Burns Baby, Burns

Burns Nights usually end in laughter, headaches, and the odd-bruise. If yours didn't, you probably didn't do it right. 

 

On January 25th, people all over the world celebrate the rambunctious life and works of Scottish poet, Robert Burns. Festivities entail haggis, a few speeches, singing, whiskey, and a ceilidh. If you have never been to a Burns Night before, you should - they are always guaranteed to be a riot. 

Being Scottish myself, I found that each time Burns Night rolled around while studying in London, I always seemed to wind up heavily involved in them. Whether that was the result of ancestral pre-destination or a few overly-generous whiskys, I can't say. I was always happy to be involved of course, having become notably more proud of my home country since living in England, and approached writing my first speech with enthusiasm. 

Here I need to provide a short explanation. While studying, I joined the London University Royal Naval Unit (URNU) - think of it like the naval reserves, but for students. URNU is a 3 year deal if you join in your first year of university, but you can prolong your time there through masters and PhD programs. We learn about navigation, seamanship, leadership, teamwork, naval history, maritime defence - all very interesting stuff. But one of the best parts about URNU is the social side. At my unit we have a bar often hailed as the cheapest in London, although it is still dangerously easy to spend too much money at. As part of the URNU social calendar, we celebrate just about every holiday we possibly can, including an annual Burns Night.

My first Burns Night with the unit I was tasked with writing the speech 'to the Laddies'. You may think this was because I'm Scottish, but it was actually because I was the youngest woman in the unit and as such had been assigned the dirty work. I wrote my speech the day of the celebration, having all but forgotten I was supposed to have done it. I decided I was going to try and make it funny - I detest long, boring speeches, so I wasn't about to give one if I could help it. 

The only problem with me having taken my speech in a humorous direction was that I did not think to liaise this to my counterpart, Al, who was giving the speech 'to the Lassies'. Al wrote a wonderfully eloquent and thought-provoking speech in which he highlighted the achievements of various women with a tone of grateful appreciation. Then it was my turn. 

Feeling a little nervous, I threw back a glass of whisky for some courage, which won me a round of laughter and applause you could only find in a Naval ward room (essentially a fancy dining room) - there is a photo, but I will spare you the second-hand embarrassment. Then in my best attempt at a Scottish accent - the insult worsened by the fact that I actually am Scottish - I proceeded to give my speech...

Aye so here we are,
On this fine Janry night,
With our bonnie cheap bar,
Just in our sights.
 
A wee tipple of whisky,
Pray not famous grouse,
Although wee is maybe risky,
No drinks small in our house.
 
The lads ere are fine,
Tho the lasses are pure barry,
If you want a good time,
Dinnae chum with them harry’s.
 
First year male weans,
You’re lacking some banter,
If you want our interest to remain,
Stop playing wi yer chanter.
 
Second years no niche,
They like to chat and blather,
Sometimes ya gots tae Haud yer wheesht,
Take a shower – remember to lather.
 
Third year oh third year,
What can I say,
A lot from what I hear,
But remember I diddnae.
 
That leaves me the bosses,
The ones at the top,
But I’d rather cut my losses,
And so with this, I stop.
 
Robbie burns was a gallous auld dug,
But for years his poems hae us beaming.
So fill your glass with whatere you can,
Come on lads, let's get steaming.

The reaction was, luckily, outrageous. Tears of laughter mixed with visible confusion as people struggled to work out some of the Scottish slang, while others were simply too merry for it to be anything other than amusing. I was rewarded with - unfortunately for my knee, which I injured later that night, and my head, which suffered on the six hour train up North the next morning - yet another glass of whisky.