My Grannie Was a Black Bitch

So saying, that’s me condemned to some kind of PC purgatory, or worse. Perhaps?

But ha`d oan a minute, I can explain, and it's all OK! You see, Jonet was born right here in the ancient Royal Burgh of Linlithgow in seventeen hundred and something; this simple fact makes her a Black Bitch. Oh, and therefore, so was my great grandfather time seven too.

Family historical tradition over, why am I making this point? To establish a local historical fact, of course, and it's very topical too, thanks to Greene King PLC.

Bound up in the lore and heritage of this ancient Royal Burgh of Linlithgow, is the story of the Black Bitch, yes, a female dog that happened to be black. She gave succour to her master who had been imprisoned or abandoned on a wee island out there in Linlithgow Loch. Somehow taking food to him every day, her actions kept him alive; our Black Bitch is a local heroine. She even has a central place on our Coat of Arms, granted by the Lord Lyon King of Arms no less, so the whole Black Bitch saga is in our heraldry too; it has sound provenance.

A couple of hundred years ago, a local hostelry was established and named The Black Bitch. It remained thus, with pride and valid association until very recently. Rather pathetically, it is now blandly called The Willow Tree, a virtually meaningless title, that bears no true reference to anything local or otherwise.

So how did this change come about, I hear you ask?

An English hospitality company with its roots going back to the days of slavery entered the scene; Greene King bought the Black Bitch. Yes, slavery is where the money to create this company came from; not the most illustrious scenario. You can't beat a bit of rank hypocrisy though, so the marketing folk at Greene King decided that in these PC-obsessed days, blandness must rule and triumph over hundreds of years of proud tradition. In their paranoia about what they saw as confusion of image, they decided that they couldn’t possibly have a Black Bitch establishment on their books. So down came the signs that everyone understood, and the proud role of our dog that was black and female, therefore a bitch, was torn down, and up went offensive mediocrity.  

Well for all that, the local people, and even the staff within the establishment still call it The Black Bitch, with a sneer in their tone. They all, we all, find the whole business of Greene King's actions, quite contemptible. An attempt to impose ill-thought-out change in the name of political correctness, upon a town, a Royal Burgh, that knows its roots, has backfired, and GK is seen as the villain in this.

Why am I so vexed about this? Well, it's my roots, in my genes, that I`m thinking about, yes, my great-grandmother times seven, or eight, who was born here, and registered as such in the Parish records. Her man may have been a humble miner, hewing coal from a dangerous drift mine somewhere hereabouts, but both were Black Bitches on account of their birthplace. Fact. That I now live here, with a gap of hundreds of years, between Jonet Crookston and myself, fills me with pride. I feel a little bit of my true ancestry is from within this place, Linlithgow.

That some two-bit brewing company that has been carved out of the evil of slavery, an ill-gotten source if ever there was one, should march in here with its bucks and seek to obliterate a part of our heritage, for no valid reason, is despicable. Their shareholders may only be interested in getting their dividend, but in my view, it will be a sour trophy for them, borne out of sheer ignorance; arrogance even.

So is this just a jolly good rant I`m on?

The reader will judge that, and either see the point or not. There`s a wider context to this saga, of course. All down the years, as capitalism, has marched roughshod through every community in the land with no sensitivity for local interests and people. Takeover, buy-out, and buck hunting is ever in our midst; `twas ever thus. But when the pursuit of political correctness, as an end in itself takes over, we are into the realms of absurdity; crass absurdity no more, no less. Common sense has been toppled.

As I walk down the Lion Well Wynd to the High Street, I`ll admire the recently erected statue of our Black Bitch just across the road, with the Loch beyond. I`ll doff my hat to a tradition that has not only enduring provenance but gives me a sense of belonging. Thank you, Black Bitch, my ancestors knew of your good deeds, you are truly worthy of my respect and admiration. That’s a whole lot more than can be said of that ephemeral pc PLC so mired in sanctimonious keich.