What's that you have there?

Asked my fellow Scotsman, Ramon.

We were in the kitchen of my house drinking whisky and tying feathers to ourselves in advance of going out to a cèilidh - A long-held Glasgow tradition on New Year's Eve which of course is Hogmanay as we know it in Scotland.

This?

I held up a small pot of foul-smelling tincture.

It's Cat-Smeg.

I announced rather proudly. After all, who wouldn't be proud to have a tub of Cat-Smeg, one of the rarest, rumoured to be magical salves in the entire universe.

Although the exact method of creating Cat-Smeg is largely unknown it is thought to be a distillation of the fluid that is excreted from a cat's ears when you pump smoke up its arse with a pipe.

Why would that be unusual? I hear you cry. Well, that's the thing. The smoke has to be from a secret ingredient rumoured to be the love hair of an Ox gathered by moonlight. Not the easiest thing to collect.

Can I have a dab?

Ramon asked keenly.

Of course you can, just a little mind. It is strong stuff.

I passed over the little tub and watched approvingly as Ramon dabbed a little on his finger before wiping it on his upper lip.

Ooft.

He coughed and gasped as it worked its Auld Scots magic upon him.

When he stood up straight again his eyes were red-rimmed with the madness of Hogmanay and I clapped him on the back.

Tonight we will dine in hell!

I laughed and took another dab of Cat-Smeg before finishing tying the last of the feathers to my shoulders in advance of our cèilidh raiding party.

A cèilidh is an old Scottish ritual mostly carried out on Hogmanay where we slaughter and burn a cow before dancing around its flaming corpse drinking whisky and fighting.

The traditional garb for this is the feather shoulder dress, the Creiahn-Ku.

I was quite proud of my Creiahn-Ku this year which was comprised mostly of murdered owls. With that and the Cat-Smeg tonight was going to be quite the party.

Do you think there will be any chicks there tonight?

Asked Ramon somewhat nervously, tugging at one of the long white feathers around his neck. It looked like a swan feather. I hoped for his sake it was a swan and not a seagull. Gull feathers are bad juju.

There probably will be my young feathered friend. If there are, watch out for the gin-drinking ones. They fight the dirtiest.

We both nodded at that, everyone knows to be wary of a gin drinker, especially at a cèilidh.

Right, I'm all feathered up. Are we ready to go?

I flexed my shoulders and admired the way my owl feathers rippled. Tonight was going to be a good one. The best fighters at a cèilidh got to keep a length of burned cow intestine Bruachuail to put above the mantlepiece to bring good luck for the rest of the year ahead.

I looked at my own length of blackened Bruachuail hanging proudly on my wall. What a year I had had thanks to it. Although admittedly, the smell and the flies were a problem in summer.

Aye, I'm ready too. Will we get an Uber?

Ramon fished about among his white feathers for his phone.

I waved his phone away and stepped out the back door into the inky night.

No need, we will call a Ramhallion from the skies.

I opened my mouth and roared something in the old tongue.

Moments later an answering roar was heard then a furious flapping and snorting noise grew closer.

Hey, are you coming into the living room to join everyone?

The Good Lady popped her head around the kitchen door and eyed me suspiciously.

Yeah, just coming.

I picked up the bottle of Whisky I had been sent to fetch and headed into the living room to join our guests. Before I left the kitchen, I cast a look at the featherlessly empty kitchen behind me.

Maybe next year Ramon, maybe next year...

Happy New Year everyone!