Some think that Rabbie Burns turns in verse, and it’s certainly true that the English, those people mostly south of the border, don’t care for such immortal verses as “My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here”.
But I won an elocution prize at an English Jesuit school called St Michael’s College – motto Quis ut Deus – in the early 1960s. It’s closed, hooray!* They didn’t like it up them, because the Scottish educational system, by and large, far outpaces the Sassenach thingie.
The tradition is that on Burns’ Night a small vole called a haggis is piped in and hailed as a pudding. At that point, much whisky is quaffed, quaffed and quaffed again.
This haggis is easy to find in superior sort of supermarkets like Sainsburys, but difficult to find at your local inconvenience shop.
At some point in the proceedings, people need to slump on the floor or carpet and wake up tomorrow with their headaches making their brains throb like there is no tomorrow.
Yes, that’s Burns’ Night. It’s nae as good as Hogmanay for hangovers, but Burns’ Night is for posh people, not for the proletariat. And haggis, although some consider it a delicacy, isn’t for everyone, that’s true.
*EyeSee – The “diocese of Leeds” says this about the college: “The present building rises on a low hill just to the west of the city centre and is a mirror image of the local prison which stands on the opposite side of the valley.” That’s Armley Jail they’re talking about.