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| EUHWC Toast to the Lassies 2024 | true | At the <a href="https://www.euhwc.co.uk">EUHWC</a> Burns meet in Ullapool last weekend, I had the last privilege of giving the Toast to the Lassies. Particularly for the benefit of those who weren’t there, here it is in full! | 2024-01-29 |
Had Burns, instead of his sweet bonnie Jean,
his skills poetical for to mature
had any one of our club’s lassies seen
he would forever have remained obscure.
If he had nothing but this box of worms
Scotia would have been poorer, that I’m sure.
Now none of us can claim to be a Burns,
I’m no poetic master, still, I’ll have a punt,
though let’s be clear, I’ll do it on my terms.
I’ve everywhere avoided being blunt -
politeness matters more than any schema -
but it is hard when Isla’s such a cunt.
It was a challenge to produce a terza rima
I could recite withouten snoring;
you’ve been so stiff I thought youse had oedema.
The bother is this year is you’ll all been boring:
no drugs, no sex, no gossiping or lies,
no rock and roll, and hardly any whoring.
But hey well, rules is rules, I’ve had to try!
At least it can’t be worse than the reply.
I’ll start with Audrey, the club’s senior member,
for if there’s something that I say which disconcerts her,
it’s fine: the poor old girl, she won’t remember.
She likes to let us think she’s a hard worker
but we’re electing a third social sec…
it’s pretty clear she’s just another shirker.
This lady, half American, half Czech,
for study, moved to Scotland for to do
American history – really, what the heck?
The club is so much louder thanks to you:
impressive vocals for just five foot two.
That woman, Willow, reggles is bespeckled
with her sickle and her fishing tackle
shackled by the shins while she is heckled;
the way that Willow waddles maks me cackle
like a speckled jackal getting tickles,
worth a shekel in the tabernacle;
I chuckle muckle at her love of pickles
which she wiggles when she has the heart
while work for the Committee’s fickle trickles.
Her modus operandi: you can’t rush art.
Her reimbursements programme’s going great;
any day now, she’ll maybe even start.
She cannot walk without Audrey, her mate:
I wonder when they’re going to consummate.
Although they make them pretty tough in Peebles,
the thought of actually going up a peak
fills Shona Lewis with the heeble-jeebles.
New car? We miss your beautiful antique!
How long before this one’s also up a creek?
Once there was a lass called Hannah Collier
whom even hell below regarded nasty,
deeply despised by all that dwells there.
Dating’s proceeding slowly for our lassie;
not far from giving up til she beguiles
a hot Italian in Southsider: classy!
At first, Michaelo seems to be all smiles
till it transpires he’s one of Dante’s demons…
I guess it’s back to posters of Harry Styles.
One day you’ll get a decent boy, keep dreamin;
somewhere there waits a handsome Mr Collier.
Hopefully when she meets him she’ll no be steamin.
Hannah, I’m not sure why you chose to maul your
poor skeleton at Subway (she’s still tetchy)
and then abandon what remains of all your
dignity at Ryvoan with a Frenchie!
I think he wishes that he never met ye.
And has a quiet Felicia e’er been seen?
The energy she has is frankly wild.
I’ve never seen a hillwalker so keen!
Ssie ischt raschtlos und nie gelangweilt.
She eats raw oats with soggy protein powder:
a camping pot has ne’er been worse defiled.
She uses what her Maker has endowed her
with: her recorder skills are off the charts;
youse think I’m joking, but I wouldn’t doubt her!
This lass of the land of the Rot-Gold-Schwarz
will soon depart, though long we might beseech you
to stay. Of course, you’ll break all of our hearts,
but mine most of all. Any time, Felicia,
Creag Meagaidh calls, I know routes up the rear
dark and under-explored that I can teach you!
I won’t deny I think it’s rather queer
the things you do with chickpeas, but no matter.
You’re keen, you’re quick, you’re cool, that much is clear.
In fact, I think you’d make a damn good faffer:
swoop down on distilleries like the Luftwaffe.
And now we come to our girl Emily Topness!
You’re keen for social sec. You’d suit the role
because… I’m not quite sure, it’s embdy’s guess.
We met your sister, and she was just as dull.
No, please drone on about Icelandic soil!
Poor Joe here down the front’s bored out his skull.
And since I mentioned Joe – I hate to spoil
it for you – but you’ve got the inferior Joe,
by Jove, no joke, it’s Jock here’s got the style!
Nah, write the boy a sonnet, get in the flow,
Whatever you produce’ll beat by thrice
your Masters thesis. What’d you got to show
for months of hunting for the butterflies?
‘There weren’t any.’ Oh, and have some sense,
cos I’ve heard rumours – I assume they’re lies –
you’ve called yourself the ‘poet in residence.’
You know you can’t compete, drop the pretence.
Tereza was our gear sec for last year.
She helped herself to stuff: that’s factual.
Now when she asks to loan a bit club gear
we have to ask her to provide collateral.
She picked up tin whistle pretty sharp!
Which is to say, she’s not a natural.
She’s nowhere happier than under tarp
gazing up at the moon and stars alone
somewhere distant and remote like Glen Tarff.
Now what to say about Lucy Ma-the-soooon....
she likes… to faff… mm hmmm… well, moving on!
