Since it's a Friday night it seemed only fair to post yet another reflection on the Shetland drink culture.
I wrote this poem, many years ago after observing the normal Friday night crowd at a drinking facility in Sandwick. Many, if not most of those there, were male. Many, if not most of them, possibly including myself, were drunk, or getting that way. In Shetland dialect it could safely be said that most were 'Swittlin Foo', hence the title.
Lined up at da bar laek hens on a baak,
glaepin pints sae fast dey wir laek ta shock.
Seekin excuses no ta geeng hame,
tae da wife wha’s anger is rising laek steam.
Da stories du hears at da face o a bar,
range fae sex, ta politics, an maybe da car.
If du staands lang enyoch hit’s a winder ta hear,
foo grit some tales get whin telt trow beer.
Du’ll hear o da olick dat weighed twinty pound,
an he gets a bit gritter wi every round.
Or da coo at da show wi a calf o grit size,
twa pints later sho’d twins an dey baith wan a prize.
Du’ll hear o da sexual exploits o man,
i da back o a Mini or an auld Austin van.
Or da time at da paet hill whin castin a bank,
dat some een fell foo heid first i da stank.
Bit der’s wan tale a’m sure du never will hear,
nae odds foo muckle’s been swittled i beer.
An dat is foo muckle trouble an strife,
dis drinkin’ll mak wance du’s hame ta da wife.