For 'a that, an' a' that

January 25th, Burn's Night.

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' yet tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o'a grace
As lang's my arm.

(Robert Burns, 1786)

They don't write them like that any more. Just as well, since it's completely impenetrable. I usually like to celebrate Burn's Night in the time-honoured manner, by getting roaring drunk on whisky and reciting absolute nonsense whilst wearing traditional attire. However, there was an unfortunate and blatantly xenophobic incident here in LA last year, a few complaints were made, the police were called. Apparently some of the other members of the yoga class found the contents of my sporran off-putting during the bakasana. "Is anything worn under the kilt?", one of them asked. "No Madam" I replied, "it's all in perfect working order"*. Someone also claimed that the one about the Young Man from Nantucket was never written by Burns, but these people aren't Scottish so what would they know.

Of course, some would point out that I'm not Scottish either. Technically they're correct, but in fact my grandmother was from Falkirk, which makes me a good deal more Scottish than any of the New Yorkers paying a fortune for their clan tartan in overpriced shops on the Royal Mile (that was back when the dollar was a real currency). "Cast ne'er a clout 'till May be out" Granny would say to me, a woodbine clenched in her gums and a can of Special Brew in her worn hands. I don't know what she meant either. I used to think that she had some mysterious, earthy Gaelic wisdom, and I strove for many years to understand it. It turned out that actually she was just senile.

*This sounds much better in a Scottish accent