Haggis, whiskey, bagpipes and lots of people bumping in to each other to the beat of a band, can only mean one thing – a Scottish ceilidh. Accompanied by the narration of “Ode to a Haggis” and ceremonious piercing of said haggis leading to the release it's steaming entrails, it can only be Burns' Night.

So were the celebrations of Saturday night at the British Embassy in Kathmandu. Brits, Germans, Scandinavians, Nepalis and who knows how many other nationalities alike gathered on British soil complete with European toilets and British plugs, to feast on bangers, mash and gravy – with a vegetarian option of mushroom pie – and dance young and old in a swirl of tartans and kilts. It's safe to say that even the most skeptics of dancers had a go at stripping the willow and had a great time about it. Only joyous laughter echoed in the halls after the traditional dancing had ended and the electronic beat of reggaetton began blaring through the speakers. Reggaetton of all music, followed by Katy Perry and bollywood music. A tip for those aspiring bollywood dancers: pretend you're screwing in a lightbulb with your right hand and putting out a cigarette with the left foot, et voila you're a professional bollywood dancer!

I leave you with the “Ode to a Haggis”:

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftan o’ the Puddin-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang’s my arm

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
You pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o’need
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead

His knife see Rustic-labour dight,
An’ cut you up wi’ ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reeking, rich!

Then, horn for horn they stretch an’ strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive
Bethankit hums

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash
His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll mak it whissle;
An’ legs, an’ arms an’ heads will sned,
Like taps o’ thrissle

Ye pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,
An’ dish them out their bill o’fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ pray’r,
Gie her a Haggis!