I don't do Burns' Night. I don't address a haggis. I've forgot most of the words to Tam O'Shanter. Since I was a wee bairn, when I was the spit of Oor Wullie, the quarter-Scot in me has never been attracted to the dirk, kilt and Auld Lang Syne.

To tell the truth, I've never rated Robert Burns as a poet. And as an occasion, the night seems to have been appropriated by a hospitality industry desperate to fleece tourists and sentimentalists for some hard cash in the lull between Christmas and Valentine's.

When Wetherspoons run a 'Burn's Week' - hopefully cheap 80' and microwaved haggis, rather than third-degree maiming - you know the shark has been well and truly jumped, chopped up and stuffed into an intestine.

It doesn't stop me repeating one of Burns' great truisms, mind. Good ale comes and good ale goes. Tonight, the good ale coming and going is a solid Belgian bruin (no, not Broon).

Mc Chouffe.

Jings. Crivvens. Help ma Boab. Etc


Thanks to beermerchants for the beer >