"Address To A Haggis
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my arm."
This carries on for another thirteen verses, but you'll have the idea by now.
Immediately after a scrummy puds of raspberries, cream and whisky (there may have been some oats in there again...you never know with these Scottish types) the more liquid stage of the proceedings was conducted in the comfy chairs of Sump Towers' living room. A fine Glenmorangie was proffered up for ritual sacrifice down the gullets of the Millbrook glitterati.
It wasn't long before the now famous Commissar's hat was passed around and tried on by Richie "comb-over" Meeson as Lynny took plenty of flak for attempting to forbid his own purchase of such a fine head covering. It turns out that The Sump has one of his own; his is the real deal and made of proper fur. I think he got it by bribing a Soviet agent during his MI5 days when he was known only by his code name "ABV45". Or something like that.
Many thanks to our wonderful hosts - Mrs The Millbrooker and I were marvellously stuffed to the gunwhales with excellent Scottish fare and, as always, a lot of laughs were had by all. I'm also insanely jealous of The Sump's coolest-nutcracker-in-the-world, seen below in action shot as operated by Lynny:
Altogether now: I'll tak tha high rood and you tak tha low rood......