‘Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face, great chieftain o the puddin’-race!’
Oh Lord, here we are again. January 25th, and time for Scots the world over to celebrate their heritage and salute that great Scottish-Jewish poet, Rabbi Burns.
Now I’m the first to admit that the greatest piece of luck I’ve ever experienced was to win the heart of a gorgeously sensual Edinburgh lass, but like any of life’s riches, it’s come with some baggage, or a bloody great steamer trunk in the case of haggis.
Now cunters from sarf of the border will have heard of this culinary abomination, but may only have a vague notion of what a haggis actually is, so let me include a brief explanation courtesy of Wikipedia:
‘Haggis is a savoury pudding containing sheep’s pluck (heart, liver and lungs), minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices and salt, and cooked while encased in the animal’s stomach’.
Every January 25th, I have to go through the ritual torture of a Burns Supper, where this abomination is served up with tatties and neeps, to the accompaniment of the maestro’s ‘Address to the Haggis’. And I have to like it, or else. Take it from me, haggis is an open invitation to a three-day bout of acid reflux, or a bad dose of the shits, or both. I’m living on borrowed time as I write. The good news is that it’s another 365 days before I have to endure the ordeal again. Still, at least I get a good, warming shot of Glenlivet single malt to wash it down with. Every cloud has a silver lining, even if for the most part, the cloud resembles a ball of lead. And for dessert, what about that other Scottish culinary masterpiece, the deep fried Mars Bar? Man, that’s really living, as any Dying Scot will tell you.
Nominated by Ron Knee