I forgot!! Look!
The Good Lady jabbed her finger excitedly at something bulging wrongly on the Supermarket shelf.
I looked over and flinched.
Ah, haggis.
My mouth was too dry to say anymore as I gazed upon the bulbous things lined up legion-like at the front of the refrigerator.
Yay!! I love Burns night! How could we have forgotten?
She picked up a haggis and fondled it seductively before holding it to her cheek.
Mmmm, sweet haggis! Let's get some and all the stuff to go with it!
It landed in our trolley with a thick sounding thud and I looked away so she wouldn't see me retch.
Fucking Burns night. It was the second-worst thing about being Scottish. The first worst, of course, being haggis. And the third worst thing was that on Burns Night you had to have a Burns supper and haggis was the fucking main course.
I mean, sure, I was proud we had a poet who wrote a bunch of nonsensical gibberish back in the 18th century. His poems covering such heady delights as scared Mice and some shit about Willies.
Worse yet, on his birthday most Scots turn into a bunch of grunting muppets as they try to sound old Scottish which is a feat in itself. If you are Scottish, no-one can understand you at the best of times, so attempting to sound like an 18th-century Scottish peasant is like shitting in your gravy to thicken it up.
Should we get two?
The Good Lady held up two haggi in front of her like shit-meat breasts and jiggled them at me ominously.
I think I am fine with one.
I replied as casually as I could to hide the burgeoning terror I felt.
As soon as the words left my mouth, I froze. Fuck!? I could feel the gazes of fellow Scots all over the supermarket snap onto me like burning lasers of patriotic death.
Did he say he was fine with just one? The fucking un-Scottish bastard. We should set him on fire and make him marry a Welshman. That will fucking show him.
No doubt many of them were thinking.
I mean yeah, fuck it. Get three.
I chuckled hollowly and tried to put a bit of beef into my voice before anyone came at me with a bucket of burning tar.
Oh, ha. That might be a tad excessive. Two will be just fine.
She dumped the haggis into the trolley.
I pushed the trolley along, trying not to look down at the tight balls of chopped aortas and cats tits that comprised a haggis.
And I had two. Fuckity baws. This was bad JuJu.
It's hard to explain haggis if you haven't seen it or tried it. It tastes like meaty gravel. Looks like it too. It tends to come out the other end of a human's body looking the same as it went in. As if mere digestion was not something to get bothered about.
Oh god, that reminded me. Haggis also had the amazing ability to run right through me in record time. And when it came out it was like the facehugger scene in Alien but with more arse and less John Hurt.
I shook my head and pretended to look at if I was happy so that any of the Scottish Secret Police that were watching didn't haul me off for a tartan waterboarding.
I fucking hate Burn's night. Fucking hate it.
Oh, do we have enough whisky?
The Good Lady interrupted my reverie.
I looked at her and realised we were at the whisky section.
I looked at the bottles of peaty amber nectar and smiled.
It never hurts to have a bit more!
I beamed happily and whacked a bottle of Laphroaig into the trolley. There. That was more like it.
I fucking love Burns night.
