COMMANDO UNDER THE FLAPPY BIT
Have a bit of skink with your haggis, dear.
Ooh, lovely, and thankee kindly.
At our recent meeting he made the staggering claim that Robert Burns was a splendid poet.
Look, I suppose that if you've got only one (1) versifier, whatever he does is jes' wunnerful and worth celebrating, but the world might not agree.
Besides, you are forgetting Ewan McTeagle.
This blogger is not vested in Scottish poetry or cuisine, and would argue that such things don't actually exist, or, if they do, that they shouldn't. At the meeting I smoked two bowls of McConnell's Folded Flake in stunned silence, before making off with the open tin of GLP's Union Square.
Mr. Shaw disquisitioned for slightly over an hour on the romance and beauty of Scotland and its glorious history of violent real-estate transactions.
With visuals, and a wee sidetrack into liquor.
He had come well prepared. He was wearing a kilt (and a tiny sword), he had coloured slides, and there were bottles.
SHORT DOCUMENTARY CLIPS
For the benefit of the club exile stuck in the snows of Boston these past few years, as well as the members presently living among the Hobbits in New Zealand, here are two videos that perfectly encapsulate the all-too brief history of Caledonia presented last night.
It was a good meeting, and there was some lovely baccy floating around. The weather, though rainy, was warmish, and because the subcontinental liberal did not come to irritate the Hibernian savage, the cigar lounge at the far end of the building was peaceful, rather than the pit of howling madness and outraged screaming it normally is. They did not disturb us civilized smokers like they usually do.
[Irish tobacco: what you smoke to disguise the odeur of your mildewed tweed.]
As a lagniappe, here is an infestation of pipers:
Particular mention must be made of the lovely shortbread provided by Neal (there were two types, he baked them himself ) and the fact that more Rattray tobacco was consumed last night than any other brand; Old Gowrie, Hal O'The Wynd, Black Mallory, i drugiye togo tipo.
Afterwards, the kilt-wearing individual with the hairy calves, a graphic artist, and a Dutch person all repaired to a tavern, where yet more whisky was consumed and tobacco enjoyed. The two first mentioned gentlemen retired after a while, but the Netherlander stayed to stir up revolution and insult the Trumpites, certain he could find such among the cigar smokers present.
As a matter of principle, I wish to state there are more cretins and potential thugs among cigar smokers than any other segment of the population, and that it is a grievous burden when well-brought-up pipe smokers are forced to share space with those repulsive bastards.
What is this world coming to?
We share Scotch, but that is all.
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
Labels: Pipe Club