Sheepishly cured of any desire to address a haggis

TONIGHT is traditionally Burns Night (or Nigt if you want to be uber-Scottish), and I believe anybody from Aberdeen to Alaska with the smallest drop of Scottish blood in their veins will be donning their kilts and sporrans this evening, drinking large quantities of whisky and talking to an oversize sausage in a funny accent, remarking on its “honest sonsie face”.

When you translate the funny accent into real English, what they are saying to the haggis is something like this: “Fair and full is your honest, jolly face, Great chieftain of the sausage race! Above them all you take your place, Stomach, tripe, or intestines: Well are you worthy of a grace As long as my arm.” There are seven more verses to this ode of praise, after which a ceremonial knife is plunged into the sausage’s sonsie face and it is consumed with drunken cries of “Hoots mon” and “Och aye.” I’ve been there. My first Burns Night was celebrated in Gourock Castle in the West of Scotland, way back in 1958 when I was still a teenager. The dinner was part of an all-inclusive school tour and was wonderfully traditional, complete with pipers, haggis and all the Scottish regalia.

It was freezing cold in the great stone hall in spite of a large log fire and I seem to recall consuming a quantity of cheap Scotch whisky purely for medicinal purposes, of course, as I was legally too young to partake of the nectar. I remember finding the address to the haggis immensely moving, in my slightly befuddled state.

My worst Burns Night was in Cape Town many years later, when I was invited to propose the traditional toast “to the lassies” at a very formal dinner. Bobby Burns was an enthusiastic lover of the lassies and I had no problems gathering suitable quotations to use in my address.

I sat in horror as the first speaker stood up and delivered the exact speech I had prepared so painstakingly, almost word for word, full of quotes about the lassies. I took out my speech notes and crossed off sentences, one after the other, until I was left with nothing to say. When it was my turn to speak I stood up red-faced and mumbled something inane.

The guests must have thought I was totally smashed, but I could hardly have repeated the first guy’s speech, could I? I slunk out and went home early. I still have nightmares about that public humiliation.

Which is probably why I will spend tonight NOT wearing a kilt or playing bagpipes or even eating a giant sausage. I might, however, have a serious conversation with a bottle of good single malt whisky.

It helps to erase that horrible memory.

Last Laugh

Jock Mc Tavish joined the New York Metropolitan Police force, and one day the police captain asked him: “How would you disperse a large, unruly crowd, Jock?”

“Weel,” said Jock, “I dinna know aboot here in New York, but back in Aberdeen we just pass a hat round and they soon shuffle off.”