SPECIAL MENTION SLOAN PRIZE 2026
From his background in Linguistics, Evan has developed an acute awareness of the different functions and forms of Scots language. As such, he is interested in interrogating its purpose in prose, and expanding its utility. Coloured by his upbringing in West Lothian, he is interested in how the image of a contemporary Scotland can be negotiated between the extremes of the branded, mythologised cultural export and the deprecating report of social deprivation. This collective affinity for both Scottish Exceptionalism and Scottish Cringe serves as a frequent muse for him. He placed as the Runner-Up for The Sloan Prize last year for his piece, It’s Fur The Weans.
Instagram @evanlaw1
“With this piece, I wanted to pivot from my more personal story of last year into something that asks questions about what it means to perform a certain brand of Scottishness, and which forms are palatable to a global gaze. Scots writing can often rely on a small scope of familiar tropes & conventions, and while I don’t necessarily resist that here, I did want to confront it with more intention. It means a lot for me to be recognised for the second year in a row, especially with such a narratively different piece.”
Carcaldburgh Cooncil Dinner
A cooncil dinner used tae mean suhin. Or, dependin how ye looked at it, it meant nuhin. It meant ye were skint, or ye couldny be fucked, or ye appreciated the intregrity ae a slapdash platter ae hidden horsemeat an pickled onions. It meant, certainly, that ye’d no be sut wae yer chapel garbs an gid perfume oan like ah am the noo.
The four ae us are each parked in a corner ae the wee side room, aw pure brickin it. Davy Dolan’s stress-scrannin a mince round, Janeece McBrier’s laddie’s goat wan ae they daft fidget spinners oan each hawn, an the other wee lassie’s goat her eyes shut wae an almighty racket blaring fae her headphones. Ah wonder fur a minute how they hink ma nerves are showin, then realise nane ae them huv even looked at me this fu time. Ah decide tae take a wee minute tae masel, but git interrupted by a shrill rap at the door.
“Yeez ready?” Suz fae the Community Centre asks. “He’s…eh, he’s here.”
Ah couldny believe the difference in the atmosphere when there wis a bit ae money involved. Suz wis a door bastard at the best ae times, but the day ye’d hink she wis aboot tae break the news that oor dear auld da hudny survived surgery. She feebly shuts the door an backs against it, lit she doesny want tae git too close tae us but doesny want tae let the outside world in either.
She continues in her doctorly tone. “So, everyhing’s aw set up fur yeez. When yeez go oot, ye’ll meet him.” She pauses, looks at the flair, an chuckles. “Ah’m sure ah dinny huv tae remind yeez that the council – an the Community Centre – huv pit a lot ae money intae this. Hings are tight, as yeez ken, an we’re bankin oan this event daein some gid fur us aw in future.”
A lack ae expected interjection fae Davy seems tae throw her aff a bit. “That means the event’ll look a bit different than previous years. We’re pittin the village in front ae the world tae see. So. Nae…” she stops tae look at us aw wae equal suspicion, “nonsense”.
Ma anxiety canny take this anymare. Ah want this err wae. But ah’m gonny rinse these cunts. Ah’m gonny whitey. This must be wit it feels like behind the scenes at the Olympics. Aw chummy wae yer pals til it gits doon tae it an then yer oot fur blood. The lassie wae the headphones pipes up, rescuin me fae ma spiral.
“Want tae jist make a start oan it then?”
We aw mumble in reticent agreement, an Suz slinks away fae the door, feart tae take the lead. Wae a sudden gallus wind aboot me, ah swing intae the main hall. Assert ma dominance.
Fur a second ah surrender tae the shock ae white an start runnin through excuses fur ma sins in ma heed. Ah see a felly in the sea ae light wae his back turnt. Ma fuckin luck that Carcaldburgh Community Centre wid double as a portal tae the efterlife.
