Auld Hornie’s Wirk

Glasgae’s dry January always ends on th’ twenty-fifth night o’ th’ month. That’s fair enough, fur na parched Glaswegian kin sustain such perverse cruelty beyond that hallowed date. Th’ end o’ that thirsty month can’t come quick enough, fur then we raise a cup o’ cheer tae Rabbie Burns. Th’ Bard’s rousing words on that night ne’er fail to restore oor tortured souls anew, banishing th’ self-inflicted drought fur annur year.

* * *

However, Burns Night is an age from Hogmanay’s tolling midnight bells and the thunderous arrival o’ th’ New Year. The jubilant celebration is nae time fur cowering wee beasties who lurk at home, fearful they’ll be swallowed whole, trampled under rampaging hoofs or deafened by raucous voices. Delight and devilment rule th’ first hours o’ that tireless mornin’. Everyone’s first-footing next-door neighbours in th’ wee hours ‘n’ ragin’ wild throo’oot th’ day. Fireworks explode aloft, doorbells ‘ding-dong’ below, ‘n’ fizz-corks ur a poppin’ a’ o’er Glasgae. Wance hee haw streets are heavin’ wi’ euphoric bodies, stoaters to a Jimmy, thair spirits unleashed and rovin’. Sae, beware ‘n’ behold ye meek souls wha dare nae tread th’ paving stanes and cobbles, we’ll draw ye oot tae partake ‘n’ drench yer timorous an’ retirin’ lily-livers in golden dew ‘n’ aged nectar siphoned fae oan high.

* * *

Ah, bit whin Hogmanay’s ower, whit regret we hae that foremaist day of the month ‘n’ say, “Ne’er again,” and “Ne’ermore.” Just lik’ lest New Year’s Day ‘n’ a’ th’ ones o’ yore. We’ll wake up late ‘n’ stir wi’ pounding noggins ‘n’ lament oor hapless heids again. A tumbler o’ water revives parched throats ‘n’ desiccated limbs, ‘n’ in unison, we’ll swear tae mend oor pickled livers ‘n’ shrivelled kidneys tae. Sae, we a’ promise t’ repair oor pure sorry ways ‘n’ forgo th’ devil’s dram.

   “Aye, ne’er again and ne’er more,” we vow tae wives, partners ‘n’ swallyan pals. “A dry January calls us,” we say oot loud. “And a’ mist comply.”

   “Ne’er again and ne’er more,” we pledge, ‘n’ mark oor calendars ilka day o’ th’ month. Ilk day bears a defiant cross ‘n’ January’s sacrifice we’ll hae t’ bear.

Aye, January’s a tough time in Glasgae, bit, ilka day’s a step towards sobriety ‘n’ rude health, ‘n’ ruddy-faces a’ aglow.

   “It’s nae for e’ermore,” ye say, wi’ a determined fist, trembling as ye resist th’ locks o’ th’ dug that bit ye, clutching yer guts fur fear o’ boakin’. 

   “It’s nae long to gan.”

   “Aye! Th’ Bard’s swallie awaits us at th’ end o’ January, whin bevvies wull flow freely ‘n’ tassies’ll overflow.”

   There’ll be lacklustre cynics ‘n’ spineless wretches that’ll ignore January’s greet tae abstain. Auld soaks tae a Jimmy wull cackle lik’ witches nursing their brew ‘n’ they’ll say, “Do it Glasgae style.” Bit we ken thair next week’s ne’er comin’ ‘n’ tomorrow they’ll be forever saying tomorrows. 

   An’ on oor part, there’ll be thoughts o’ cheating that occur, as dry hours extend intae arid days ‘n’ those days’ll ooze intae mirthless weeks, dreary as they come. Some faint hearts might waver ‘ere, but there’ll be nae buts ‘n’ fewer excuses excused. 

   And sae, we’ll trust oor reprobate neighbours ‘n’ peely-wally pals ur honest fur wance; sticking tae the scheme wi’ righteous minds ‘n’ holdin’ firm. Aye, it’s hard enough tae refrain wi’oot suspicious thoughts aboot ithers takin’ th’ Mick. We’ll be peepin’ o’er oor shoulders ‘n’ avoiding a wee nip o’ th’ golden cooncil juice; its warming nose left corked ‘n’ locked awa’ fur th’ time agreed, whin we kin raise oor elbows ‘n’ quaff wance mair. Bit nae yit ‘n’ nae th’day; there’ll be nae swickin’ or deception oan mah watch. Bit see noo, there’re lang and perilous days tae traverse wi’ perilous drops tae hostile rocks below, ‘n’ waters gushing lik’ excited soda syphons. 

*  *  *

   “Dear diary,” Ah write as if expecting solace ‘n’ a comforting embrace ‘ere. Ah find a little succour oan th’ barren white pages fur sure, but respite fae thae days o’ distress is in short supply. Th’ innocent paper’s pale countenance scowls up at me as ah confess thoughts anew aboot th’ nappy ‘n’ th’ amber sauce; o’ lusty ale or biting liquor, foaming, brisk, strong, rich ‘n’ heady.

   Two weeks gone noo ‘n’ we still say, “Aye, ne’er again and ne’er more.” 

