Alright you 'orrible lot. Who gave me this cold?
I am Snot Factory.
If snot was a saleable commodity I could be bottling this stuff and getting rich. But it's not, it's just my own body deciding to make me more dehydrated by leaking essential water out through my face. Dear body, faces are for putting food in, and very occasionally crying at the movies*. On the system diagram that is my face, there should not be an output arrow labelled "snot".I'm treading that delicate line between sniffle-y and miserable and still just functionable enough to go to work. Which has made me feeble. Drinking my tea through a straw feeble. I have made it home, changed in to my onesie and eaten last night's reheated leftovers. I absolutely intend to keep it short, listen to the rest of I've Never Seen Star Wars and sod off to bed.
So there was a Burns' Lunch, and a Burns' Supper this last weekend. Saturday was a little busy, shall we say. Both were awesome.
First up there was this poem, told by none other than the Minister's Mum. Copied and pasted here in it's full glory.
TAE A FART
Oh whit a sleekit horrible beastie
Lurks in yer belly efter the feastie
Jist as ye sit doon among yer kin
There sterts tae stir an enormous win'
The neeps 'n' tatties 'n' mushy peas
Stert workin' like a gentle breeze
But soon the puddin' wi' the sauncie face
Will hae ye blawin' a' ower the place
Nae maiter whit the hell ye dae
A'bodys gonnae hiv tae pay
Even if ye try tae stifle
It's like a bullet oot a rifle
Hawd yer bum ticht tae the chair
Tae try an' stop the leakin' air
Shify yersel fae cheek tae cheek
Prae tae God it disnae reek
But aw yer efforts go assunder
Oot it comes like a clap o' thunder
Ricochets aroon the room
Michty me a sonic boom
God almichty it fairly reeks
Hope a huvnae s**t ma breeks
Tae the bog a better scurry
Aw whit the hell, it's no ma worry
A'body roon aboot me chokin
Wan or twa are nearly bokin
A'll feel better for a while
Cannae help but raise a smile
Wis him! A shout wi' accusin glower
Alas too late, he's jist keeled ower
Ye dirty bugger they shout and stare
A dinnae feel welcome ony mair
Where e'er ye be let yer wind gang free
Sounds like jist the job fur me
Whit a fuss at Rabbie's party
Ower the sake o' wan wee farty
The Minister's Mum. And there was a moment where the pianist nearly had kittens when the wee mannie up to sing announced a different song from the one on the piano.
Then there was our Burns' Supper. Which was awesome. The planned hot mulled cider/juice welcome drink turned out to be a somewhat lukewarm welcome drink, but hopefully accompanied by a genuine warm welcome. The last dregs that I tasted many hours later when clearing up were really really tasty. Maybe next year we should just go for fizz?
Despite how terribly obvious this is, I hadn't really given much thought to how many darn people there are at one of those things. There was a point where I had to sit and drink my juice whilst not making eye-contact** for a few minutes to rescue my blood sugar before I could go join the end of the haggis queue. But then there was haggis, amazing whisky sauce, lots of cheese, coffee, and all was well.
I then spent most of the night behind a microphone. There was a scary moment when I realised that I was exactly half of the band (one quarter of it was fiddling with the big-black-box-of-twiddly-knobs and another quarter had wandered off to join in the dancing) and I had the wrong music in front of me. I did in anyway! Yay me. I did that thing where someone gives me a mic and I get carried away and find myself being more "in charge" than I was expecting, and things still seemed to go ok.
Definitely going ok. |
There were hilarious speeches. There were pretty songs, and funny songs. There was audience participation and there was committee participation. There was much spinning around and sinking to the bottom of the sea. There were some very stylish tartan trousers, something I think I maybe investigate investing in for myself. I can pull off tartan breeks, right? Heck, right now I could go for Royal Stewart and they'd match my nose perfectly.
So thank you to all of the people I arm-twisted in to doing things. You were amazing.
And a promise to the rest of you. Next year it's your turn. C & C - I've got you down for that song we didn't fit in. S - time to see those breakdancing skills of yours in public. Everyone else, what's your party-piece, your secret talent?
12 months to get practising!
As
*Lilo and Stitch, every time.
**A skill I have been working on for a while.