Dieter stands up among the now-drunken crowds with his hand up a sheep-puppet’s arse. It’s one of those moments where it seriously could go either way.
In his endearing, yet pronounced, German accent he begins:
Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin’-race!
The kilted sheep ventriloquises, looking almost as perplexed as the wider company, and making a mental note to re-examine its family tree as a matter of some urgency. However, the Bard will not be silenced, and nor will the puppeteer. Exhibiting manual dexterity rarely seen its hooved brethren, the sheep grasps the huge and freshly sharpened dagger, and at the climax, plunges it deep into the bowels of its innocent, albeit now evidently more distant than previously imagined, cousin.
The haggis volcanoes its oaty eruption onto the steaming plate, entrails spilling, and the fabulous aroma rises to the sky. With charged glasses smelling of Highlands and peat, we rush for our plates and queue, disorderlyly, for a piece of the felled prey.
Golden-orange neeps have been bashed. Tatties mashed. The haggis stabbed.
All’s well that ends well.