Burns Night

Published on Monday 14 February 2005 12:10

WHAT is it with the Scots and fire traditions? Nearly every celebration seems to revolve around fire, which makes it pretty ironic that among the only ones that does not is actually dedicated to a man called Burns.

The Burns in question is Robert – Rab or Rabbie – and is none other than our national bard. Robert Burns, the ploughman's son from South Ayrshire who tilled the soil and tugged at our heart with his poems and songs.

He is remembered on his birthday, 25 January, all across Scotland, the UK and the world, when celebrants gather to give thanks. And how better to praise the great man than to sit down, feast and drink and generally have a good "craic".

Deciding what to eat at the very first Burns Supper was never going to be much of a problem. It's not as if Rabbie wrote reams of Epicurean poetry. There could never have been a moment when the host considered lamb chops or fillets of sea bass. After all, this is the man who wrote the immortal words:

"Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,

Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!

Aboon them a' ye tak your place,"

He was writing, of course, about our proud national dish, the delicately flavoured, oh so sumptuous haggis. Yes, some great people are remembered with medals, others have a library named after them. Scotland's greatest ever poet is remembered by a stodgy meat pudding made from the sheep's pluck wrapped up tightly in a stomach. Yum…

The haggis is only the first part of this great tradition. A proper Burns Supper follows a very strict way of doing things. Whether Moses actually had the programme dictated to him on top of Mount Sinai along with the Ten Commandments is debatable ... but possible.

More Burns

The National Bard

Auld Lang Syne

Address to a Haggis

So back to the supper. A bit like a recipe, it must be prepared properly:

Take one group of guest, and although it is not strictly necessary, it is jolly good form if they dress - or at least bedeck - themselves in some small way, with tartan.

The meal starts with grace – in this case the Selkirk Grace. Short, sweet, effective and to the point (unless you’re a vegetarian of course)."Some hae meat and canna eat

And some would eat that want it

But we hae meat, and we can eat

Sae let the Lord be thankit"(Oh, and on the vegetarian issue: Bad food night for them all round.)

After grace comes a wee gless o' something", followed by cock-a-leekie (chicken with leek) soup. Then comes the big moment, the reason you've travelled out in a cold January night, the one, the only parade of the haggis. Presented high on a platter, carried by the proud chef, piped in and given the full "Address to a Haggis" treatment, usually by the host.

When the whole ceremony is completed, including the slashing open of the steamy haggis with a skean-dhu, the dish is served up with mashed neeps and tatties. (The real aficionados substitute whisky for salt and pepper, but you need a stout heart for that particular condiment.)

Once the meal is digested, there is just time to re-fill your glasses and lubricate your voice box in readiness for a song. Take your pick, but make it Burns. After the singing comes the speeches which come thick and fast (if you’re lucky), or long and tedious (if you haven’t picked your speakers well.)Intersperse these speeches with liberal dose of songs, reminiscences and, yes, more drink.

By now it's late and you will be feeling rather "tired and emotional". The evening is brought to a close when the chairman thanks his guests. Drink. Toasts the chef. Drink. Refill. Toasts the piper. Drink. And so on until everyone staggers to their feet for a rousing rendition of "Auld Lang Syne".

The next bit of the supper tradition is optional, but essential nonetheless to a great number of celebrants. It goes like this:

Attempt to stand up, fall back once, risk knocking over the host's best crystal decanter.

Put both arms into the same sleeve of coat.

Leave ... eventually ... but not before you've told everyone how much you love them. And I mean really love them, and you're not just saying it because you're drunk.

Taxi home. Fall asleep in taxi. Wake up feeling queasy and over-tip the rather concerned looking driver.

Go to bed fully dressed.

Wake up briefly the next morning and curse Robert Burns, his ilk and anyone stupid enough to hold/attend/even think about a Burns Supper.

Sleep for three days.