In the afternoon we rested up a bit from our walk over the rather hilly Glen while watching a bit of the Ladies Scottish Open on the telly. The girls had some horrid weather while we were warm and sunny. Such is the case with Scotland and all these little micro-climates.
We had plans for a dinner at one of the famous local hangouts, Ducks Inn. George caught some shut eye and I continued my research into that mysterious hashtag: #Oodismerican.
A few interweb (lol) searches had me knee deep in Scottish history and not the William Wallace, Rob Roy, Robert the Bruce sort. Nor was it the Outlander flavor and had nothing to do with bagpipes, or kilts, or clans.
It had to do with a seamier side of Scotland that tourists would never visit.
It appears that the phrase “Oodismate” derived from the ghettos of Glasgow in the mid 1960’s as poverty and crime ravaged many of Glasgow’s neighborhoods.
As best I can tell “Oodismate” was a colloquialism for “who is this guy” a question often asked when an outsider was encountered by the gangs of the sections of Parkhead West and Dalmarnock.
Actually it may have been something like ‘who is this f**kin’ arsehole’ when it started but has morphed into today’s “Oodismate.” And the “#Oodismerican” seems to be connected to that.
I can only guess that with it being attached to George’s viral celebrity is that they are now asking,”Who is this American?”
Hmm, not only have the Scots adopted that image as a rallying cry they are asking who this brave soul is. Who is this man so willing to express his disdain for POTUS? Who is this guy? Who is this American?
Oh boy, we may be in for it while we are still in Scotland. I kept this to myself while George snored.
The Ducks Inn was a two minute walk form our digs and we settled in for some food and serious drink. Malcolm Duck is the owner and greeter and golf expert and whisky aficionado and server and just about every role at the Duck.
He chats up every customer, especially new faces. He was interested in our story and he appreciated our fondness for all things Scottish. He sat with us and shared a whisky or two or more.
Now, at The Duck there is a tradition of testing one’s putting skills. It requires a player to stand on a bar stool and putt off the stool to a target on the other side of the bar. I followed Malcolm, who holed his second try and after three shots I was booed off the stage.
George, went to school again on my line and jarred his first attempt. Good thing too because with the whisky flowing he wasn’t long for that stool.
As we sat at our table we were approached by a rather thuggish looking character. Dressed in all black with a long black trench coat (rather odd, even for Scotland) and some obvious serious face tattoos he looked like a character out of a Tarantino movie.
We didn’t ask him to join us but he sat down. “You’re da guy, ain’t ya?” he said. We were caught off guard and stunned at his question. “You’re the American…I have seen you on the telly” was what we could make out of the mumbled, slang coming out of his mouth.
We acknowledged that yes, George was the guy and is the American. And he introduced himself as “Dog” and he said he had a business proposition for George.
As he went to the bar to get us a round Malcolm came over and told us that he is a bad dude and to be careful. Dog was short for Mad Dog Mike MacGregor and he was a Westy…a thug from Parkhead West.
He had worked his way up to be a mid-level gangster with a reputation for making money for his bosses anyway he could.
We were ready to get the hell out of there but Dog came back and kind of intimidated us into hearing him out.
He loved George’s picture and didn’t care about his politics but wanted that picture, well the rights to it. He wanted to use it for some of his advertising campaigns for his “businesses” is how he described it.
“Really?” we asked, is this guy serious. Yes he was and he was willing to pay George for the rights to his image. George had no interest in this at all and had been trying to distance himself from all this unwanted fame.
But Dog was insistent, saying he could make it worth his while and take care of him in many ways. George was adamant, he wanted no money and certainly didn’t want any attachment to Dog and his Scottish underworld.
“You want it? You can have it.,” he said, “free of charge.” Dog looked surprised at this American’s total dismissal of a money making opportunity. But he insisted he could help us, as he had many friends.
George finally convinced him it was his and a handshake cemented the deal. We celebrated with Macallan 25 and Dog said his goodbyes. Good riddance.
Malcolm came by to ask if we were all right and we told him about Dog’s offer. He did say that he knew Dog was well connected but had heard he was trying to go a bit more legit. And yes, he had friends everywhere.
We always look forward to new experiences here in Scotland but this was one we had never imagined and would have rather avoided. But that’s what happens when you’re a viral sensation.
Fame can be a bitch.
We staggered home confused and amazed and a little drunk.
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