Haggis – I rather like Haggis and if you do not know quite what it is see Newcastle Journal for 5.2.04. Haggis does have its problems. I have delicately hinted at these in the article, here I feel I can be more brutal, more in-your-face, although I hope not for your sake that this is not taken literally. I remember the story of the flatulent New York cop (too many burgers and fries), who was disciplined for his habit of farting in the faces of hapless prisoners with the instruction to ‘check this one out’. My good friend Cyril the Squirrel has been kind enough to send me a little poem on the subject:

Oh what a sleekit horrible beastie
Lurks in yer belly efter the feastie
Just as ye sit doon among yer kin
There starts to stir an enormous wind

The neeps and tatties, mushy peas
Ster workin’ like a gentle breeze
But soon the puddin wi’ the sauncie face
Will have ye blawin’ all ower the place

Nae matter whit the hell ye dae
A’body’s gonnae have tae pay
Even if try to stifle
It’s like a bullet oot a rifle

Hawd yer bum tight tae the chair
Tae try and stop the leakin air
Shift yersel frae cheek tae cheel
Prae tae God it doesnae reek

But aw yer efforts go asunder
Oot it comes like a clap a thunder
Ricochets aroon the room
Michty me! A sonic boom

God a’mighty it fair reeks
Hope I havnae shit ma breeks
Tae the bog, I better scurry
Aw whit the hell! It’s no ma worry

A’body roon aboot me chokin’
Wan or twee are nearly bokin’
I’ll feel better for a while
Cannae help but raise a smile

Wis him! I shoot with accusin’ glower
Alas too late, he’s joost keeled ower
‘Ye dorty bugger’ they shoot and stare
I dinnae feel welcome anys mair

Where ‘ere ye go let yer eind gan free
Sounds like just the job for me
Whit a fuss at Rabbie’s perty
Ower the sake of won wee ferty

Yes, well, Thank you Cyril for that rather fundamental offering – the trouble is it is all very true. It did not affect me straight away, but Man, I tell ye, all the next day; I was cracking off like a machine gun.

There is a li

ttle known fact about old Rabbi Burns (the famous Scottish / Jewish poet) he was once called as a witness at a rape case. When asked by the Fiscal (I am not too sure about these Scottish titles) as to what he had seen, he replied that in his opinion what he had seen was a case of ‘muckle fucking’. At this the Sheriff (?) rared up like a piece of fried bread and said that he was not having language like that in his court. Mr Burns was to sit down, compose himself and come up with a more suitable reply. Burns sat and composed, so that when the question as to what he had witnessed was put again, he rose to his feet and replied in verse:

‘His breeks were doon,
His airse was bare
His balls were swinging in the air
His ye ken what was ye ken where
And if yon’s nae fuckin’, I wasnae there.’

Who dares say that Burns was not a great poet and very suitable for the Scots. At a dance, years ago, I stood in the next stall of a urinal to the CO of a Highland Regiment and remarked that the kilt was a useful garment for this particular purpose. He agreed:

“The finest garment yet invented for fornication and diarrhoea, laddy’ There is no answer to that, but I have often wondered how the old highlanders came on with that vicious thing, the Highland Midge. I have been told that they used bog myrtle, but no one can tell me how. For all I know they just stuck a sprig of it up their arses.

I do not usually answer reader’s letter in the paper, but occasionally there is an occasion that I feel needs writing about. The following comes from the Journal – 20.11.03 or would have done had they not suffered a crisis of nerves and cut it out – pity to waste it:

No apologies to D.Thompson of Whickam – he wrote a silly letter asking if I would hunt bears if he stocked Kielder Forest with them? The answer to his question is – yes, certainly. I have never hunted bear, but an American friend of mine has and this is what you do. My friend, who is a very sharp Wall Street attorney, went bear hunting in Louisiana, down in the Mississippi Delta. The bears live out in the swamps. The locals, who speak a French patois, as well as American, are known as ‘Coon Asses’. This is not a derogatory term, it is a corruption of a local Indian word – ‘Kunassi’ which may be roughly translated as ‘Hunter / Gatherer’. The Coon Asses (I am an honorary Coon Ass, by the way) keep ‘Bar Dawgs’. These are sent out to find the bear and they hunt it around until it gets fed up and retreats to its lair. This is a hollowed out place in a thicket approached by a tunnel in the undergrowth. What you do is to hang your rifle round your neck, and then, on hands and knees, you crawl up the tunnel to where the dawgs are baying the bear. Then you shoot the bear – simple. My friend took all this in and ask the Coon Ass to run the scenario past him. The hunter spat a stream of tobacco juice and said:

“Ain’t no problem, Boy, y’all crawl up that long dark tunnel to where the bar and the dawgs are kickin’ up a ruckus. Now when that big ol’ bar sees you, he’s agoin’ to rear up with those big ol’ claws and those big old teeth of his’n. Then you pick up a handful of shit and throw it in his face and while he’s a-wipin’ of it off – you shoot him.”

My friend the attorney thought about this and, sharp man that he is, detected an essential flaw:

“But just suppose” he said – “I cain’t find no shit?” The Coon Ass spat another stream:

“Boy” he said – “Boy when y’all crawl up that long dark tunnel to where the bar and the dawgs are kickin’ up all kinds of ruckus. Now when that big ol’ bar sees you and when he rares up and you see those big ol’ claws and those big ol’ teeth of his’n – Boy, believe it, y’all goin’ to find all the shit y’ever goin’ to need.”

So there you are, Mr Thompson – that’s how it’s done, so bring it on. You supply the bars and I will guarantee to supply the needful.