I once wrote a thesis on the mighty midge ... It's all down to lack of sunshine (cloud cover) and the clearances (low level increased nitrogen/CO2 content in the air) in Alba that brings them out .... but for the worst plagues of these abnoxious beesties go to North Norway/Sweden/Finland where they swarm like thick smoke.
Much worse are the silent clegs ... But the only joys are that neither midges nor clegs will attack you when anchored offshore.
Can ye no let them oot aftir May? Parteecularly those oan ra NW coast. Ah mind weel the yins in Etive, we used tae pit them in batter and barbecue the bastids, there wiz mair meat on them than a spare rib aff a lowland soo !
"By Jummie, wha's aken tae ye wi sae braw?" * Tis english tat's yeer sponsened sproch nae glaswidgeon! - a' me wee glaekit sonsie! Bashed tatties an neeps tae, done the Etive Slabs an' had a wee parley wi' Hamish erst o' t' 'Coe noo in his palace by Clachaig ...
The trouble with the Scots is that they are lost between whether Rabbie Burns was real or whether the Edinburgh Acamadecians who wrote the Gaelic (pron Gallic) were taking the piss.
Ach awa' an bile yer heid. Whit kind o' poofie name is "Nigel"? That's no the Garlic at a'. Its the Doric aka the the furst dual interface dialect with the word of comand contained therein tae be understood by the subject sassenach, and the mair intellectual matters tae be suitably encrypted that it wiz only really understood by the message sender oan a Freeday nicht!
"We pit up, an it like your honour," replied the Scot, "in a sma' house at the fit of ane of the wynds that gang down to the water-side, with a decent man, John Christie, a ship-chandler, as they ca't. His father came from Dundee. I wotna the name of the wynd, but it's right anent the mickle kirk yonder; and your honour will mind, that we pass only by our family-name of simple Mr. Nigel, as keeping ourselves retired for the present, though in Scotland we be called the Lord Nigel."
O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Th'need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle!
i speak portuguese, french and a smattering of arabic but shaerag cymraeg typ yn bach, or as the old man used to say and i cant half tip em back (pints of bass)
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