You haven't really lived until you've risked the Burns Night haggis.
Not even on that wonderful day you knocked off the holiday crossword during your nude bungy jump.
As I was raised north of the Taupo-Napier line, no Robert Burns blessed my pagan mind until I was 18. Then, by happy chance, I heard our finest poet, Allen Curnow.
Curnow, who'd earned his salt as a newspaperman, became a lecturer in Auckland University's quirky English department. Here crusty academics had decided students ought not be trusted with English until they'd learned enough Anglo-Saxon to, for example, warn King Alfred his cakes were burning ("Alfraed a baened heorb-bacen, nitwit," would do the trick). Thus cowed, we advanced a few centuries to 1780s Scots, and Robbie Burns. Poor Curnow had drawn the short straw of teaching Burns to English 1 inside 50 minutes. A seemingly earnest man in his 50s, wearing spectacles and a tired corduroy jacket, Curnow stiffly announced he'd read us Burns' Holy Willie's Prayer.
It was, he explained, Burns' response to being hauled before kirk elders on moral matters. There'd be an exam, so stop yawning and take notes.
Three minutes later 200 acned students lay zits-down on the floor, sick with laughter. Curnow, the son of an Anglican parson, had become the po-faced Scottish kirksman calling judgement down on all save his righteous self. Among the prostrate pimples were a future prime minister, an opposition leader and, if I remember correctly, Witi Ihimaera.
Burns channelled through Allen Curnow was as good as Billy Connolly.
Come January 25, Burns Night hosts around the world will rehearse his Address to a Haggis, then flick on through the pages seeking Burns' insight into the fates of mice and men.
I think To a Mouse pretty much sums up why he stands among the greats. If you haven't read its 48 lines, make your day and google it. My last Burns Night (there've been too few I'm afraid) was hosted by a Scots friend. Robin donned his tartan plastic apron to address his wife's haggis, which waited on its platter, its Caledonian face as charming as a dropped pie. Fair fa your honest sonsie face Great chieftain o' the pudding-race.
Perhaps, but someone pour the pinot.
Brandishing his spoon, Robin portioned out the neeps and tatties, checked he had a serious malt handy and sat us down to Thelma's splendid curried haggis.
The curried haggis is an improvement which Burns died too soon to witness. With curry now the national dish of Scotland, an Edinburgh restaurant named The Tippoo Sahib recently claimed their chef had invented curried haggis to launch at a Burns Night. I find this unlikely.
The Scottish link to curry cuisine goes back two centuries to the times Britain dealt sternly with tiresome Indian revolts against the benevolence of the Raj. HQ staff developed a military strategy to deal with Nawabs who bit the hand that bled them. They'd raise troops from the most uncivilised hill tribes they could find, and surround the said Nawab with savages.
Afghans to the left, the Gordon Highlanders to the right.
The invention of curried haggis is not noted in this regiment's official records, but what happened can be deduced via simple common sense.
Soon after the Gordons' arrival a canny quartermaster smelled his cook's suspect sausage, and reasoned that by mixing in the natives' curry the Sunday haggis could be stretched till Tuesday.
Sadly, the pair received no medals, but their culinary discovery spread beyond the haggis. Today we find Keen's Curry Powder preserving the leftovers of the Southland leg of lamb. The student bar of the old Grand Hotel in Auckland was manned by an elderly clansman called Jock, who earned ciggie money in January piping in Burns Night haggis.
Jock claimed descent from the family he said invented the bagpipes.
"We had all the proof. Old drawings, the early models, an uncle who could do The Messiah. We should be millionaires getting a tenner per bagpipe, plus performing rights.
"One quid a pop for an Amazing Grace funeral.
"But our patent claim was rejected," Jock explained, his face like he'd missed the sixth lotto number.
"Insufficient innovation. The patents bloke said our bagpipe was a jumped-up mouth organ.
"Disgusted, our family moved to New Zealand. I'm told we carried the Robbie Burns statue out in steerage, and founded Dunedin." Perhaps Jock was taking the mickey.
But, on the other hand, on Burns Night ...
• John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