Ma eyes adjust tae the relief that it’s jist the main hall huvin hud a fresh lick ae paint an a bit ae a red up, when aw err again ah’m blinded by the maist hacket set ae veneers ah’ve ever seen in ma puff. A grotesque, unnatural mug emerges fae behind the gub, lit somecunt hud merged the bonnie Sean Batty wae a meltet Madame Tussauds reject. He swaggers err an shakes aw oor hawns, wae a fuckin mental look in his eyes.
“Jake Tease, lovely tae meet ye. Jake Tease, hiya. Jake Tease, pleasure. Jake Tease, how ye doin?”
We’re aw stood pure awkwardly afore Suz rescues us fae him by huvin a quick word. Ah take the chance tae learn the rejigged surroundins. Like last year, there’s four wee tables set up at the far end wae aw the stuff, but instead ae rows ae seats fur an audience there’s a whole production team occupyin the space. Davy an the other pair look jist as confused at this. We wereny exactly gittin standin ovations last year, but it wis a gid chance fur us aw tae huv a laugh an catch up wae oor neighbours. This lot dinny seem much fun tae blether wae. Yer mad baldy uncles hud been swapped fur LED ringlights, an the clipboards an lanyards were donned by anxious lackeys rather than yer brash auld school teachers. It wis lit bein oan a UFO waitin tae be experimented oan. Except the aliens were cried ‘Minty’ or ‘Jonty’ or other made up names lit that.
Ah jump oot ma skin when affronted wae a tuna butty scented “That Suz isny half para, is she?” in ma ear. It’s that fuckin roaster Jake Tease. We’ve never needed a host afore, or a bunch ae cameras an phones an nosey bastards, so aw credit tae her this time – ah hink Suz is right tae keep this wan oan a short leash.
“Welcome! Everybody! To the tenth annual Carcaldburn Cooncil Dinner Competition!”
We aw freeze an look roond, like it’s jist been revealed we’re stood oan a minefield. Jake isny exactly addressin us, but rather the wee tablet that’s propped up next tae aw his crew. He gits a nod fae wan ae the Mintys, who then stabs away at the computer an activates a big telly behind her. It’s cut in half, wan side wae what seems tae be a live video ae Jake an his gnashers, an the other blank wae a title saying ‘Sentiment Analysis’.
“Live for the first ever time from Carcaldburn, I’m your host, Jake Tease!” He pauses fur applause then powers through when it doesny come. “For the uninitiated: this quick cooking competition pits four of Carcaldburn’s finest amateur chefs together in an attempt to make the best Cooncil Dinner (or ‘Struggle Meal’ for any non-Scots) possible.”
Ah feel a flash ae rage at the ‘Carcaldburn’ ae it aw, mellowed only slightly by being cried a chef. Minty Number Two lifts the tablet an starts followin err Jake’s shooder, while a Jonty ushers us aw tae oor respective stations.
“Contestants will have ten minutes, a microwave, and a kettle to cobble together a satisfactory ‘scran’, as we like to say around these parts. We’ll be judging on Presentation, Taste & Texture Profile, and Ingenuity, but this time, you at home will have the final say! One of these flavoursome four will take home five THOUSAND pounds, and a monthly cooking segment on The Morra.”
Ah’ve barely caught the information when they start approaching us.
“Jordan McBrier, how’s it going wee man? At just ten years old, Jordan won the contest last year with his sensational take on a microwave steak sandwich that would give Rustlers a run for their money. What’s your strategy this year ma man?”
“Jist trustin the process Jakey boay, laser focus an space fur a bit ae fun along the way.” Smug wee bastard.
“Hah hah haaaah, fantastic, moving on to our newbie, a Miss Charley Simmons – Charley, are you a local to here?”
“Well, I eh, actually moved to Edinburgh for University and after graduation ended up in a flat in-”
“-and what do you think you’ll bring to the competition?”
“Oh. Eh, maybe a bit of energy…”
Jake smirks in mockery at the tablet screen, an ah canny help but mirror it.
