A Burns Supper
An icy blast is putting paid
to the racing right now. A screaming north-easterly, screwing down the mercury into
negativity will probably be enough to freeze out most of the racing this
weekend too, Fos Llas fleecy frost covers and all. And I don’t think they will
be racing in Poland or the Ukraine any time soon. -30°C and counting earlier
today, with the wind chill slicing off another 15-20 degrees.
Maybe abandonment might save
me from further humiliation at the hands of the bookies. I notched up an impressive
ten losers on the bounce last weekend. It was grim. But I’m not sure I’m in the
mood for self-flagellation. My brain, crowded with pre-festival conundrums, scarcely
has the capacity to pick over the grisly details. Suffice to say the losing
sequence kicked off with a crippling 12-1 disqualified winner at 1.55 on
Saturday and was only ended by frosted-off Sedgefield which, no doubt, saved
Swinging Sultan’s blushes, at 4.15 on Sunday.
I’d prefer instead to dwell
on some infinitely more pleasurable events from last weekend. Our good friends Clare
& Neil’s hosted an excellent Burns Supper last Saturday night. The
anniversary of Robert Burns’ birth was actually 25th January, but as Clare said, why have a party
on a Wednesday?
I’d never been to a Burns
Night before. There seemed to be an element of formality and performance about
the event. Clare had sent through a piece for Mrs A to read at the dinner and
we were advised to wear something tartan. On the basis that my Bay City Roller-trimmed
jollies wouldn’t count, I thought I’d check out a clan tie. It’s interesting
that the heraldic websites pride themselves in linking just about any surname to
a Scottish clan. I smell a genealogical rat homing in on the lucrative American
heritage market. And debutant Burns night attendees, possibly. Atkinson is a
corruption of Aitken or Aicheson, an old north-country name, and is entwined in
some convoluted historical twist with the ancient Gordon clan. So I borrowed a
tie from my mate Gordon who is a member of the Cunningham clan. That seemed
like an authentic solution to me!
Anyone ear-wigging the
conversation during our drive up to Clare & Neil’s roomy Warwickshire
farmhouse would have struggled to follow the thread.
“’Some canna eat meat’, no
that’s not right.”
“Eh? Meat?”
“But we hae meat…”
Mrs A was learning by heart
the Selkirk Grace. She almost had it off pat.
There were 12 supper guests
in all, at least two of whom were genuine Scots. Neil was sporting his Murray
tartan kilt and David his MacDonald clan colours. Neil is a finance man and has
slipped easily into the high-flying corporate world as if born to it. I suspect
he was. He’s probably secretly from Guildford or Billericay, and likely to make
a guest appearance on TOWIE anytime soon.
Clare, our hostess, is from a
town just down the road from mine in Yorkshire (which is sort of how Mrs A and
I know her and, indeed, each other….but that’s another story). Two of the other
guests, Peter and Gloria were from near there too. So it was comforting to know
that the good folk from God’s Own County outnumbered the Jocks at their own
bash. Tsk. How predictably I’ve slipped in to negative regionalism. You’d think
there was a vote on independence just around the corner….
Slowly, the mysterious
traditions of the Burns celebration revealed themselves to me. The CD (I was
only half expecting the massed pipes and drums of the Black Watch) cranked out
Flower of Scotland as Clare brought in the haggis on a large platter held
aloft. We stood and clapped it in. Neil was poised menacingly over the wee
beastie and recited the Address To A Haggis with appropriate drama (An' cut you up wi' ready slicht,) and
respect (The trembling earth resounds his tread). Then it was whipped away
again by Clare and her teenage table staff to be sliced up and re-presented, accompanied
by traditional neeps and tatties and introduced by Mrs A’s faultless Selkirk
Grace. Bloody fine it was too.
I was
expecting a couple of fine malts to make an entrance at some stage. Maybe after
the main course or even later, after retiring to the lounge. But no, several
bottles were already scattered across the dining table, having been cracked
open to wash down the haggis. Well, it
was rude not to join in at that point. The Cardhu was first rate and I think I sampled
a fine Dalwhinnie before I let slip to Neil that I had a preference for the
peaty malts of Islay and Skye.
At this point he wheeled out a bottle of Ardbeg
Supernova that he described as “almost undrinkable”. My curiosity was aroused.
The blurb sounded good. Malt of the year in 2010; peated to more than 100 parts per million (no, I don’t
know either..); 60.1% ABV; £81 a bottle.
The aroma was over-powering before I got a single drop near my gob. The overall
effect was how I imagined having a mouth filled with distilled heather, from
the pollen heavy blooms to the earth-crusted roots, would be. There was too
much intense, cloying flowery, muddy fire going on. Neil was right. But the
website shines a different light. Check this garbage out:
“Ardbeg Supernova challenges the
palate with a smoke and salt explosion - hot, sizzling and gristy sensations
effervesce and explode on the tongue with a powerful peaty punch. Black and
white crushed pepper pop with chilli and chocolate. Chewy sweet rolling
tobacco, linseed oil and newly tanned leather roll backwards on a wave of
brininess and burst of juicy lime marmalade. Cigar smoke builds up to a
crescendo before drying out to bring dark roast earthy coffee, toasted almonds
and liquorice root.”
Mrs
A said she could still smell the stuff on me the next evening….
The
celebration carried on with a series of readings and recitals. Clare provided
an entertaining Immortal Memory,
plucking some juicy nuggets from the life of Rabbie and provoking heated discussion
about exactly how many sets of twins he fathered, how many were born out of
wedlock and to whom. The whisky was taking its toll. By the time of the Toast
to the Lassies and the Reply, the heckling had reached fever pitch and I
genuinely had no idea what was going on anymore. The formal procedure of the
evening had unravelled. It was every lad and lassie for himself. I do remember
tucking in to Clare’s absolutely stonking steak and sausage pie with gusto and
then after a wonderful dessert, delivering a short reading of Mr Burns’ finest.
Not a word of which I understood. Though I did a fair impression of pretending
to when challenged about its meaning from the other side of the table. Something
to do with pride and nationality. Probably.
The evening cracked on with
high humour and hearty conversation. Clare did herself proud. Wonderful
entertainment. It finished with me challenging anyone left standing to games of
tennis on the X Box Kinect. My backhand is something to behold at 2.45am. I
was just reaching my peak when suddenly the room was empty. This happens to me
a lot.
Our chance to lay-in on
Sunday morning was snaffled with alacrity. Leaving the girls with Granny was
our best decision of the weekend. Clare was back in the kitchen rustling up a hearty
breakfast, but things were a bit more leisurely than the previous evening.
It was good to talk to Peter
about his interest in horse racing. He’s bought a decent brood mare once owned
by John Ferguson, bloodstock adviser to Sheik Mohammad and is looking forward
to putting a two-year-old in training with David O’Meara later this year.
Peter’s links with racing don’t end there. For many years he has held a pilot’s
license and has built a useful business flying the top northern jockeys around
to meetings in their packed schedule. He didn’t have a bad word for current
Champ Paul Hanagan and previous Champ, now jockey’s rep, Kevin Darley. He also
had some interesting stories to relate professional betting syndicates playing
the delay between real time events at track-side and the reactions on exchange
markets, for photo-finishes and the like. A high-octane way to earn a living
based entirely on the judgement of the bloke on the line with a mobile in hand.
But soon it was time to head
back home and grab an early night. Burns has been well remembered this weekend.
Unlike the losing nags at Cheltenham and Leopardstown.
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