As we steadfastly march behind our Dear Leader towards the glorious dawn of Scottish Independence, fanned by the zephyr-like breath of the tens of millions of wind turbines crowding across every available inch of our mountains and glens and far too sober thanks to the extortionate amount of alcohol duty levied by the Health Fascists of the Scottish Parliament, it is time to reflect on one of the few good things which will come out of that Independence.
One of the first edicts of Emperor Salmond will be to declare haggis a banned substance. For far too long our proud nation has lived with the vile calumny that we are responsible for this abomination. Haggis is one of the main reasons why we have a totally undeserved reputation for being dour and miserable. You would be pretty hacked off too if that was what you were supposed to dish up and eat every time that there was some sort of national celebration. It’s all the fault of the English and their erstwhile colonial masters, the Romans.
I refer you to the famous Roman historian/poet Livid and his oft-quoted ‘Hagges a Romanis revelata sunt’. Having discovered haggises, tasted them and spat them out, they sent them off to sustain the subject nations. Which is how they arrived in England. The Romans tried to foist them off on us as well in their forays into Caledonia (stern and wild) but we got severely piqued about that. That’s why they called us the Picts. The Romans got so fed up with us lobbing the uneaten haggises back at them that they built a wall to stop us.
We lived free and unhaggis-fed for centuries after that until we signed up in our own self interest to the United Kingdom of Great Britain in 1707. We were betrayed. As you will all remember, Article 210 of the Act clearly said ‘No stinking haggis muck will be imported into North Britain’.
Oh, that perfidious Albion! Within months of the Union, English agents were trying to reduce their haggis glut by flogging them to us. Didn’t work to begin with but then the English Haggis Marketing Board were lucky enough to employ two of the greatest spin doctors of all time.
Step forward Sir Walter English and Bob Burns. Sir Walter changed his name to the Jock-friendly ‘Scott’ and beavered away in Embra inventing a completely mythical history to soften us up. Meanwhile Bob, who originally came from Essex, learnt the Scots language, changed his name to Rabbie and was embedded in an Ayrshire farming family. In due course, he wrote ‘To a Haggis’ and the rest is an alternative and deeply untrue history. But now, the time has come to set the record straight.
To paraphrase The Proclaimers, ‘Haggis no more’. Let us rise as a free and united people and drive this English-imposed excrescence from our own dear native land for ever.
Mind, we’ll keep the Burns Suppers and the whisky. We just have to think of something to eat instead of the sheep’s stomach thing.
Being a Wodehouse fan, I’m tempted to suggest ‘Timbales de Ris de Veau Toulousaines’ as prepared by Aunt Dahlia’s chef, Anatole.
Or deep-fried Mars Bars.