START WITH THE PLUCKS -- BURNS NIGHT

Tonight we celebrate Bobby Burns Night. With indigestion. But rather than getting that roaring indigestion naturally, by consuming haggis, neeps, taties, and whiskey, we shall speed up the process by reading that other great Scottish poet, William McGonagall, and thus achieve the desired result much faster.

The Scots are to poetry what the Scandinavians are to popular music.
Makes you want to rip your ear hairs out.

People who like haggis, neeps, and taties probably also love second breakfast, and are deeply into that hobbit crap. Listen, boyo, a boiled sheeps stomach filled with garbage is NOT a meal, and instead of single malt you need pepto bismol and psychotherapy. If your mom said you were a failure, she was right. She was too, because she spat you out of her wattled loins and didn't choke you at birth.

Haggis.

Fiend food.

Those who like haggis have never made it; those who have made it, would rather listen to a recital by William McConagall than ever touch it again.

If there is a hell, the chief torturers will be Scottish versifiers like Bobby Burns and William McConagall. Ewan McTeagle, however, is not among them. "Lend us a couple of bob till Thursday; I am absolutely skint, but I'm expecting a postal order ... " (E.Mc.T., 1969).
Lyrical. It rejects all the clichés of modern poetry.
Ewan is in a much better place.
Dibley Road.


"Wen is das nunstuck geht und slotermeyer?"

"Ja, bayerhund das oder die flipperwaldt gespuhrt!"


In 1950, peace broke out and Scottish Poetry was banned by a special session of the Geneva convention. Nastly smelly dirty fork! It's like a mountain, a vast bowl of pus!

One of the crossbeams has gone out of skew on the treddle.


Look, all I'm saying is that reciting Scottish poetry at the Germans would have ended the war in months, rather than the long slow haul it took, with the entire country forced to eat haggis, neeps, and taties, because there was nothing else!

Scottish "poetry" and Scottish "cuisine" are the direct cause of country music, and haggis with tikka masala sauce, oh horrors.

Nothing is sacred anymore.

Damned hobbits.



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