Burns Night is a tartan-tangled bacchanal of bagpipes, where whisky meets poetry indecipherable to anyone south of Gretna Green, with the curiosity of a gored haggis.
At its centre lies Robert Burns, the original rogue poet — a man who wrote about mice and love with the same intensity he applied to whisky and women. Burns Night is his resurrection, not in spirit, but in spirits. The evening unfolds as a riot of excess, where the hangovers are as legendary as the verses, and the only thing sharper than the wit is the hangman’s blade of the morning after.
