TURNING OVER A NEW LEIF

Hello again, and welcome to May's edition of The Autolycan, in which we meet up with some old friends again - Erik the Red, Leif Eriksson and Mrs Sigurdsson.  They've appeared in a couple of previous stories, and this one kind of follows on, so if you're new to the blog, or would like to check back you might like to look at Wrong Kind of Leif? from April 2014 and A Misplaced Self Be-Leif from January 2015.  You should be able to get these from the archive near the top right hand corner of your screen.  I hope you enjoy it, and as ever please feel free to pass on to family and friends should you so wish.  Thank you!

Apologies if you like haggis.

TURNING OVER A NEW LEIF

Scotland's national dish is an 'imposter' and was invented by Vikings, claims master butcher

                                                                                                              Daily Telegraph

So; now we know. I expect that, like me, you have long wanted to know exactly what Lady Macbeth serves at that slightly tricky dinner party in Act 3 – the one that begins with the very recently regicidal Macbeth crying 'Now good digestion wait on appetite!' but goes a bit off course when Banquo – now a premature ghost, also thanks to Macbeth - turns up and sits itself down in its assassin's place.

Shakespeare is generally thought to have scribbled the play in 1606, and it seems that even ten years before his death the old boy was starting to lose his touch a bit. Not only is there no exploration of whether a ghost can actually sit down on something that would be solid to you and me but – presumably - not to it, but more to the point there is no guidance for the anxious hostess on the reassurance of jittery guests who have just witnessed their host fall to pieces when his late colleague floats ethereally and accusingly into the dining room. Tatler might lack something of Shakespeare's poetic genius, but would never be guilty of such a gross omission. Worse still, the Bard doesn't even give us the menu for the occasion – Tatters wouldn't dream of missing the opportunity, adorning it with glossy photos of the dishes and gushing interviews with – probably - Gordon Ramsay, or whichever celebrity chef got the gig.

No, Will leaves us to wonder whether Lady Macbeth has let the black and midnight hags loose in her kitchen to take what nowadays would be called an 'invention test' featuring not only eye of newt and toe of frog but also virtually unsourceable ingredients such as a howlet's wing which these days appear only in the posher weekend supplements and are unobtainable outside Hampstead.

But now we know. Haggis. Yes, haggis was on the menu. A courageous choice, you might think, but we need look no further than the bagpiped appearance of the great chieftain o' the pudding-race to work out why Macbeth's guests then made themselves rapidly scarce and why the takings at whatever stood where the Forres Royal Chinese now stands showed a healthy uplift on the night.

Only one guest remained – uncomfortably – at the table. We'll come to him later.

All of which raises the fascinating question of how Lady Macbeth knew about haggis, and this is where the Scottish master butcher of the headline and his Viking connection come in. You may remember that we've previously met Leif Eriksson and Mrs Sigurdsson. Leif was Erik the Red's embarrassing son who – awkwardly for a Viking – had renounced all forms of violence and become a vegan, and Erik had got rid of him by despatching him to England to set up cultural ties along with his – to Erik – insufferable college lecturer, Mrs Sigurdsson, whom Erik had declared his cultural attaché. Erik had eventually popped across to see how things were going, and was rather cruelly delighted to find that far from going well things had descended into utter chaos and mayhem. Heartlessly, Erik then decided that Leif and Mrs Sigurdsson should return to Norway with him so that others might also enjoy their humiliation.

Erik, as you might gather, was not a very nice man, but neither was he a particularly perceptive one. It never occurred to him that worms can turn, or that his tormentees would ever dare to think of retaliation.

But they had changed. Leif was no longer a vegan. He could look a whelk in the eye without feeling overly queasy. He had overcome his squeamishness sufficiently to carry out a little light running through of his father's enemies, and while Mrs Sigurdsson still annoyed Erik intensely, she at least turned out to be a dab hand at churning out interminable sagas which kept his court happy even though he himself hated the damned things. In fact it was Mrs Sigurdsson who struck the first crafty blow against Erik with an immensely long and unfathomable saga that he had to pretend to enjoy because everyone else was. Even worse, he then had to look delighted when she was elected SagaBard and it fell to him to make the presentation. Inspired by her success she went on to produce an even more tedious and impenetrable runic version which Erik had to pretend to enjoy all over again. He seethed impotently.

But it was Leif himself who set in train the coup de grâce. During their time in England they had met an itinerant Scottish chef and invited him to set up a short course for the natives in Scottish cooking. It hadn't been a success. The plain fact was that the chef wasn't any good. No good at all. Neither his cullen skink nor his crappit heid caught anyone's imagination. Clootie dumplings went untouched, while his Forfar bridie caused a near riot. Nobody dared get near enough his rumbledethumps (yes there is, look it up) to know whether they liked them or not, although inescapable evidence from their nostrils, even from afar, was wholly damning.

