It was the usual full house, with the haggis once again being dispatched by Dr Carr. The poor wee thing never stood a chance and we expect to be picking bits of it out of the cracks in the woodwork for several months yet. It was led to its final execution by Ms Carruthers who was got up in various items of black and white tat in lieu of proper Poozie Nancy attire. The bagpipes of Cameron McArthur muffled its last cries and Fifi Cooper undertook the Selkirk Grace in its honour.

The Immortal Memory was by Lesley Riddoch - that's right - the wee lassie who's on the telly - and John Williams in his address to the lassies went into detail about hurdies and distant hills. Wendy MacPhedran's reply was pretty cutting about the attributes of the local chaps, but since that included the webmaster there won't be any more details. Mike McGinness had the short straw of doing Mosses, Waters, Staps and Styles, which is the bit where everyone gets telt what the Portmoak Steering Team pretend to do when they have their meetings in the pub. He went into bog snorkeling in great depth (geddit). For those who didn't receive sufficient detail, an impenetrable graph is provided elsewhere.

This year the Portmoak Haydn Players became the Portmoak Portmoak players - they gave us some Burns songs played to their own new orchestrations. The offenders were Jo Falla, as usual caterwauling in public, and barely drowned out by Irene Barnes, Krys Hawryszczuk and Mairie Leggatt, puffing, blowing and plunking respectively. Further musical entertainment was by Gerry Marshall, plucking and wailing.

Then there were the poems. The Burns Police will have noticed that there wasn't a single legit one. Elaine Carruthers got stuck into Kate O'Shanter and Jeff Gunnell, showing great sympathy towards Mr and Mrs Batchelor's recent traumatic battle with nature, gave us 'Frae a Mouse'. You get that next, but not before we lay the blame for the whole ghastly event firmly at the the door of Dave Batchelor who was the Chairman and overall mastermind.

Frae a Mouse

You thought I was a tim'rous beast
An' cats put panic in my breast
But though I'm sma' I'm no' the least
O' all your trouble,
For insulation's a fine feast
When turning homes to rubble.

In your den wi' comfy seating,
Playing, laughing, drinking, eating,
Your pleasures long, but mine are fleeting,
Outside in the cold.
Yours all due to central heating,
Mine, brief moments hold.

But lofts are cosy, like a womb,
And in I creep from cold and gloom,
And chewing plastic plan your doom.
On pipes, sharp teeth I try.
And downstairs, in your human room,
You're not so warm... or dry.

Thy wee-bit housie, now in ruin!
The ceilings are all water spewin',
The carpets now all need renewin':
A lang damage roster,
An' all December tradesmen queuin'
Tae say, "That'll cost yer!"

The loss adjuster's pencil scriv,
The list o' damage that I give,
Frae pipes all leaking like a sieve.
Your mattress in the bin.
And you all must away tae live,
At Lomond Country Inn.

So now I've won. My home's all free
From pesky people chasing me.
No cats, no dogs, no repartee:
I've won my glory!
I'm even on the BBC,
In wee-bit newsie story.

But though I niver thought it twice,
You'll now tak' pesty man's advice,
The best laid schemes o' Men an' Mice,
We cannae forward map.
My outcome, just a throw o' dice,
'Tween poison and the trap.

So now I'm gone, but so are you.
But you'll be back, but I might too,
For like all nature we must sue,
To live through winter weather.
Not killin' many for the few,
It's Mice an' Men t'gether!