of a lot worse out there than our crap, so what the hell are you complaining about” No?
Well what are you saying then? Is it a greeting? Is it a warning? Is it a Northern Scottish version of “Bon Appetit!”?
Oh, I’m getting really annoyed just contemplating it. Nothing quite enrages Meeester and me as the sight of this building. The Flying Martinis drive up and down Glasgow a lot, to remind ourselves why we stay in Aberdeen amongst other things. Each time we pass this eyesore, we go into rant mode. Or at least we used to.
Actually, we don’t rant as much anymore, as Meeester gets so worked up about it, that he can’t vent without swearing and now we have two impressionable kids in the back, he can’t get away with it. The rants have now subsided to Meeester grimacing, a vein popping out on his temple, and the delivery of the two fingered salute in the direction of the establishment. Just to make sure we register our displeasure.
In fact, it’s a ritual. Once we went past and I didn’t see him give the Services sign the Vs.
“How remiss,” I thought.
I double checked with him, “Did you..?”
“Yes, I did it back there, quickly” he assured me.
It’s like I am checking with him that he put the kids’ seatbelts on or he switched the gas fire off before we left. If we forget to do it one time, would we have to do a U-Turn and submit our rude gesture before making our way on our planned journey? I think possibly we would.
What is it about that sign that enrages us so? I think it’s a number of things:
- It is bloody typical of that Scottish negative turn of phrase. Another example of this is:
Person A: “How are you?”
Person B: “Nae bad”
Or, worse:
Person A: “How’s it going?”
Person B: “Cannae complain”
Like it’s disappointing that they can’t complain! How gutting! What a nightmare, I can’t complain!
- It’s not a phrase! Has anyone ever been offered a sandwich at someone’s house and been cajoled into accepting it by the phrase,
“Well, ye may gang far and fare waur”.
“Oh, okay then, load me up, odd lady!”
- It is twee. I bet the tourists love it. They think we speak like that! We don’t. I feel angry and misrepresented. No wonder Gaelic is dying.
- Everyone who wonders about the sign goes in at least once to the “restaurant” (the loosest use of a word ever) to find out the answer to the riddle. They leave with amoebic dysentery. My in-laws were caught out with this not two years ago.
So can I ask you all should you ever pass the Stracathro Services, to join us in raising those two fingers aloft? And if you don’t plan on coming up this way soon, but would like to join in anyway, then scroll back to the photo at the top of the post and similarly give the place the respect it deserves.
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Stop Press: Head on over to Top Blog Magazine to read my post Paper, Pregnancy and the Princess as well as other primo stuff. It’s a little different from the usual Misssives fare. And if that doesn’t entice you over then perhaps if I say “Ye may Gang Faur fae the Misssives and Fare Waur”? Arrgghghgh!
Pimp My Ride…
There are certain things in life that people say have happened but your whole life you’ve never seen any evidence of and you begin to think are urban myths. Here’s a few:
Getting a tax rebate;
Getting upgraded to first class by the airplane check in clerk cos she likes your face;
Winning the car you bought a raffle ticket for in the shopping centre;
Duvet day policy at work- (do you know anyone whose work has this? It’s a myth!);
Santa Claus;
Being “spotted” and made the next big thing by some Svengali;
Being upgraded from bog standard hotel room to a lux suite.
Well, smack my arse and call me Paris Hilton, we were upgraded in the Davis Hotel (our most expensive hotel room- end of trip treat) to the Ambassador suite!
In fact the way it was done was just beautiful.
Bedroom 1
Receptionist (to me): “Excuse me madam, would you mind if we upgraded you and your family to the Ambassador suite”.
Would I mind? Would I mind?!
“That’ll be fine,” I say calmly, whilst inner Gill shouts “Ambassador suite!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!We’ve made it !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!Aaaarrgggghhhhh!Hahahahahahhahaha!”
So we are taken to the suite by our porter who, rather cheekily, I thought, enquires, “Did you book this suite or were you upgraded?”
He is clearly stunned that such obvious plebs are setting foot in the suite to do something other than clean it.
