Och nay, wee lassie, that’s just the Texan wind up my kilt

I am accused of being Scottish on a fairly regular basis. My vehement denials mostly go unheeded, as — more often than not —the accuser eyes me with some small degree of suspicion, if not outright disbelief. They know a Scottish accent when they hear one, by George, by jingo, so why would this otherwise sane and seemingly-honest person disown his true country of birth? Especially a country where men don’t even have to wear trousers if they don’t want to, for pity’s sake! It flies in the face of fair play, common sense and sound reason! And whatever happened to moral turpitude? And what exactly does turpitude mean, by the way?

But I digress . . . .

So, while I may not have in my possession the secret recipes and formulas for Kentucky Fried Chicken™, Coca-Cola™ and A&W™ root-beer, I do happen to know the ingredients that make up a Scottish accent — at least one that appeals to the discerning ears of North Americans: One part Liverpool Lobscouse, one part Cockney Rebel and one part Haliburton Dog Patch.

And, after subjecting this particular ‘Scottish’ accent to a rigorous regional algorithm computer software analysis, I am reliably informed that it hails from a GPS location that puts it roughly in the heart of the deepest and darkest part of Loch Ness. Hence the gurgling noises that I occasionally make when I encounter dark, scary shapes beneath the surface of my bathtub bubbles.

Now, like many things in this life, the accent thing can be a two-way street or even a double-edged sword, depending on one’s flair for the dramatic or preference in hyphenated words. I’m going to tell you a little secret: most British people think that all Canadian and American accents fall under one general heading. And that would be, without putting too fine a point on it: TEXANS!

So, if being identified across the pond as anything other than a Texan is of any importance to you whatsoever, you might want to consider wearing a badge or a pin or a t-shirt or a tattoo that says “I am not a Texan” or some such wording that conveys your true place of origin. Either that, or you could just embrace the demon with the biggest cigar and Stetson money can buy, while astride your pure white rented stallion and singing out loud and clear in your distinctive Nova-Scotian-Texan accent: ‘The stars at night are big and bright . . . .’

You know the rest. Right?