Burns Neight 2013


A Baker’s Dozen of HWGEs turrrned up for the 4th (5th? 6th?)  Annual  Jum’s Burns Neight. Yet again a memorable event: a fabulous night of laughter! 

Grub ‘n’ swally

In 2012, this was the description: Jum had brought for us delicious haggis pakora (plus a vegetarian option!), accompanied by his special savoury dip, and a chili onion salad that was enough to blow your balls off.   That’ll dae for 2013 too!

Big John McWells brought a beautiful pair of fruit cakes, which were hoovered up in no time at all, despite the company, five minutes before, saying that they cuddnae eat anither thing, being stuffed ful’ a’ haggis pekora ‘n’ thaat..

Two bottles of whisky stood on the table, wan frae Jum (I think) and wan frae Richie McWalker (the guid stuff – a single malt!). Plus of course Jum’s special mix: the Atholl Brose: we think he gets this affa they three witches oota Macbeth a summat: it’s like to been some kinda witch’s brew a’right! See pics for the exotic container in which it comes.  Mind: it’s delicious!  (see recipe here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atholl_brose

Poyums (see below)

All (except one) performed their pieces well, but the highlight was a wonderful Scottish Epic, composed in the vernacular by Dr Paul McWyatt, who, we’re glad to say, suffered appropriately on the day after.  This is reproduced below, after the pikshas: Dr McWyatt’s Lament.

Another masterpice was composed on the night by Richie McWalker: brief yet exquisite! Like a Japanese Haiku!    Unfortunately, though it started well with a poetic flourish that had us all gasping,  it was too filthy to be reproduced here.

Dr Paul McHarrison managed to dodge his turn: he was hearrrd to be groaning early on, whilst reviewing the incomprehensible Aysrhire dialect in front of him “ooccchhhh: ah canne dae this!”. And sure ’nuff: he kept postponing his turn until everyone was so pissed that they didn’t notice his absence from the roster of turns. A lamentable cowardlly performance.

An unusual and as it turned oot popular turn of events was introduced by Wee Feartie John, who gave us a rendition of the ancient Gaelic classic Donald, where’s yer troosers?  This chorus was repeated with increasing frequency, and volume, as the night wore on.

The only sour note of the evening was when that Cockney git cast aspersions on the manly girth of one of our fair local Geordie lads – the one with flowing blond locks – by calling him a f__ c___ . A fight was avoided (“save it for the football pitch, boys”).

The evening finished with a snowball fight, and with two of our number paralytic drunk: one was conscious and aware, and had a shovel (Hello, McKevan); one was walking, but completely unconscious: (Hello, McCaley!) (again!!).

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Dr McWyatt’s Lament
Composed in the true style o’ the Bard hissel’
Tha Mairning Arfter
It’s the mairning after and,
I’ve a Baistart between the eyes,
I slainged wi Jum, so shudnae be surprisz’d,
The cause? : tae celebrate the days and dreams a’ wor Rabbie Burns,
Ae shuld hae heard me Lassie’s  words.

She  tauld me weel  the hae we got enoughers were  skellums,
A bunch a bletherin blisterin’ drunken blellums.
That frae November til October,
On ony day they were nae sober,
She warned we’d sit bousing at the nappy,
We’d get fou and uncou happy.

I sed  Nae missy you are mistaken,
Aan you missy, must understand,
That e’en when the Diel humself is tae hand,
I’m a man that can deny it,
Can howd my hand and say nae te’it

But safe tae say, I wuz  wrang,
When met wi inspirin’old  John Barleycorn,
Aafter ony a pint or twa was drunket,
Av wor auld pal Bitter and Twisted,
I turned mae heid tae the wandering Quaich,
Ae took wan then twa than tae mony tae taich.
Til the swats sae reemed inside my noddle,
That Ae car’d nae deils a boddle.

Wud ae cud tell ya that like Tam,
Ae had adventues all mae way heim
Nae ghaist, nae bogles did ae see
As ae stumblt past St Johnny`s Lee,
Nae mirth, nae dancing bore me on,
As ae staggert o’er the great Tyne burn.

Nae Maggie brought me home to houses,
Where sat but a pair of folded blouses.
A note on’y did ae meet:
“My fou husband, It gars me greet
Ta see How mony lengthened sage advises,
The husband frae the wife despises.”

I cud nae read It till this morn,
When sara still did wear a frown,
As I workt tae force me breakfast down.
Ae thought on a the drugs ae mine,
Paracetamol, prochlorperazine,
Tae mak mae head feel slightly better,
Tae drag me inta fitter fetter.
Then blew the thought tae end this prose,
What ae need’s mare a that Athol brose