The Harburn Haggis Bash.

The invitation when it arrived made itself and its importance known, by landing on my hall carpet with a decidedly prominent and weighty thump. On hearing this alert, I stood up from my chair and headed to the front door to investigate. There on the floor was a brown envelope with the fleur de lis pattern running round the outside and embossed in the center was an impression of a rather impressive looking mansion with the title below boldly stating, Harburn House. 

 

With trembling hands and using a knife to preserve the envelope. I opened the letter. It read, Mr Paul Hawthorne Esq, is cordially invited to attend Harburn House on the 25th January; a coach will be provided for transport from West Calder train station, which will be leaving for Harburn Estate at 9.45am. Anyone missing this coach will not be admitted to the grounds at a later time and the invitation will be subsequently cancelled. 

 

Bash Goers are asked to bring there own "lure", this comprises of at least four pairs of used, but unwashed ladies small garments, which will be utilised on the day. Please place aforesaid lure, in a sealed plastic bag, to preserve potency. Large freezer bags are ideal in this instance. No Lure will be offered, and if you don't bring your own, you will lose out on the experience. The wearing of Highland dress is obligatory; anyone not in this attire will be refused entry to the coach. Please do not bathe for at least six days prior to this event. 

 

The wax seal of Harburn with two red ribbons was stuck to the bottom right hand corner of the expensive paper and the signature of Alexander Young, Earl Of Harburn and Baron of Cobinshaw, was flamboyantly inscribed. I was amazed, why have I not to bathe for six days? whats going on?.. Knickers?

 

Six weeks later found me standing at West Calder train station in full highland dress, with my Lure in a Morrisons carrier bag and my body as ripe as a marathon runners boxers. Gentlemen surrounded me in similar attire, and were just as endearing. All were holding bags, some Sainsburys and I even spotted a Jenners bag. The fifteen-minute trip on the bus full of Hooray Hendries and Wahoo Willies was all of that, and the driver, with obvious experience, had switched the heating off and he'd opened all the windows. I also noticed there was a problem with the doors as they remained open all the way. 

 

We arrived freezing at Harburn and were met by the Laird himself who was standing in between two lovely ladies in mini kilts each holding a tray of much needed gold filled glasses. The Laird made us welcome and we all entered the house. We were given breakfast and whisky, and were instructed, that very shortly, the ghillies would be taking us onto the hills for the Haggis Bash. 

 

I'd heard of this fine Scottish tradition but had never been on one, now that that would be addressed, I was looking forward to it. The alfresco coach arrived and we all boarded. We were again given whisky to fortify us on the journey and we arrived at the appointed spot ten minutes later.The ghillies herded us into a large marquee where more amber nectar was provided and we were asked to remove our jackets.

 

Apparently the male haggis, we were informed, is the only haggis that is eaten, the female, or Hag, is a protected species, as only twenty percent of haggis are born female. The hag runs round the hill spraying her scent to entice as many male Haggis as possible for mating. They only mate once a year and only in the month of January. I watched as the ghillies approached a fellow Haggis Basher and asked him if he had his Lure, he raised a Tesco shopping bag in the affirmative, and he was led off up the hill. 

 

There is an old tradition in Haggis Bashing, a rite of passage or a coming into, or proof of man-hood. The proof of smelly nether regions is in itself seemingly all the proof of manhood that is required, but on the morning of the Haggis Bash, The aristocracy would blood a young noble at this revered event. The amount of used female undergarments the youth had managed to accrue, added to his credibility and subsequent eligibility.

 

The Haggis Basher has to erase the scent of the Hag. He does this by placing his ripe arse directly on the scent and dragging himself along the heather and bracken, much in the manner of a dog with worms. The Haggis, who had been previously following the allure of his love, would be confused if the scent suddenly disappeared, but this is where the lure comes into play. After smothering the Hag's scent using his own, the Haggis Basher ties a rope to his waist and drags his lure of pungent ladies smalls behind him, thus replacing the trail. He runs along in a straight line for a short distance before suddenly making a u-turn uphill, the haggis will hopefully follow, and as he has differing leg lengths on each side he will fall over and roll downhill into the ghillies nets.

 

Soon it was my turn. When asked if I had the Lure, I presented my Morrisons bag. The ghillie took the bag and led me uphill to a prearranged spot. 

 

He unsealed my bag and asked me, " Eh, nae used tena lady in here a hope? That's been banned, the scent is too powerful and it drives the haggis mental." 