   “Shut yer geggy,” ye say in haste ‘n’ impatience. Snapping at mukkers and loved ones is most uncalled fur. Mind, it’s fur thair sake you’re going dry too. Bit, whit hell you’re giving a’ in earshot, ‘til th’ month is thro’. 

   “Aye, it’s hellish,” Ah shout at this point o’ na return. Wi’ dry geggy, no spittle ‘n’ guts aching fur a dram. 

   “Just a nip won’t hurt ye,” th’ skulking Devil whispers in mah lug hole. 

   “Aye,” I’m thinking. “And who’ll ken for sure?”

   “But no!” I’m better than this. Ah kin beat it. 

   “Ye softie!” the De’il calls oot in disgust.

   Persist I must, ‘til th’ date wi’ Rabbie Burns at least. At least ‘til then, I’ll huv a go.

   An’ whit o’yer mukkers and neighbours, revellers tae a Jimmy ‘n’ th’ lassies that hae promised tae? All hae made that oath in earnest, bit it’s hard and harder still as th’ arid hours ooze by, ‘n’ mirthless time dribbles away drap by drap. 

   Th’ third week arrives lik’ a shovel tae the heid. Red of eyes and sore of throat, ‘n’ feeling cauld as a corpse. That’s whin yer devil returns wi’ temptation anew. 

   “What’s wrong wi’ ye?” Taunts th’ foul enchanter wi’ sly voice ‘n’ loathsome tones. Taunting me, fresh from hell he comes, with thoughts of liquor sliding down mah gullet to refresh those ailing innards. Aye, the De’il’s looking for a cheap victory and slaves for the fiery furnace below.

   “A wee sip an’ ye’ll be bright ‘n’ shining wance more,” he charms me wi’ impunity.   

   “Ye’ ken ye’ waant a modicum o’ relief fae yer misery,” he intones. “Aye, yer still gaggin’ fer it, ain’t ye?”

   “Dear diary,” Ah write every day ‘n’ confess mah close collapse ‘n’ near capitulation. “Not lang tae go,” Ah scrawl ‘n’ scratch wi’ sweat ‘n’ desperation. 

   After three weeks oan th’ wagon, th’ brain’s less clouded ‘n’ mah face haes lost its grey pallor. Aye, th’ cheeks ur looking rosy at last. My blood’s cleansed ‘n’ flowin’. I’m fighting the De’il and feeling fit, one step at a time. I’m nae a marathon Jimmy, but there’s life back in mah weary bones. Mah limbs ha’ stopped thair aching ‘n’ I’m nae griping anymair.

   The De’il wull hae th’ last laugh, he kens full well. “Ye’ll be mine wance more,” he says, smirking ‘n’ polishing his gnarled auld horns. 

   “Dear diary, nae lang t’ go.” I scribble. “Oan th’ hame stretch noo.” 

   “Yer a winner!” Th’ diary answers back, as though alive ‘n’ listening. 

   “Constant pal ‘n’ consoling companion,” I start tae write. “I could nae din it wi’oot ye forever thare ‘n’ by mah side forgiving.”

   Oan th’ twenty-fourth, I ne’er felt better. Burns night’s soon upon us, at last. 

Mah thoughts ur clear and looking forward tae celebrating Scotland’s bard. 

   Bit what’s this nourishment mah wifey’s organisin’ fer us? She’s scheming tae plate up haggis made fae vegetables, na less. Surely, this concoction’s Auld Hornie’s wirk? We deserve far better reward efter struggling thro’ such a hellish month. 

   “Ah tell ye, it’s nae right ‘n’ proper tae gi’ yer man a veggie haggis.”

   “Ye’ll love it, pet,” she says.

   “Pish! That’s a load o’ keech.”

   “It’ll be fine with champit neeps and tatties.”

   “Help mah boab! It’s a mingin’ morsel fur sure, hen.”

   “If ye dinnae waant scran that’s gid fur ye, then ye’r a boggin’ bampot.”

   A veggie haggis isnae ainlie a vile abomination, it’s a contradiction in terms. It’s nowt but an oxymoron, let alone a hideous imposter. Th’ real deal’s a snarling wolf in sheep’s attire, bit this pale imitation is a gutless bag o’ greens disguised as a toothless hound. 

   “Whit nonsense!” Rabbie Burns would’a kicked it intae titch or smashed it intae smithereens in disgust. Aye, whit grim disdain meets oor pallid veggie fare by all expecting the chieftain o’ th’ pudding race. Oor Burns Night’s nae complete wi’oot trenching an engorged sack o’ entrails wi’ juices that’re warm, rich ‘n’ reekin’. 

* * *

   Mah labour’s done at last. Ah made it thro’ th’ month, mair or less wi’oot a drap, ‘n’ mist wash away any taste o’ that veggie pudding. A few nips will cleanse that foul vegetation fae my geggy. 

   Let’s dram wance mair tae dry January’s end, ‘n’ suffering ‘til Burns night returns. 

   “So, here’s t’ nae mair droughty days,” I shout, raising a tassie tae a’ ‘ere.  

   “Slàinte Mhath!” They a’ shout wi’ drams aloft. 

   “We’ve hud oor fill o’ dry January.” 

   “Gid riddance ‘til neist year!”

Th’ End