Robert McNeil: Further adventures in the land of neds and nedlings

Published on Wednesday 20 May 2009 16:31

I WAS in such a blissful mood that, as I drove into the town of Berwick, even the obligatory tailgater didn't annoy me. I'm unsure how this unaccustomed mood came about. Something to do with sunshine and pastoral scenes, I suspect, Mr Holmes.

The previous night, I'd nipped back to Edinburgh to continue my course, with nine other fellows, questing for peace and, er, indestructability. Then I'd driven back to the quiet holiday cottage at Coveyheugh, near Reston in the Borders. Next morning, before the short drive to Berwick, I'd worked out at the gym – a converted stable next door – then walked by the stream, fed the birds, watered the plants. I was living the Zen life, man, and I had a car. What more could a man want?

Why, neds, of course! Let's be clear: there are neds in Edinburgh. Sometimes, you think of Edinburgh and get a picture of a thirtysomething, middle-class man bawling pleasantries in a Home Counties accent at the infant strapped to his chest. But, nedless to say, we all know there's a seamier side to Embra, often seen on a Friday or Saturday night, for those of you brave enough to venture out then.

You must go to Smalltown Britain, though, to see the ned problem in an everyday setting. They're everywhere. In some places, you half-expect to find the mayor or provost in a white tracksuit and baseball cap.

In Berwick, strictly speaking these were nedlings I'd encountered. They couldn't have been aged more than 11. As I tried entering a busy car park, they refused to get out of the road. The leader was a ghastly child, whom only a mother could love. He'd some kind of stripe through his hair, making him look like a demented badger. His face was twisted with a vicious hatred ludicrous in one so young. Outwardly, I just laughed at him and drove through. But, inwardly, I was concerned at this nightmare vision of the brutalised place that Britainshire was becoming.

Shortly afterwards, after I'd parked, a broken reed of a man – who hadn't witnessed the badger-boy incident – tittered at me. It was that old phenomenon again: normal-looking citizen laughed at by oddballs. In a circus, the normal man is a freak.

What was he tittering at? Was my face sunburned perhaps? I don't know. I'm just plagued by these misshapen oafs. Another Rabular day: in a good mood, then scowled and tittered at before I've even left the car park.

I've always liked Berwick. For a traveller largely self-restricted to Britainshire, the town marks a leaving and returning point for Scotia. How lovely to see English and Scottish flags flying together, as if the two countries were equal. On the town walls, I heard English citizens say these had been built to keep out the Scots, and reflected how – prior to that – the town had suffered one of the worst ever massacres on British (at the time Scottish) soil, courtesy of Edward I, who hanged the citizenry in thousands.

Today, one in five accents I heard were Scottish but most were northern English, a people of whom I'm particularly fond. Among the crowds, overweight men advertised various affinities on tops and t-shirts: Scotland, England, Manchester United, Celtic, and a family of one-eyed people that looked like they lived in a shack deep in the woods (Rangers).

Further anthropological observation revealed that 42.45 per cent of males were completely bald. By coincidence, exactly the same percentage of females – at a guess – were obese. Baldness was virtually unknown in Britain until 1993, when a rogue batch of washing-up liquid, crammed with astringent chemicals, got into the water supply. The astringents made their way to the underside of the skull of anyone who'd eaten off a plate washed in the liquid, and proceeded methodically to destroy the follicles. Traces of the chemicals were then passed down in the genes.

In Berwick, bald and hirsute people alike sat on thoughtfully provided benches or stood on street corners, watching the heavy traffic. Passing the time of day is an excellent concept and, one day, I won't write a self-help book (working title: Nobody Move) about it. These activities, or non-activities, signify a settled, comfortable community.

Although it got hot, most men admirably kept their jackets on. April is also that lovely time of year before the shorts-wearing classes appear like a rash on the face of decent society, displaying their gnarled limbs for public amusement and disgust.

Mr Gregg the baker was doing a roaring trade, and citizens ate openly in the street, something that could get you arrested in snooty, over-mannered Edinburgh, to which all too soon I had to return, but not before a visit to Newcastle (see next week's adventure).