A few years back, as a joke, I tasked a dear friend of mine who was about to holiday in the Scottish Isles to bring me back a (dead) haggis.
To my huge surprise the braw lassie did, also as a joke.
I'm assuming she didn't catch it herself though. As the BBC's Autumnwatch has repeatedly proven, wild haggis are notoriously tricky to catch and, as skilled a skinner as she is, I really can't see my friend ever managing to lasso one - the critters are, famously, furiuosly fast on their furry, Rob Roy MacGregor tartan-coloured feet.
Not that I'm any better. I love scampi but, whatever fishing gear I use, I've never yet managed to net a scampi. Not even in Morecambe Bay, which teems with scampi.
I then boiled my (dead) haggis for the family and, after some fifty minutes, dished it out - in true part-Scottish fashion - with neeps and tatties.
All I can say is that my family were very polite and encouraging and made a valiant effort to assure me that I hadn't poisoned them. I, however, started gagging at the smell of the thing as soon as I scissored opened the casing, even before eating it. And I felt like vomiting for hours after.
Give me black pudding any day.
True story (mostly).
OK. Bagpipes at the ready. It's Burns Night, and I do love a bit of Rabbie...
