Peter Fair.

 

 

Peter Fair wiz in full swing and boorachs o fowk were millin aboot lookin at aa the Chaip John stalls. The geets were rinnin aroon wild ee’d and excited wi aa the sichts an sounds o this Aladdin’s cave o furls an fancies. A big ‘gallshicks stall hid set up sellin ivvery kind o sweeties ye could imagine, pu-candy, swiss tablet, boilings, pandrops and Aiberdeen rock tae name but a fyowe. Mony a wee hand wid shoot oot an grab a sweetie as they ran past at a rate o knots. The lad that owned the stall wiz gan gyte at them and wid lash oot at some o them wi a lang stick that wiz nae doot made for the job. Nae only wiz he being plagued wi human wasps but there wiz cloods o the real thing seekin some o his stock as weel. A harassed mannie richt enough wi a stick in ae hand swiping at the bairns and a flee swat in tither for the wasps or sharp ersed hooers as he caad them.
   Anent the sweetie stall there wiz a lad that claimed tae be a doctor and he wiz sellin bottles o Doctor Mcpherson’s Life Tonic at one shillin an saxpence a bottle. He’d plenty patter did this lad an tellt the githerd crowd he’d gotten the secret recipe fae a monk in Tibet and the monk hid been 137 years aal at the time. The doctor? fairly lookit a dapper wee mannie wi his lum hat, a big tash an mutton chop sidewigs. Some fowk were parting wi hard earned siller as they steed open moothed takin in aa the nonsense. For one and sax they were gettin a bottle o water coloured wi turmeric and a tayspeen o fusky for a bit o flavour.
   Anither stall wiz selling pocket watches wi chynes an trinkets. A lot o the fairmservant chiels were roon aboot this een because tae own a pocket watch wiz a bit o a status symbol. There wiz twa kinds o watches though. the dear yins that were gweed watches an wi gie a lifetime's service an the chaip John eens the workit for 24 oors then aifter they were bang on time twice in every 24 oors. Tae the young lads the chaip eens were jist the ticket because wi them ye got a mock siller chyne an some wee trinkets tae gang w’t. Mony a young loon left the stall wi his chest stickin oot as he lookit doon at the watch an chyne noo hingin fae his wastcoat pooch.
   Ae lad wiz staanin in a clearin throwin neeps in the air an splittin them wi his heed as they come doon wi a seeckenin ‘thwak’ the neep wid be split in twa. The deemies in the crowd screamed ilka time an turned awa intae their lad's shooder if they hid een. This suited the young loons fine an mony a comforting bosie they got fae their strong protective fishermin or ploomin. The neep splitter wiz strippet tae the waist and o aa things he wore a North American Indian chief’s heed dress made up o coloured seagull feathers. Atween neeps he’d tell the huge crowd in a pure Aiberdeen accent that his great granda hid been Chief Sitting Bull the lad that hid slaachtered General Custer and aa his men at the battle o the Little-Bighorn. Ivvery noo an then he’d stop an ging roon the crowd wi a widden brose bowl painted wi indians an jook feathers stuck on’t. The coins were fair rattlin in especially fae the lads that’s deemies teen a faint at the sicht o a real North American Indian like this. He lookit the part though wi the seagull featherd heed dress an stripes o soot on his face as warpaint. He even hid a tomahawk at his side wi gull feathers on it as weel but wiz actually his mither’s aixe for chappin sticks. The breeks he wore were buff coloured moleskins and could if yer imagination wiz up tae it be real buckskin. The only thing that spyled the effect wiz the tackety beets instead o moccasins.
   The beer tent though wiz deein a roaring trade wi it being sic a hot sunny day an hantles o fishermin, fairm servants and fairmers were sookin back the warm beer tae weet their wheeples. Some lads though werena in the wye o drinkin sae muckle and ended up ootside the tent in a drunken sotter, The staff jist picked them up fae in the tent an layed them tae ae side tae recover. Sic a sotter! One lad got up fae the raw o drunks an staggered awa tae hae a look at some o the stalls, on the wye he near upset a stall o dishes The woman that owned them shouted ‘Awa ye go ye drunken gype leave ma dishes be!’
At this he staggerd towards anither stall that hid rubbits an wee widden hoosies for them, there were birds in tiny wee wire cages an pyokes o seed for feedin them. In fact there wiz aa kinds o beasties at this stall. The drunk lad though wisna muckle interested in ony o that, he wiz mair teen wi the tray o tortoises. Through a haze o drink he says tae the stall keeper ‘Heymin! gimma twa o them things!’ pyntin tae the tray o tortoises. He bocht them an put een intae each pooch o his jaicket an staggered awa headin for ither stalls. The owner shook his heed. He’d seen plenty drunk fowk in his time but that lad wiz so drunk he couldn’ve bitten his ain finger.
A fair while later he saw the drunk lad makin his wye towards his stall again but this time the bleed wiz fleein fae his mooth. Nae doot he must’ve annoyed some bugger an got a chap on the lips he thocht. The drunk lad staggered up tae the stall an through his bleed splattered mooth said ‘Heymin ! an pointin tae the tray o tortoises ‘Gimma anither twa o them pies min but nae wi sic hard crusts this time!'

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