Tonight, it is Burns Night. Or rather, two nights ago, it was Burns Night. But because it was, as we adults often say, a “school night,” it is being celebrated tonight at the well-appointed home of our friend and Taylor Hicks aficiondo, Paul. He is, you see, from that storied land of Robert the Bruce (pictured above), Robert Burns, and Franz Ferdinand (the music group, not the Archduke).
It should be noted I share a bit of ancestory with Robert the Bruce, a claim which nobody, with any Scottish ancestory, has ever made.
Tonight, the poem will be read, whiskey will be drunk, tartan will be worn, and a haggis will be stabbed. The Shatnerian tartans were left at Balmoral the last time I went stag hunting with Prince Phillip (oh, but you should see them – only tartans in creation to incorporate turquoise). I may have to settle for a Cameron, or Heaven forbid, the New Brunswick tartan.
Despite these setbacks, I will likely enjoy myself much in the manner of Sir John Mandeville, contributer to Geoffery Chaucer Hath a Blog:
Oo, freendes, he commaunded a greet feest to be prepared in mine honour, but nevere had I seen food of the lyke! Our meel was served with bread deep-fryed. I was y-given some thyng called “the haggis of honour” that semed to me to be the verray spare partis of a sheepe, but whych James swore was “spices and lovely thynges”. For a sweete we hadde deep-fyed Mars bars, whych were nat red, but dyd make mine blood to y-boil within mine bellye. And wyth these accursed comestibles came endless whiskie, whych drynke is moost injurious to kynghtes and oother lyving thynges.
How could I possibly say no to that?
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