January 2004
Rab and I
Burns night is upon us and you want to know what it is all about. Well, there are at least two versions: The Scottish version and the portrayal of the Scottish version abroad. Both include the main element: the man himself, Rabbie Burns (or as he called himself 'Robin Burns'). Other main elements are haggis, neeps, tatties, whiskey, drinking a lot, a piper, a knife, risky statements about women, wicked retorts by the girl, drinking even more and then poetry, songs and more drinking: Not necessarily or indeed probably in that order.
I could give a rundown of the Scottish version as I've participated in a few Scottish Burn's nights but oddly enough I've seen more of these spectacles as an emigrant than a resident. I would guess that's fairly typical - Like the Irish. Scots get more Scottish the further they travel. A better place to look would be www.rabbie-burns.com/burnssupper which seems to know more about Rab than he did himself.
A good place to view the 'abroad version' is Limericks, Dortmund where the Band Scapa Flow will be pumping out songs, poetry and pipes before and after consuming a goodly portion of Haggis neeps and tatties.
Friends, colleagues and skeptics, having seen the dubious title, will doubtless be wondering how I can fit some nodding acquaintance with Burns into the general scheme of exaggeration, hyperbole and fantasy that accompanies my checkered career. I've already bagged Sean Connory as a virtual boyhood chum (despite having never met him), somehow managed to attach Caruso in some vague way to my name and now poor unsuspecting Burns …
I could claim to be Scottish but that puts me in with 6 million other kindred spirits – or from Edinburgh because Burns hung out there a bit, but no one would be too impressed – a womanizer but I can already hear the laughter – a poet but I suspect one scribble that rhymes wouldn't count – a drunk, well that's getting warmer or maybe a farmer – well, I spent two weeks on a farm as a youth and I drunk unpasteurised milk once. But no it's all a lot simpler.
Rab and I are astrological soul mates. The great poet was born at home on January 24th 1759 and 200 years later January 29th 1959 I emerged smiling and shaking hands with the sunshine.
And for an excess of four days I could have shared a celebration with the great man himself! But then again it's not been the cause of much regret: when you start celebrating Rab's birthday and there are only three days until your own, it seems merely logical to continue the celebrations through what would otherwise be a tiresome drink-free vacuum.
Here's tae us, Rab.