Leif hatched a brilliant and daring plan. He would send for this Scottish chef and invite him to Norway. He would get him to prepare a selection of the very finest Scottish dishes to present to his father. He would explain to Erik that he didn't expect him to actually like the food, but that this represented the absolute pinnacle of Scottish cuisine. He would suggest that Erik visit Macbeth, now the Scottish king, accompanied by the chef, who would prepare the most sumptuous feast. It would be a gift, a token of friendship. He would be warmly embraced by the Scottish court. He would be trusted – fêted even. Then, when they least suspected it, he could give the signal, overthrow Macbeth and claim Scotland for Norway. It was brilliant and Erik had to admit he was impressed. 

But Leif had grown cunning. Very, very cunning. He knew something Erik didn't and took great pains to make sure Erik didn't find out what he knew. What he knew was that the food would be uniformly awful. Disgusting. Revolting. And he knew that if he could get a thoroughly bogus and inedible dish - evil enough fare even before chef's depredations – if he could get that served as the star turn, the climax of the evening, he would turn the tables on Erik. This time it would be Erik whose humiliation would be complete. Leif worked feverishly but painstakingly with Mrs Sigurdsson to invent a dish that would be even worse than all the others, and then refined it to be as unpalatable as possible, before letting chef loose to do his worst with it. They would call it a haggis, and underline its dismal nature by serving it with neeps and tatties.

The chef duly landed in Norway and was presented at Erik's court. He set about his cooking. Even Erik paled at the sight of the howtowdie with drappit eggs – he was not at all convinced that the howtowdie was actually dead - but it turned out that even a twitching and apparently sentient howtowdie looked almost palatable compared to the dark and brooding jethart snails. Leif raved about them. The strippit baws were frankly offensive, but Mrs Sigurdsson clapped her hands and said they were the finest she'd ever seen.

Then came the haggis. Erik looked. Erik recoiled. Erik tried to regroup.

'What do you make this from?' he enquired, albeit faintly.

'Sheeps' pluck, sir.'

'Sheeps' pluck?'

'Aye. Heart, liver and lungs. Mixed together and minced.'

Leif turned away. Perhaps he hadn't made as much progress as he thought.

'If you wanted a slightly different twist I could do it with deers' instead of sheeps' pluck.'

Erik nodded weakly.

'Yes. That would be..... good. Er...... then what?'

'You mix it with things like oatmeal.'

'Oatmeal?'

'Aye. And suet.'

'Suet. And that helps?'

'Aye. Then you pack it into the animal's stomach and boil it.'

'Into the stomach?'

'Aye.'

''And then boil it?'

'Aye, For a good long time.' He relented slightly. 'You leave the windpipe out.'

'Oh good.'

Leif and Mrs Sigurdsson feigned ecstasy.

The plan worked a treat. Erik invited himself on a goodwill visit to the Scottish court, accompanied by the chef. Macbeth, truth to tell, wasn't best pleased because he had quite a lot on, but he saw the advantage of a possible alliance with Norway. Chef was presented to Lady Macbeth with great flummery, and with a huge flourish unveiled his plans for the evening. He made the dishes sound out of this world; his descriptions accompanied by a cacophony of salivating oohs and drooling aahs from Leif and Mrs Sigurdsson.

But Lady Macbeth had no idea what haggis was. Swallowing her pride, she had to ask. Chef tapped the side of his nose. 'My own speciality' he confided, mysteriously. 'Secret recipe. Made from the very finest deers' meat.'

'Mouth watering! Gorgeous!' cried Leif.

'A revelation! An epiphany!' yelled Mrs. Sigurdsson.

Chef was given the run of the kitchen. The meal – a royal gift from Norway – was served with enormous ceremony and pomp. It was beyond appalling. Way beyond. Macbeth was enraged. The guests turned splenetic. Lady Macbeth's expression made her recent murderousness towards Duncan seem tender hearted and bountiful by comparison. Even Banquo's ghost managed to look outraged, no easy matter for a ghost. Erik did his best, but could eat nothing. Then came the haggis - bagpipes, excruciating poetry and all....

Macbeth snapped. He decided that one more on the bodycount for the week would make very little difference, and chef was dragged from his kitchen to face the full force of the King's claymore. Macbeth was not a happy man. His dinner guests fled, all apart from an increasingly aghast Erik. Erik may not have been particularly perceptive but by now even he was losing faith in Leif's masterplan. With some justification as it turned out, since before long he was unceremoniously dragged off and thrown into Macbeth's deepest dungeon.

Alone at last, their triumph complete, Leif and Mrs Sigurdsson smiled tenderly – if nervously - at each other. They were satisfied – they had their revenge. He took her hand in his and drew her closer. They looked into each others' eyes; it felt good; it felt right.

'So fair and foul a day I have not seen' she breathed, demurely.

He put his arms around her and held her tight.

'Confusion now hath made his masterpiece' he whispered.

They shared an intimate silence for a few seconds.

Then.... 'I bear a charmed life' they said, together.

ANAGRAM CORNER

GEORGE GALLOWAY

O GOLLY! WE'RE GAGA!