“Upgraded,” I confess (“What’s it to ya?” Inner Gill thinks)
“This is the best suite we have in this wing of the hotel” This guy still can’t believe we’ve been allowed in.
“Hmmm” I say (“I’m tired of you doubting our suitability to this strata of luxury, my man. Now let us in so we can all run around naked screaming, open all the free soaps, drink the mini bar and wash our undies in the Jacuzzi,” Inner Gill snarls)
I’m getting the picture here and I think back to ten minutes ago. This was the guy who met us at the door. Let’s switch on the 70’s Blake’s Seven going back in time visual effect and return to yesterday in Kanchananburi. The scene is this, booking our taxi to Bangkok from a sixty/seventy year old guy who looked like one of Magnum’s contacts with longhair, moustache, opened Hawaiian short and flip flops. He wants 1,800 Baht (about £30) for the fare which is OK considering the hotel is advertising a taxi for twice that. He wants it paid in advance. No, we may be farang but we’re not stupid farang, mate. We give him half now, say we’ll pay other half when safely arrived in Bangkok.
John checks something before handing over the cash, “This taxi is air-conditioned?”
“Yes, yes, is big Toyota, has air conditioning!” he assures us
Next morning our cab turns up. It has rope keeping the boot shut, has a need of a great deal of panel beating repair work, is not a make of car known to man, is filthy and yes, that’s right, the air-conditioning consists of…opening a window. Only one of which in the back seat actually opens.
But it does have the additional features of a taxi driver with ferociously long nails (going for that Guinness Record, I think), an array of Hindu icons of deities arranges along the dashboard, a Sistine chapel-like fresco painting in engine oil on the car ceiling (do cars have ceilings? You get my drift) and plastic seats which given the absence of ac and the fact we’re all wearing shorts, makes for a thrush inducing ride from hell.
It gets s worse and John is responsible. Figuring we’ve got 2 and a half hours in this chariot of hell, he spies a cassette. John Lennon’s “Imagine”, the soundtrack to the documentary film. He takes the cassette out of the box, examines it, but it’s written in Thai. He asks the horny fingered driver if he can put it on. The driver looks pleased. He nods enthusiastically gesturing to the tape deck (tape deck but no A/C….humpfff!).
The sound of a south east Asian warbling woman blasts out the speakers. I glare at john in a “What fresh hell is this?” kind of way. John looks back, and offers this,
“Maybe it’s a Yoko track…”
But no of course it bloody isn’t. It’s 90 minutes of Thailand’s answer to Petula Clark. So now we’ve got the stench of hell, the feel of hell, the temperature of hell, the look of hell AND the sound of hell. Hell!
We cannot offend our horned host and listen to the tape until the end of the journey. He is chuffed we like it.
So flash forward to our arrival at the Davis which is top of the range hotel-tastic. See pics if you don’t believe me. And the Flying Martinis arrive in the Thai equivalent of the Trotters Independent Trading Reliant Robin. John opens the door and bashes it on the front step and apologises to the driver. The porter looks at him and shrugs as if to say, “Don’t apologise, you’ve probably improved it.”
This is the guy that takes us up to our room.
So I’ll leave you with some pics of the ambassador suite…..and later I’ll post some of us soiling it…..
The Davis Hotel, yes they let US in…
Bedroom 2 (Before the kids went in…)
Dr Louis Cheeseman, Scottish Ambassador to Thailand, outside his suite
Pimp My Ride…
There are certain things in life that people say have happened but your whole life you’ve never seen any evidence of and you begin to think are urban myths. Here’s a few:
Getting a tax rebate;
Getting upgraded to first class by the airplane check in clerk cos she likes your face;
Winning the car you bought a raffle ticket for in the shopping centre;
Duvet day policy at work- (do you know anyone whose work has this? It’s a myth!);
Santa Claus;
Being “spotted” and made the next big thing by some Svengali;
Being upgraded from bog standard hotel room to a lux suite.
Well, smack my arse and call me Paris Hilton, we were upgraded in the Davis Hotel (our most expensive hotel room- end of trip treat) to the Ambassador suite!
