THE BURRY MAN
EXCERPT FROM TRUE BRITS ©JR DAESCHNER

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It's Dress-Down Friday in Silicon Glen, and the alpha, beta and epsilon-grade workers of Agilent Technologies are hurrying toward the canteen.
Dark-green plants flank the smoked-glass corridor, with grey tubing and metal grates running overhead.
Clad in their button-downs and T-shirts, chinos and jeans, the foot soldiers of Scotland's future chatter about job cuts, technological breakthroughs and their plans for the weekend.

As they turn the corner, though, they encounter something so weird, so alien, that they can't help but do a double take. A man--or is it a mannequin?--stands propped up against the glass like a human starfish smothered in prickly green burrs.

His mouth and eyes are nothing but dark, overgrown holes, and dozens of roses crown his head. His arms are spread wide--like his legs--and supported by two floral staves to keep them from sticking together.
Confronted with this living relic, some of the 21st century workers grin bemusedly, but most look away, rushing down the corridor without asking questions.

They're too busy looking forward to the future--or at least lunch--to bother with the past. William Wallace is one thing, but a bug-infested plant man, well-it's not very Braveheart, is it? Not very jocko-macho. What with all the vegetation, the floral hat and the roses for nipples, the green alien in their midst could almost be (gulp) ... Englesh.

In fact, the Burry Man of South Queensferry is as Scottish as the town's Forth Bridge, the Rampant Lion flag wrapped around his waist and the freehand shots of whisky he downs all day.

Not that many people in Scotland know about him.

Every August, Edinburgh's tourism machine gears up for the world's biggest arts extravaganza, the International Festival, accompanied by showcases for films, books and jazz, as well as the infamous Fringe.

Attendants at the Edinburgh and Lothians Tourist Board will helpfully direct you to an Irish drama in a public toilet, a play about Indian eunuchs or a musical starring a former Tory MP in fishnet stockings.

Yet when you ask about a centuries-old Scottish tradition that ranks as one of the UK's most bizarre customs--putting so-called performance art to shame--the tourist office draws a blank.

"Barry Man," says the chipper voice on the phone. "How are you spelling that?"

Compared with the English, the Scots seem altogether too sensible to indulge in not-for-profit traditions. But when they do come up with one, it's a real lulu.

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