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| - It's a cloudy day at Perth. We're standing on a beautiful mossy bluff overlooking the River Tay. Developers have been drooling over this site for decades, but it's a graveyard and they can't have it. We're here to speak to the Scots hard man and poet, Jackie na Skarfs, newly reconstituted from the dead for this interview. Uncyc: Hello, Jackie. And welcome to...the 21st Century! Jackie: Tha 21st Century? Ye doon say. Uncyc: Yes, indeedy! We'd like to ask you about your role in the great Hedgehog triumph of 1927-28, and how that set the team on the path to the future. Uncyc: What picture?
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| abstract
| - It's a cloudy day at Perth. We're standing on a beautiful mossy bluff overlooking the River Tay. Developers have been drooling over this site for decades, but it's a graveyard and they can't have it. We're here to speak to the Scots hard man and poet, Jackie na Skarfs, newly reconstituted from the dead for this interview. Uncyc: Hello, Jackie. And welcome to...the 21st Century! Jackie: Tha 21st Century? Ye doon say. Uncyc: Yes, indeedy! We'd like to ask you about your role in the great Hedgehog triumph of 1927-28, and how that set the team on the path to the future. Jackie: That's all verra wall, boot have a look at tha picture thur. Uncyc: What picture? Jackie: Tha picture ta tha roight, woot's got the legend "Jackie na Skarfs in traditional dress" and all, thet's tha picture. Uncyc: *sigh* What about it? Jackie: Thet's noot me. Tis naught but a racialist joke photo. It belongs ahn a comic poostcard, ye puerile pudding-faced sassanach git. Uncyc: OK. OK, it's not you. It's just a pic we found on the Internets. Geez. Can we get back to the great Hedgies team of the late Twenties? Jackie: Naw here's anawther trouble. Yurr makin' me sound loik a wooden Scotsman oot a tha foonypapers. Ye had best stoop it roight naw or I'll knack yer face aroond to tha wrong side o' yer head and ye'll have ta walk backward ta see whur yurr goin'. Uncyc: Shit! It's just written in dialect! Can't we get on with the interview? Jackie: I speak the Queen's English with a mild, almost imperceptible accent. I mean, I was educated. I wrote poems. I wasn't an ignorant highland dunce who just happened to have the legs for a game of kickball. Bend an ear to this: Down the crooked cratered road the lorries bear away the dead, and from the trenches at the crest all but the rooks have fled. How's that, eh? From "1916: A Song for Courcelette". Uncyc: Well, educated you may have been...but you did fancy a coney now and then, right? Jackie: There's naught wrong with an occasional coney! Uncyc: Not before you got them there wasn't nothing wrong with them. It was after that they developed their troubles, right, you pervert? Jackie: I'm gi'in ye a warnin' stroight, ye filthy fecker, I'll knack yer face in! Uncyc: Oh, now we've got a proper Scots accent! Well we are so sorry, Jackie na Skarfs, but our time for this interview is drawing to a close. Jackie: Roight, well, yer baggin' fur it now...Shite! Too late. Uncyc: And as the great Jackie na Skarfs deconstitutes back into his grave we can only salute this magnificent early Hedgie footballer...and coney-molester. Jackie (from out of grave, very muffled): Yer a lyin' sassanach barstid!
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