Somewhere between Billy Connolly and Robbie Burns, by way of goggle-eyed Private Frazer from Dad’s Army, lie the rolling Rs, soaring inflections and anchoring hoicks of the authentic Scots dialect. But is it an actual language or just a regional variation on English?
Ye can take the high road and Aye’ll tek the low, but it’ll be a long time afore the country’s Parliament achieves a consensus on this stramash, despite introducing legislation to encourage and restore respect for the colloquial way of speaking.
Germany faces the same dilemma. There, some Bavarians are demanding official recognition for their dialect – with some prickliness, as it’s often mocked by other Germans as incomprehensible.
As linguists can’t agree on where a dialect ends and a whole distinct language begins, these matters won’t be settled quickly.
Scots officials recently tried drafting parliamentary questions in Scots dialect, but this was not a raging success. One asked: “Is the Scots govrenment makkin ony ettles fur tae accomodate memmers ae the public wha’s wantin tae spikk wi the govrenment in the Scots leid?” (Has the government any plans to accommodate people who want to use Scots language when transacting business with the government?)
“The Scots government is richt noo in the act o takkin forrit the Scots Languages Bill,” came the answer. (The government is taking forward legislation to get Scots used more widely.)
Public reactions varied considerably but a typical one was a commenter in the Times newspaper: “Naebody in the northeast wid spik like thon.”
And there lies the problem. Dialects are composed of cherished regional differences in language usage – in some countries dozens of them – and were officials to enshrine every single one, documents and signage would become hopelessly unwieldy.
The legislation also runs counterintuitive to many Scots’ upbringing. Parents often chided their children for “aye/nae” instead of yes and no, holding some dialect to be equivalent to slang.
One MP doubted most Scots would take the new dialect push too seriously, calling it the sort of language best confined to old local comedy institutions like Oor Wullie.
The implication that Scots dialect is antiquated and comedic ruffles sporrans, however. It is, along with Scots Gaelic, an officially recognised language in Britain.
The idea that “the King’s English” is the preferred standard for Scots has waned with the rise of pro-independence sentiment, and pride in regional accents and linguistic differences has been rising throughout Britain.
Germany, too, has numerous dialects, but Bavarian has many usages that stump other Germans, including one phrase that translates literally in German as “I believe your hat is on fire. A slap-tree will follow right away.” Non-Bavarians often need it explained that it means, “You’re mad and need your ears boxed.”
There are fears that getting ahead of public tolerance of official dialect usage will create division. Pro-unionists charge that Scots dialect and Gaelic are being promoted as a battering ram against the British – an accusation still used in respect of the Irish Republic’s increasing restoration of daily spoken Irish Gaelic, and the rise in Northern Ireland’s Gaelic usage.
Language can be a fulcrum of both pride and hostility, as in Wales, where English speakers are sometimes blanked or shunned.
At least for outsiders – and untutored locals – Scots dialect holds less mystery than the exacting and sophisticated grammar demanded by Welsh and Gaelic, both separate languages bearing little commonality with English.
In an infamous example, a Welsh road sign was once erected that read, “I am out of the office at the moment”, when it should have said, “No entry for heavy goods vehicles”. The Swansea Council had emailed its translation staff for the correct Welsh wording and didn’t realise the reply was the standard out-of-office message.
