Tuesday, January 25, 2022


Today, as you know, is Burn's Night, when people all over the world gather in scratchy woollen skirts to recite doggerel and eat the inedible. Except for the skirts, it's like a celebration of the culture and speech habits of Yorkshire. Everyone's spiritual home. The bag of offal in this post refers to a "haggis", that being a football shaped comestible composed of chopped innards and oatmeal inside a cleaned sheep's stomach which is steamed for hours, then ceremoniously carried around the room and venerated with loud noises.
After which sooty firewater is drunk.
Much of it.

I have made haggis. I have eaten haggis.
And participated in the jollification.

Because I am a Dutchman, and therefore naturally a sneering and sarcastic blighter, people never invite me to Burn's Night anymore. They are afraid of what I'll do.
The haggis is Burn's writing made flesh.
It cries out for Sriracha.
It is sad.

Also, all you men in plaid skirts with socks to match look bloody ridiculous.
Drunken refugees from a Catholic girls school. Or reformatory.

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