To all my southern readers, no, I didn't just make a word up for the hell of it (for once). A Ceilidh (pronounced 'kay-lee' by me, and 'kier-leigh' by the Scots) is a traditional Scottish dance - like a barn dance. Basically, the ultimate opportunity to get totally off yer face, and dance the night away to funny twiddly music with a load of blokes in kilts that you've never met before (or birds if you’re a bloke).
So, a few weeks ago now (I've been meaning to blog about this for ages!), I went to my first one. Now, Ceilidhs are the sort of thing that are common at Scottish weddings, and, well, any party with a big enough dance floor. But, without either of these sorts of occasions on the horizon, I had struggled to comprehend when I might be able to inaugurate myself up here and actually go to one. I mean, it’s not the sort of thing that just happens in your local Jumpin' Jaks!
But then! It happened! I got invited to a Ceilidh nite! I had no idea such a thing existed! Yes, in a public place, people come, clad in kilts and the like, and get low down and dirty to some serious accordion/fiddle action whilst sweating all over people they've never met before in a frantically organized fashion!
So, there we were, me and the VLDGPE (yes, she's back!), on the banks of the Clyde, in the less salubrious end of town, searching for the 'Riverside' club, and frankly feeling a little bit dubious. We finally found it, down a back-alley, through a fire escape. A shell-suit-clad young man (or ‘ned’ as he’d be classed here) took our £7 (!) and we wondered what the hell we'd let ourselves in for! My pre-conception was that we'd enter a hall full of flashes of tartan as thousands of people jigged about saying 'aye pal' and throwing whisky about the place. But no, it was quiet. A little too quiet! And NOONE WAS DANCING!!!
We hurriedly made our way to the table, and hid! A little scared that we might be identified as English and asked to leave, or worse still, forced to take part in some sort of rock throwing competition Braveheart-Hamish stylee!
But, after we crawled out of our little corner, and had a couple of vodka-tonics and a bit of banter with the locals, that good old Glaswiegan spirit kicked in (no, not the Laphroaig!). The band got back on stage, the twiddly music came pumping, and VLDGPE and I were whisked off our feet by some seriously tartan clad, tall men (oh joy!) and twirled and jigged all round the room.
This continued for some hours, until there was condensation on the walls! I was twirled around by atleast 50 men that night! And have the bruises from ‘strip the willow’ to prove it! GLORIOUS!
Needless to say, I’m now addicted to Ceilidhs, I’m even considering including a Ceilidh event into my infamous three-day Birthday bender!!