The Offal Truth

I remember a Brigadoon moment when I thought I had died and gone there.

It was in Clays Lane and I awoke to the sound of bagpipes on the breeze. I looked around at Lesley and she confirmed this Caledonian-tinged dawning. Turns out there was a 'Scottish' festival over at the bike track yonder.

We went over there and partook of early morning wellie-flinging and I entered the haggis eating comp. Each entrant got a free dram which for me was a much welcome hair of the large hound that had bit my ass the night before. Each contestant was also offered a heated tin of Baxter's haggis and encouraged to gobble it down in record time.

I'd barely got a fork-full to my mouth when the winner, an experienced campaigner who'd chowed his way to offal-greatness the previous three years, had finished his can and sat smiling and triumphant.

I wonder if he's still competing in this way - champion bike-track haggis eater, still undefeated.