And now we come to Emilie the French.
She seems to be nice on the trips we see her
but my distrust of frogs will ne’er be quenched.
Claims she’s a ‘pharmacist’? So she’s a dealer.
Need some pills in a pinch? You call, she’s there
at your door in her rally-approved four-wheeler.
One question we have is, why are you here?
Most folk are in uni, you’ve no refutin
you were kicked out after second year!
Now the Engineering grad, Sophia Newton.
Your namesake, Isaac, was a man convicted,
constructed calculus; but no computin,
not even Isaac’s, could’ve e’er predicted
you’d drop the Eng for creative writing!
now that’s what I would call a self-inflicted
inflection point! It must be quite enlightening,
but that doesn’t excuse when you give us an earful.
The blood boils in our veins, the rage heightening,
and you’re an American, that makes me fearful.
What’s your secret? You have us knackered!
What are you on to always be so cheerful?
Now we approach the topic of Merzbacher.
Wait, she’s not here? Abandoned ship?
She says she’s informatics: so she’s a hacker?
She has strong views, she lets her anger rip.
Poor George got an earful, full of future advice,
but why hasn’t she been on another club trip?
We’re cruel to focus on this list of vice;
the fact remains: she’s headstrong and nice.
On Skye, a lady gave her poles to Sasha,
which was really nice - I mean just the best -
but Sasha really didn’t have to flash her.
Quick history lesson: way back, RBS
led the banking system to self-destruct
and left taxpayers to pick up the mess.
Since then, the name’s so irredeemably fucked
they’ve had to ditch the brand once and for all.
There’s one lassie who I need not instruct
What, these days, the Royal Bank is called
cos NatWest’s nasty history of scandal
didn’t stop Booth from working there at all.
Nothing motivates her more than to trample
upon the working class. They set her free.
She sank the pound quicker than the Belgrano,
because ‘there is no such thing as society,’
that’s how it is, is it? All right, I see.
Now, coming all the way from Glenmore Lodge,
it’s Ellie’s turn! We have done what we can,
although I’m scared what she’ll put in my squash.
She wasn’t into Benji, but listen man,
you’re lucky that you dodged her drunken benders.
You’ll wake up in a tent in Kyrgystan,
as for how you got there, no-one remembers,
and if you’d known you’d be sleeping next to Ellie,
you would’ve brought some fucking ear defenders.
She’ll wrap you in bubblewrap, from your ears to your belly,
cotton clothes for none, and no complaining,
applying safety to the max, spare socks in your wellies.
She’s always at her Mountain Leader training,
practicing her night nav in the locale,
pursuing QMDs - unless it’s raining.
But some water should not scare our gal!
She’s had much experience with the wet as of late:
after all, she got on well with our navy pal.
What was the age of that particular first mate?
Older than your ex - always part of the plan?
Ah, of course! He was a spry twenty-eight!
Youth’s for the losers, let’s get you a real man,
mature and rugged, but kind and astute?
Just make sure he’s not as old as your gran.
One request we all have is you ditch the uke:
never have strings been pluckèd quite so shitely;
we would all much rather be hit by a nuke.
And please shut up about your nice society.
We are all glad you had a fun summer,
but bringing it up throws us right back to sobriety.
To lose you of course would be a bummer:
that is, for your carefully groomed newcomers.
Now time for the main woman, El Presidente!
To here, it’s been like getting stones to bleed,
but in Isla Burslem’s case we’ve material aplenty!
As Holy Scripture says, ‘let those who lead
well be worthy of double honour,’ so
your bit is double length – it’s quite the screed!
I’ll start off with her brilliant boyfriend – oh!
Not boyfriend! Friend? To me this rather smacks
of low commitment, but what do I know?
So far, he’s disappointing, but on track.
What’s he up to Isla: seven minutes? neat!
Despite that, he is never holding back
your blossoming romance with Dr Peat.
Don’t deny it, that launch was pretty hard!
It’s fifth base next: that’s photos of his feet.
It’s fair to say her reputation’s marred.
We all regret that we did once anoint
her President: her premiership’s ill-starred.
Hey - you’re meant to be in charge of this joint!
You’re seldom seen cos of the mountaineering
meets that you’re always on. You’d made your point
before you chose to go off disappearing
to New Zealand… we get the message! Plus
we’ve had enough of all your domineering:
maybe it’s time we put you on a bus!
Nah, I’m just joking. All I’ve said’s refutable.
But the boys, we mean this next bit, all of us,
so stop me Isla if this isn’t suitable
but honestly we think your mum is beautiful.
Alas, I have to bring an end to this rhyme.
I know it wasn’t much, in our defence,
the fact you used ChatGPT’s a crime.
I hope I’ve not caused over much offence
don’t worry, that is it, I’ve said my bit,
so I’ll turn from the ladies to the gents.
Yeah, don’t look away now, we wrote this shit!
I see you looking at your laces, Chris!
Wit without real goodwill is not legit,
so boys, don’t send sincerity to piss!
Why did God say he’d take our hearts of stone
and give us hearts of flesh? For this, for this!
Here is flesh of our flesh, bone of our bone;
love, and love nothing more but God alone.