A Hebridean Xmas Story

By Mìcheil Rob Mac Phàdruig

This piece of creative writing was presented in a discussion on the accuracy of the 'Christmas Story' as generally depicted. The author swears that this the official explanation and that every word is true !

As you will all know, the language of Paradise is Gaelic. It is known that this has been so since time immemorial and will continue to be so as long as grass grows and water runs. (Strangely, the same words are used by North American natives to imply 'forever'. I wonder who borrowed from whom.)

If you ask any Highland minister of the less rigid sort, he will confirm this. The idea that God might prefer to use Hebrew or English is frankly ludicrous, although Gaelic sounds enough like Hebrew that Gentiles (Sasannaich - non-Gaels) might, but won't, be excused for thinking otherwise.

You may have heard of the Philistine Liberation Organisation . . .
Goliath of Gath and all those other lovelies were the direct ancestors of Yasser Arafat (there's been a bit of malnutrition in the family recently, so people have shrunk a bit, but it's the same mob) . . . Philistine - Falastin - Palestine in Arabic.

Here's the picture. Joseph and Mary are trudging along Highway One in the Holy Land and not a chariot in sight. Suddenly they see a road block ahead and realise that it has to be the Philistine Liberation Organisation, so they decide to leave the road and walk along the shore to avoid any aggro. As they flip-flop along the beach, what should they see standing off the shore but the good old Loch Mor, pausing for a moment to examine the map and trying to decide which is the best way back to Stornoway.

Hastily and furtively burning the last of their Travlerz Toylet Pak, they manage to attract the attention of the ship's crew, who, assuming that a business opportunity may be available, hopefully involving alcohol, pile into the ship's longboat and head for the beach. Imagine their chagrin when, instead of booze, they find nothing more interesting than the Mother of God and her husband on their way to start the world's greatest religion. Bravely hiding their disappointment, they offer the Odd Couple a lift down the coast.

Meanwhile, aboard the Loch Mor, the Skipper and the Mate have finally decided that getting out of the Mediterranean might be a sensible first move and, as soon as the longboat is hoisted inboard, the battered old ferry (yes, even then) starts chugging West towards the Rock of Gibraltrar before turning sharp Right for the Western Isles. (Notice how slickly I shift from East to West, Left to Right and Port to Starboard, it's all part of a seaborne Hebridean's basic locational skills...)

You can imagine Mary's and Joseph's surprise when the Loch Mor finally docks in Stornoway and they edge down the gangplank only to see that Bethlehem looks nothing like they expected. On returning aboard to ask for directions, they are greeted by screams of laughter, which are instantly hushed when Joseph pulls a bottle of Arak (the Middle East hard stuff) from his robes and says he has a little proposition . . . So he tells them of the about-to-happen story of the Baby Jesus. However, the crew's faces fall when they realize that this is the only inducement on offer to get this weird pair back to the Holy Land and, unanimously, they vote . . . 'Forget it !'

Thinking fast on his feet, Joseph refills glasses all round and starts to talk of Jerusalem, a name they instantly recognize because in those days all Highland people made a low alcohol beer for summer drinking called Beastie Beer, whose main ingredient was a form of yeast sold under the name of 'Jerusalem Berries'. Without actually telling an untruth, Joseph is able to imply that in Israel there is a really potent form of Jerusalem Berry, which might even be brought back to Scotland and form the nucleus of a local Arak industry for the Hebridean people.

As the Loch Mor arrows out of Stornoway harbour, cleaving clean white walls of water as she heels for the turn to Starboard / the South / Right, Joseph is anxiously consulting his hourglass, because he knows that it's critical to reach Bethlehem before the 25th of December, as, if they're even one day late, millions of children's lives will be ruined in the future, not to mention the damage to the toy and Christmas pudding trades. Plus, if the baby starts coming before they reach Bethlehem, the line, 'A child is born in a Hebridean ferry about ten cables off the Tel Aviv harbour light' is going to give future Christmas carol composers a helluva lot more headaches than 'A child is born in Bethlehem'. Joseph, a perennial worrier and a natural spin doctor, instinctively understands these matters.

However, thanks to Hebridean seamanship, the Loch Mor slips into Tel Aviv harbour at 4:30 pm on the 24th of December, and after clearing customs, the Holy Couple grab an express chariot for Bethlehem and vanish into mythology. Meanwhile, teams of anxious Hebrideans are scouring the Medina (the market district) asking for 'Jerusalem Berries', whilst turning down attractive offers to, 'View the Lovely Salome Doing the Dance that Cost Samson his Lox' (only five Shekels, free matzos included !) or even, 'Circumcisions while you wait ! By our own in-house mohel, Shloime Singh, late of Calicut !'

The rest is history.

The Holy Family books into the stable just moments before the Great Event, thereby saving Biblical scholars considerable embarrassment, while the Hebrideans finally found a distillery making a very high class spirit the locals called 'Kir which they produced by straining the local Arak through a 'Tallis', the white shawl worn by Jewish people when they pray. Once back home with the recipe, the new Tallis Kir becomes all the rage and Western Civilization is saved yet again by the mighty Hebrideans, those doughty Warriors of the Western Seas and the Crinan Canal!

 

God, I'm just blubbering with the emotion of it all ! What would you mainlanders have done without us ? Swilling Bud Lite, adoring The Stone of Destiny in a smelly bog somewhere ? The mind boggles . . .

I swear on this stack of Reader's Digests that this is the true story as taught to me in Sunday School.

MacP . . . my mark