Robert Burns is supposedly our National Bard, held in great esteem all over Scotland, but I’m having none of it. Bad enough that much of his work is doggerel (although Tam O’ Shanter is decent enough storytelling in its own way) but also, the man was allegedly a prick who raped his pregnant wife Jean Armour and bragged about it in a letter to his friend. In that regard, he’s more like the Russell Brand of his day (again, allegedly).
Then, a few years ago, I was unfortunate enough to see Alan Cumming, who I like as an actor and comedic/ theatrical talent, artlessly galumphing around onstage. The show, ‘Burn’, was a deliberate attempt to update the mythos surrounding Burns, but it was really Cumming making a bit of a twat of himself. His musicality was lacking, the choreography uninspired and poorly executed, and the whole felt like he was reinforcing Scottish stereotypes rather than modernising Burns’ life story. It was a sheer vanity project and I cringed from start to sorry end.
So let’s propose an alternative toast to the real Scottish Bard: Ivor Cutler. He was a wee, gentle and unassuming man with a wicked line in absurdism and a wheezing harmonium. “God bless you, Mr Cutler”. Not a haggis in sight.
Hit The North 