We went to a Burns’ Night earlier this week, and I was struck by two things. One, by how absolutely smashed the piper they had flown in from Scotland was. He forgot the words to Address to a Haggis after only the first verse, and then in his nervousness pronounced the haggis “fucking rich”. This was in front of a crowd of church-going folk (myself and Nats obviously excluded). He was also spotted lying prone outside and speaking in an extremely slurred voice. Top marks for showcasing Scottish culture to Hungarians.
The other thing that struck me was all the eulogising about Burns’ love poetry and what a sweet man he was. Let’s be honest. He was a shagger. The man liked to dip his wick, often, and he wasn’t too fussy about where. So, in honour of the real Burns, I’d like to suggest the titles of some poems he should have written:
Don’t let the door hit yer arse on the way oot
Ma boabie is like a red, red scab
Have ah no’ shagged you already?
Stop greeting ya daft cow, it was only a shag
Ah don’t care if ah shagged yer ma, yer no’ ma wayne
Maybe I’ll write some of these if I can find the time. Who knows, maybe they’ll be celebrating my life in 300 years.