In fact the way it was done was just beautiful.
Bedroom 1
Receptionist (to me): “Excuse me madam, would you mind if we upgraded you and your family to the Ambassador suite”.
Would I mind? Would I mind?!
“That’ll be fine,” I say calmly, whilst inner Gill shouts “Ambassador suite!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!We’ve made it !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!Aaaarrgggghhhhh!Hahahahahahhahaha!”
So we are taken to the suite by our porter who, rather cheekily, I thought, enquires, “Did you book this suite or were you upgraded?”
He is clearly stunned that such obvious plebs are setting foot in the suite to do something other than clean it.
“Upgraded,” I confess (“What’s it to ya?” Inner Gill thinks)
“This is the best suite we have in this wing of the hotel” This guy still can’t believe we’ve been allowed in.
“Hmmm” I say (“I’m tired of you doubting our suitability to this strata of luxury, my man. Now let us in so we can all run around naked screaming, open all the free soaps, drink the mini bar and wash our undies in the Jacuzzi,” Inner Gill snarls)
I’m getting the picture here and I think back to ten minutes ago. This was the guy who met us at the door. Let’s switch on the 70’s Blake’s Seven going back in time visual effect and return to yesterday in Kanchananburi. The scene is this, booking our taxi to Bangkok from a sixty/seventy year old guy who looked like one of Magnum’s contacts with longhair, moustache, opened Hawaiian short and flip flops. He wants 1,800 Baht (about £30) for the fare which is OK considering the hotel is advertising a taxi for twice that. He wants it paid in advance. No, we may be farang but we’re not stupid farang, mate. We give him half now, say we’ll pay other half when safely arrived in Bangkok.
John checks something before handing over the cash, “This taxi is air-conditioned?”
“Yes, yes, is big Toyota, has air conditioning!” he assures us
Next morning our cab turns up. It has rope keeping the boot shut, has a need of a great deal of panel beating repair work, is not a make of car known to man, is filthy and yes, that’s right, the air-conditioning consists of…opening a window. Only one of which in the back seat actually opens.
But it does have the additional features of a taxi driver with ferociously long nails (going for that Guinness Record, I think), an array of Hindu icons of deities arranges along the dashboard, a Sistine chapel-like fresco painting in engine oil on the car ceiling (do cars have ceilings? You get my drift) and plastic seats which given the absence of ac and the fact we’re all wearing shorts, makes for a thrush inducing ride from hell.
It gets s worse and John is responsible. Figuring we’ve got 2 and a half hours in this chariot of hell, he spies a cassette. John Lennon’s “Imagine”, the soundtrack to the documentary film. He takes the cassette out of the box, examines it, but it’s written in Thai. He asks the horny fingered driver if he can put it on. The driver looks pleased. He nods enthusiastically gesturing to the tape deck (tape deck but no A/C….humpfff!).
The sound of a south east Asian warbling woman blasts out the speakers. I glare at john in a “What fresh hell is this?” kind of way. John looks back, and offers this,
“Maybe it’s a Yoko track…”
But no of course it bloody isn’t. It’s 90 minutes of Thailand’s answer to Petula Clark. So now we’ve got the stench of hell, the feel of hell, the temperature of hell, the look of hell AND the sound of hell. Hell!
We cannot offend our horned host and listen to the tape until the end of the journey. He is chuffed we like it.
So flash forward to our arrival at the Davis which is top of the range hotel-tastic. See pics if you don’t believe me. And the Flying Martinis arrive in the Thai equivalent of the Trotters Independent Trading Reliant Robin. John opens the door and bashes it on the front step and apologises to the driver. The porter looks at him and shrugs as if to say, “Don’t apologise, you’ve probably improved it.”
This is the guy that takes us up to our room.
So I’ll leave you with some pics of the ambassador suite…..and later I’ll post some of us soiling it…..
The Davis Hotel, yes they let US in…
Bedroom 2 (Before the kids went in…)
Dr Louis Cheeseman, Scottish Ambassador to Thailand, outside his suite
