A Word of Ulster Scots 11

Of coorse he was the Belfast Boy but he was appreciated and loved all ower the world. George was yin o wur ain an he’ll be gyley missed. There hays been a lock o words writ an spoke aboot the boy but nane writ in oor ain tongue.

Till noo.

He wus a very dacent boadie wi nay bak dorrs, a good man without devious motives. A wee bit o a drooth, I’ll grant ye, but there’s nay shortage o them that taks a drap in oor ain wee country. The pitches he played on were slunky an wat, ye might call them a slarry, a wet mess, but he skited ower the grun laik a ballet dancer with defenders in his wake laik a pack o grulshes, slow, awkward and overweight people. George didn’t footer aboot because if he had, those defenders he took such joy in humiliating would have gin him a dunt he wudnae forget. They couldnae catch the houl o him, thank goodness. George made them look like they had no footballing abilities or skills whatsoever, resembling nothing so much as an owl wumman wae a stray erse.

People liked him, people even loved him even though he had his fair share of critics, nyaffs an nyirs nyitterin at him that bad it wud gae ye the nyirps; small insignificant persons, objectionable niggling little people, complaining non-stop in a peevish manner to the extent that it would make you fretful, exasperate you or get on your nerves. To those critics I would say that they know as much about football as my erse knows aboot snipe shootin.

And he was fond o the lassies; merrried twice to strikingly beautiful women of whom it could not be said “Ye wudnae merry hir if the sovereigns wuz hingin frae hir” rather the sort of blondes who would “make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window” as Raymond Chandler so eloquently put it.  But there was a brave bit o coortin as weel. It’s naw a crime yet an some folk are mair nor a wee bit jealous.

We will mine him for his fitba, his film star good looks, the guid memories he gin us, the wie he made us a proud. I mine stannin in a lay-by, somewhere in the mountains between Italy and France back in the 1990s and meeting a trio of Argentinians who spoke no English (niver mine Ulster Scots) and I had (and continue to have) no Spanish.

I told them, as best I could, that I came from Belfast (not strictly true but I was sure they hadn’t heard of Dunloy) and they immediately, instantaneously said  “George Best” even though his peak had been many years before. He made an impact on the world far beyond this wee island. I think we are all deeply grateful to have walked the earth when he was in his pomp.

I am as ever indebted to ma oul freen and fellow football fan, James Fenton, the poet and lexicographer, for his help and encouragement and for the invaluable reference work, " The Hamely Tongue" (Ullans Press) which continues to inspire, amuse and entertain.