I am told by my dear friends Alan Taylor and Rosemary Goring – a couple so literary that their Glasgow pied-a-terre is actually built entirely out of old books – that a new scholarly edition of Burns’s poems is currently being researched by Glasgow University. The project was started in 2009 and isn’t due for completion until 2024. Soon, I expect to be contacting the scholars working on this sacred tome bearing glad tidings. For, into my possession has come a work of improbable provenance but which is causing ripples of excitement in those communities where I seek society.
My pal, Big Tam Lenighan, sage and savant of the Commercial Inn in Campsie, is almost certain that the work is from the pen of The Bard himself: “I know the prose is entirely in the modern idiom, but I believe Burns had a sixth sense and often talked of events yet to happen. The verse structure is a bit scrofulous, yet that in itself probably predicted the falling standards in the teaching of English these last few years.” And so, in the fraternal spirit of Burns season, I now share it with Observer readers.
The trials of Jim
When west end ladies meet for gin
And say the nights are fair drawing in
In pubs where bankers sing their chorus
“How massive will be this year’s bonus”
As we both eye a last Bacardi
And risk some wrath for being tardy
We praise the Lord for Transport
Scotland
And icy roads we could get lost in
We talk of Celts and watch the clock
And ask: “Do you play heavy rock?”
And though our blessings may be few
We’re better off than Prince Andrew
We doth recall a chilling case
One night lost in Time’s embrace
Of a student bar in old Strathclyde
Where they pretended to be wide
Ah, memories of Strathclyde Uni
Where lassies once wore naught but
goonies
And where you rarely e’er did slumber
Without first having got a lumber
And lads could gain a double first
For simply not being deemed the worst
Behold Good Jim, a sonsie character
Who some had thought must be the janitor
(For nine long years he’d secured grants
A quite unusual circumstance)
Most evenings found him ravin’, shoutin’
For with the drink he oft got howlin’
And by his side thon trusty loon
A flaxen Fifer they called Broon
Hatching plots and stratagems
To help the Red Rose win again
Then one cold night both foul and fell
After the barman rang his bell
Their path home lit by winter moon
Jim quickly stopped and turned to Broon
His words have since passed into lore
“Big man, it’s this: let’s ditch Clause
Four”.
Then upon Broon didst fall a passion;
His face contorted; his teeth a gnashin’
“This day be cursed and you Jim with it,
You yowlin’, howlin’, blitherin’ idjit.
Your face grow thin and your yolk
be heavy
You are now condemned to no more
bevvy.”
Poor Jim, the Guinness had gone sour
And fled he east to fret and cower,
Up the High Street he did stumble
Sweating lest he take a tumble
Up past General George’s Carpets
Turning left ere Barras markets
Groping blindly in the mirk
Until he reached auld Glasgow’s Kirk
And there the great necropolis
Among the dead perhaps some solace
While Jim did think on his folly,
He spied a glow, a light unholy,
Up from the crypt its fingers crept
And in Jim’s soul a terror leapt.
What were these embers that did
glimmer
Making entrails boil and simmer?
Then a sound, a sepulchral moan
Of pipes and drums, a hellish tone.
An infernal din all dark and waily
Like the worst of Capercaillie.
Into the chapel Jim did venture
Fearing a demonic censure
Down the steps he was impelled
By force that could not be withheld
Then lo he came upon a wonder,
That shone and tore his sense asunder
A writhing mass of quines and chiels
Dancing diabolic reels.
With painted faces and hairy armpits
They brandished Scotia’s lion rampant
Jim froze in terror, tight grew his slats
“The vile, perfidious cybernats”
But one amongst them caught his eye,
A barefoot wanton fleet of thigh
Who twisted, twirled her eyes like fire,
And inflamed in him an old desire.
Who was this wench with lips so willing,
Wearing a frock by Karen Millen?
But even as his eyes did feast
The vile cacophony did cease.
He heard, though he was full of swally:
“Give us the Internationale!”
Poor Jim was rapt and all at sea;
He’d lost himself in this melee
With salty tears his eyes grew dim
At this long forgotten hymn.
Suddenly he lost his bearing
Sensing they were snarling, swearing
Upon him their stares now harsh
He scarce had time to save his arse.
In vain he looked for a way out
And loud they all began to shout
“Into this body we cannot allow
Those who failed to keep The Vow.”
Yet fear ye not for our Good Jim
We had not heard the last of him
Was this not Jim, the Tory basher
Who made East Ren a Red Rose
smasher?
Stood by the wall a 10-speed-racer
To outstrip any wicked chaser
And when he reached the River Clyde
He knew in his own bed he’d bide
The cyber swarm hate running water
They’d rather lumber Auld Nick’s
daughter
Comments will be opened later today
