On the second night out of Port, in the galley….
Mr Wright peered with suspicion at the object Tepic had placed reverently on the plate.
“And that is….. what?” he asked.
“It’s a Wiggyfish Haggis!” the boy declared proudly, “made it meself last autumn an it’s McGonnagall Night tonight!”
“Do I want to know what’s in it?”
“errrrr….. maybe not? Boiled it fer three hours when i made it, so another seven hours should see it done ter a turn, we can have it fer supper tonight.”
“Well,” the wolf moreau said, tentatively, “we can give it a go, not sure if anyone will actually eat it though..”
That evening, as the boat drifted on the calm sea, the haunting sound of the kraken pipes floated over the water, Tepic, piping for all he was worth strode into the dinning cabin, holding a plate out in front of him on which lay the haggis, flaming green from it’s liberal dosing of Absinthe. The dish was placed on the table, and Tepic loudly declaimed the famous, or possibly infamous words of the poem.
W’hay whis yer fallon,
Yer scroggins ha’ ner,
Fer narry souz yer lang,
Woz whichins ner gerezz! *
The company gazed at the flaming object, not quite sure what to make of the ceremony, nor whether it would be safe to sample this… unusual delicacy.
* no one is quite sure what the poem means, but McGonnagall was one of the City’s renowned poets, and the Ceremony is a tradition, so it has to be done!
It will be interesting to see in the comments just who of the company actually tries the haggis and what they think of it…….
(OK, so Burns Night was last week, this was in tribute to it, and stuff go delayed, who cares? hehehe)
Tepic had gobbled dwon his portion as if he was afraid someone would snatch it from him, then came back for seconds and thirds, before cleaning the remaing bits from the other’s plates.
Later that night, as the boys snoozed in their cubby hole of a cabin, there was a long drawn out sound of escaping gas. A few seconds later the flame of the candle in their tilly lamp burned a brilliant green before changing back to it’s normal colour. After a short pause, there was a second, longer release, then a whumph sound, the tinkling of broken glass as the flame briefly filled the room before being estinguished. In the now dark cabin there was a slight smell of singed fur…….
This seams like a suitably New-Babbage take on the tradition.
Certainly worthy of an ‘Its almost safe!’.
*ponders* Crunchy sticks, or Wiggyfish haggis…