Hamish McShanks

Ham Shanks Secret Dairy w/e 27^th Jan 08– Auld Lang Syne

Fellow Scots will be well aware that last Friday was Burns night. That special day of the year where we all celebrate the life and works of our National Bard; Rabbie Burns. This usually involves getting wired into a huge plate of haggis neeps and tatties and scooping a good lot of bevy. Very cultured I think you’ll agree.

Once again a group of us attended a local Burns supper in the toon. It’s an annual event raising cash for a local charity. So we were in fact getting blootered to help the poor wee sick kiddies or whatever they were collecting for; quite noble of us really. It’s a posh do though and they have singers and poetry readings on top of the traditional ceilidh hooching and chooching (that’s dancing & singing by the way)

Obviously the readings are all Burns poems and this year we were treated to the daddy of the all; Tam ‘O’ Shanter. Two hundred and twenty eight lines of prose. Over fifteen hundred smegging words; it’s not for the faint hearted or weak bladdered. If yer going to be listening tae Tam and his ghostly shenanigans I’d recommend emptying yer bladder and filling yer glass (not with the contents of your bladder though, that would be disgusting) Just be a good boy/girl scout and ‘be prepared’ cos yer going to be sat in yer seat for a very long time.

In a novel change from the traditional it was a lady delivering the reading. I don’t have a problem with that, I believe in equality. She’d even dressed up in period red and black costume to add to the authenticity; at least I think she had. Either that or her wardrobe was in need of some serious updating.

Things started off badly when we realised that the speaker wasn’t actually using a microphone. We were in a huge room with nearly two hundred people spread over a large area. A big ask to carry a voice over that distance, ‘Rab’ was doing her very best though. She was also giving it big licks with the theatrics, ‘When Chapman billies leave the street-’ arms flailing wildly about her. Shame we could only hear every third verse when she actually turned to face our table.

It didn’t help that the temperature in the venue had gone off the scale and we were all now sweltering in 100 degrees of kilt melting heat. I was fanning myself with a dessert menu as loose skin started slipping down my face; I was going to look like Droopy by the end if this performance. A couple of hours into it and there was still no sign of Mrs Burns wrapping up the Shanter number. Leaning over the table I whispered to another guest who happened to be pregnant ‘When are you due again?’, ‘June’ she replied wearily ‘better get some towels and hot water ready then’…

Time seemed to have stopped for us; I was convinced we had fallen into some form of temporal anomaly. I nudged my friend Brian and enquired ‘Is that not the third time she’s done that verse?’ when I received no reply I turned to look and he was slumped forward into his ‘fruits of the Forrest’ dessert. The custard bubbling gently as he snored peacefully into the bowl. I was going to pull him out but I felt he was better off where he was.

Most patrons were in a similar state of torpor, glassy expressions fixed on their anguished faces. Quite a number at the tables nearest the dance floor had utilised toothpicks as impromptu eyelid ‘stands’ to maintain at least an external impression of interest. All the while Mrs Rab was whirling about the dance floor, a scarlet clad dervish animating words few of us could actually hear. It occurred to me that perhaps Burns wrote this poem as a joke.

I was just sticking a fork in my leg by way of light relief when I heard a noise from under the table ‘psssst’ glancing down I saw a dirt covered face looking up at me ‘it’s me; Euan, we’ve dug an escape tunnel’, ‘but-‘, ‘there’s no time for questions we’ve got to go’, ‘but what about the otherswoooaahh!’ strong hands pulled me below the floor and before I knew it I was standing in a dark musty tunnel. Euan beamed at me whilst waving a fragment of metal in his hand ‘not bad for a dessert spoon eh’

‘They are bound to notice were gone’, ‘got it covered dude’ he replied, thrusting a stuffed manikin back up through the hole. As my eyes grew accustomed to the light I could see the remainder of our party all smiling and mugging happily in the gloom ‘we had to leave you till last as you were nearest the dance floor’ he explained as I was ushered down the tunnel ‘it’ll be another twenty minutes before she’s finished so we’ve got time bef-’ Muted applause started to filter down from above ‘GO GO!!’

We raced along the tunnel stumbling out into the fresh air of the Kings Park ‘any reason you tunnelled so far?’ I whispered ‘this is 2 miles from the Hotel’, ‘do ye want to go back!’ he hissed through gritted teeth ‘fair point’ I mumbled looking sheepishly at my feet. Within twenty seconds we were all hidden inside a large lalandia, Brian peering out from the topmost branches to establish the lay of the land ‘there’s Burns police everywhere’ he whispered from his lofty perch. Word had obviously got out that we’d escaped without listening to the whole of Tam ‘O’ Shanter.

This is a heinous crime punishable by the dreaded ‘Glen’ ordeal. Any Scotsman found showing disrespect to the Bard is brought to the famous Thistle Glen just outside Bannockburn. Here the thistles grow particularly tall, particularly bushy and with razor sharp spikes. Those who have sullied the Bards memory are forced to run through this Glen, stripped from the waist down; we take our poetry very seriously in Scotland.

The thought of Thistle Glen weighed heavily on us all as we had a group tremble inside our bushy haven ‘well we can’t stay here forev-’, ‘SHHH!’ we froze as another kilted policeman marched past, stopping abruptly as his hunting haggis strained at the leash ‘what’s that Hamish?’, ‘Dee ye smell the traitors?’ the haggis was snarling and whining ‘Perhaps ah should let ye aff the leash lad’ he said in a loud voice ‘after all ye’ve no been fed the day!’

‘ARGGHFUCKINGNOOONOTTHEHAGGIS!’ I screamed at the top of my lungs.

There was a collective sharp intake of breath. Every face in the entire hall turned to look at our table. ‘Rab’ was standing open mouthed in the middle of the dance floor, frozen in mid Shanter. I shot upright from my impromptu slumber, bleary eyed with an after eight mint glued to my right cheek. It fell to the table with a noisy splat …..

‘I’ll get my coat’