A couple of years ago I was stopped at Birmingham airport because they thought the haggis was plastic explosive, that is fact – absolutely true. I was taking it to an elderly lady in Dublin who was born and lived as girl in Edinburgh home of McSween. Also, because it was her 90th birthday celebration I took across Highland dress (though not wearing the kilt to travel) and what the scan did not reveal was the Sgean Dubh I had placed inside one of my shoes also in my hand baggage.
I was reminded of the event when somebody spoke of haggis and the forthcoming Burns Night Suppers and jokingly we wondered if there would be a ban on haggis crossing the border should we become independent in September. That prompted me to write the poem a week or two ago, it was published on the page with the ad for the Burns Supper, in GDT where Jackie Mackenzie, Editor of the North Star noticed it, phoned me, asked if they could take a photograph. Her story was picked up by CSNews Agency, Stirling and it took off from there: Edinburgh Evening News, The Scottish Daily Express, The Sun The Record The Star The Birmingham Mail and then Huffington Post.
(With apologies to R.B.)
On being hauled out of the line by Security at
Birmingham Airport “Because the scan shows
you have plastic explosive in your luggage, sir.”
Wee sleekit, cow’rin, Security beastie
Whit a panic’s in thy breastie,
Ye think my baggie safely stowed
In y’re aircraft will explode?
I tell ye man, ye’ll niver’ve seen
A bonnier Haggis frae’ McSween!
Does England wish to banish our
National dish or national flower?
“As for that sir, you can whistle –
OFFENSIVE WEAPON (Class III) Thistle.
A well-trained terrorist could kill
With a (Class IV) Daffodill,
So stop that Welshman! Bind him tight!
His leek’s a stick of dynamite!”
Hold on Paddy! Think were dumb?
Y’re shamrock’s nothing but a bomb!
That Italian! Don’t forget he
Disguises cordite as spaghetti!
Never let a Frenchman pass,
Don’t believe it’s Foie de Gras!
That turban there. Arrest him ! Hurry !
It’s nitro-glycerine not curry!
Such Sasunnach madness is no’ sudden,
Yon Cromwell banned the Christmas pudd’n!
Ye powers that mak mankind ye can
Surely ensure a future scan
Will recognise thy sonsie face
Great chieftain o’ the pudding race?