“Maybe, maybe. Now, Siobhan Tierney here absolutely loves a cheap dinner, don’t you Siobhan. Tell me, what do you make the weans, sorry ‘kids’ when you’re in a pinch?”
The one-two ae the insult intae the assumption that a wumman ae ma age must huv weans somehow makes me rise tae the occasion an go along wae it.
“Our Eddie loves a Smoked Sausage Cheesy Pasta combination, but if I don’t have that in, a ketchup sandwich will always tide him over.”
“Sounds absolutely rotten, Siobhan doll, but that’s the name of the game. Davy Dolan – are you just going to put everything in a roll again?”
“Aye pretty much, aye.”
“Smashing. And with that, let the Cooncil Cooking commence!”
An annoyin electrical din begins chirpin away like the bowels ae a McDonald’s kitchen, as the countdown begins an microwaves start buzzin. Ah start peeling away the noodle packet an stick the kettle oan tae boil. That telly in the back catches ma eye again, cause the Sentiment Analysis screen has the four ae oor names across a grid noo. Ootside the hall windaes, ah see a few familiar faces peerin in fur a swatch ae the action.
Fur the next wee while, ah go intae a bit ae a trance an start choppin up ma hot dogs an gearin up the broon sauce as it comes doon tae the wire. The grid oan the telly has filled up a bit noo, an oor names aw huv wee phrases attached underneath.
Charley: ‘glaikit’, ‘dull’, ‘typical student’, ‘young people’, ‘stunning’, ‘beans’, ‘posh’
Davy: ‘retire’, ‘delicious’, ‘roll’, ‘old man’, ‘unoriginal’, ‘boring’, ‘butcher’
Jordan: ‘wonderkid’, ‘genius’, ‘cocky’, ‘lovely’, ‘good laddie’, ‘talented’
Siobhan: ‘good mum’, ‘neglect’, ‘make do’, ‘hard’, ‘lovely’, ‘well-spoken’
Seeing ma name in a provisional second place tae the wee boy spurs me oan a bit, but it throws me tae realise that the winner will be decided afore the time’s even up. It’s a competition ae character. It’s fucked up, aye, but it looks lit it’s workin in ma favour. Ah jist need tae keep playin the respectable scheme maw, daein her best tae make ends meet. Ah should try tae add in that ah’m a single parent anaw. Maybe ma man didny treat me that well. Ma schemin becomes somewhat obsolete when a gaggle ae wee lassies start batterin oan the windaes.
“Jordan’s a lassie-basher! Lassie-basher! Lassie-basher! Jordan McBrier’s a lassie-basher!”
It’s nearly melodic. It’s fuckin devastatin fur Jordan’s optics, an ah can take a guess that the audience areny gonny gie the notion ae a prepubescent abuser too much scrutiny. His name oan the telly starts spittin oot new phrases, like ‘all the same’, ‘scheme wains’, ‘council-housed and violent’. An jist lit that, ah ken ah’ve cinched it. Ah even throw in some tuts an heed shakes jist tae crucify him even mare.
As expected, ah win the competition. They loved me. The food itsel wis borderline irrelevant. Ah hink that Charley lassie made an ‘elevated beans on toast’, Davy of course pit a macaroni pie in a roll, an Jordan could huv made cooncil caviar fur aw it mattered. It’s no really the same sense ae glory wae nae physical audience, ah’ll admit, but five-thousand quid might go some way tae makin up fur it.
Suz gies me a funny look as Jake an the Mintys an the Jontys aw rush me tae their motor oot the front, but ah truly dinny ken or care wit she could be tryin tae say. We’re oan the road tae some party or other. A bash funded by their studio nae doubt. Jonty Number One congratulates me, an Number Two says the mother bit wis ‘genius’. Ah ken ah’m aboot tae be shat oot, but fuck me what a high it wis tae be tasted. The roadsign thanks us fur visiting Carcaldburgh, an hopes we come back soon.