 

I shook my head. I watched as he sniffed inside the bag, seemingly satisfied, he tied the bait and pushed me to the ground. It was freezing and some of the heather while comforting was interspersed with sharp stones and pointy wee sticks, which found the strangest places to go. I gritted my teeth while bravely dragging my bare arse along the hillside. After a short distance, the ghillie pulled me up and tied the Lure to my waist, he instructed me where to run and loop. I followed his instructions to the letter and after lifting my Lure; I was herded into an observation hide, where we waited for the haggis to appear. 

 

It didn't take long. From out of nowhere this, in my opinion, huge haggis appeared sniffing along my trail. His long legs were on the downside of the hill, which was keeping him level but as he was enraptured by the scent of the lure, he suddenly veered uphill, as soon as he did he fell over and began to roll downhill faster and faster until he was caught in the nets. All let out a cheer and the whisky was passed round again. All Bashers laid their trails with differing results and the afternoon wore on.

 

All of a sudden, from the other side of the hill, could be heard the pipes and drums playing Cock-O the -North, and they were coming our way. The Pipe Major, flourishing his mace, appeared with the rest of the pipes and drums following. Behind the band marched the Earl himself, he in turn was being trailed by eight ghillies, all in full highland regalia, surrounding a ninth, who was holding in both hands, a highly polished wooden box. 

 

They marched towards us and stopped outside the Marquee. The pipe band dispersed and reformed beside the canopy entrance, with Piper and Drummer alternating, and the pipe major standing in their centre. The Earl and his ghillies marched confidently up to the marquee where they stopped. The escorted ghillie with the box placed it on a saltire-covered table, which was standing in front of the large entrance. The ghillie bowed reverently before saluting the box, and with a precise military about- turn, he rejoined the rest of the ghillies. The band played Clumsy Lovers as they marched off.

 

The Earl approached the table, and after placing both hands respectfully on the surface, he addressed the assemblage. 

 

" Gentlemen, today is a very special day in the annals of haggis bashing. We at Harburn, have for many years been trying in vain to catch the Haggis Chieftain of this haggis clan. To capture the Haggis Chieftain, one must have a very special lure. Haggis are very empathic, they only follow a lure that the haggis feels an affinity with, or if he detects a telepathic link with the lady from whom the scent was taken. Without these qualities the lure is useless. We today have managed with great stealth and fortitude, to procure the undergarments of the famous Susan Boyle, not just any of her small garments, but the knickers Miss Boyle wore on the night of her Britain's Got Talent audition.  Armed with these, we will attempt to capture the Haggis Chieftain of Harburn.  I myself will prepare the spoor."

 

This claim was not difficult to believe, Blackburn, the home of Susan Boyle was only five miles from where we stood. The Earl opened the box and removed the lure, which he handed to his chief gillie. They both marched off towards the trail, the band played itchy fingers, as we all followed up the hill. We were led into the hides and advised that a whistle would be blown when silence was required. The Earl lifted his kilt and ran his bare, noble and aristocratic arse along the hag's scent. He continued for twenty feet before standing and returning to the beginning, where the ghillie tied his lure. The Earl with Subo's smalls trailing, laid his bait before walking back down towards the hides, he entered a hide and the silencing whistle was heard. 

 

We all waited. A few minutes later a pink hairy snout appeared about six feet from the trail. The huge and majestic haggis chieftain nervously and slowly sniffed the heather before raising himself up on one muscular back leg; he sniffed and peered all around. He seemed unsure, but he dropped back down and began to sniff again at the heather. I could see his eyes begin to roll, his snout extended as far as it could go, the haggis began to shake, and he let out a long, wailing high-pitched scream and buried his head into the heather.

 

Now completely transfixed, he followed the Lure. When he took the loop and toppled over, we all expectantly held our breath, but when he began to roll down the hillside, a roar, as though a winning goal had been scored at Hampden, or a similar try at Murrayfield, exploded from the hides.

 

The band struck up with the Susan Mcleod Strathspey. (I suppose this was the only pipe tune with the proper name they knew.) The Haggis Chieftain of Harburn had been captured. Whisky was offered all round again, backs were slapped, and the Earl was congratulated. Afterwards in a fit of extreme altruism, he invited everyone to the Burns supper at Harburn House, where all rituals and rites would be performed, including the address and toast to the magnificent beast.

 

 

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 worthy o' a grace

As lang's my arm.

 

The groaning trencher there ye fill,

Your hurdies like a distant hill,

Your pin wad help to mend a mill

In time o need,

While thro your pores the dews distil

Like amber bead.