Saturday night saw me at a Burns Night Supper, celebrating the life of the great Scots poet, better known to you and I as the employer of Homer Simpson. I'd never been to one of these things before, so I fully expected
a) rivers of booze
b) bad poetry
c) haggis, booze
d) people saying "Jings", "Crivens!" and "Help ma boab"
e) more blokes in skirts than a Culture Club reunion
f) booze, vomit
And that's exactly what I got. As the evening wore on, and the Scotch Drink flowed, until it became impossible for the be-kilted Scots to gets the poetry out without making it any more ridiculous than it already is. In fact, an Arabic rendition of "To a Mouse" made more sense to me than the Scots version, while the "Toasting of the Ladies" descended into a drunken "Show us yeh tits, love", met by a stony silence.
Things got rapidly out of hand from there, one thing led to another, and there'll be red faces on Monday morning when the full reality of the witch-burning strikes home.
Wee Jimmy Krankie would be spinning in his grave.
And then men with beards arrived and the country dancing commenced. Asked to join in the dark arts of The Cocking of the Legs, I made my excuses and left.
Mirth. Woe. The finest night out for a long, long time.
Photos, you say?