It was that time of year again, when in the depths of (an unseasonably mild) winter, we remembered the nation’s bard on his birthday. As an Englishman now in my last week before moving south of the Border again, it was a golden opportunity for immersion into the culture and history of my beloved adoptive home.

The night, which friends, partners and I spent at Glasgow’s Oran Mor, did not disappoint. I’ll admit it was not the first time I’ve attended a Burns Night supper: Oxford colleges hold a version of them for the sake of their spattering of Scots, most of whom have never lived in the country but may well own the land. This, though, certainly was the real deal like I’ve never known before.

In true honour of Rabbie, the tradition developed not just to celebrate his life’s work, but also in part with the intent to mock the Kirk, with piping in the haggis and the address both parodies of communion rituals. Discovering this last week only gave me greater appreciation for Scottish wit as the night approached.

I hang my head in shame that the English have no such equivalent traditions to a Burns supper. We have been riding on the coattails of Scottish culture for centuries in a vain attempt to seem more interesting. No wonder the Prime Minister doesn’t want to risk independence.

So in keeping with that oldest of English traditions, I appropriated Scots attire and donned full Highland dress kindly lent by a Herald colleague.

In case it wasn’t clear enough that I’m yet to earn the honorary position of English Scot, my Google search history now includes: “Do you hang a sporran from around your waist or neck?” Before you all fling me back over the Border, fear not, my train departs on Saturday.

The wee dram o’ whisky yet again evoked paint stripper to my untrained palate, but four months in Scotland has at least got the ball rolling on my acquisition of a taste for the nation’s favourite tipple.

The Auditorium through the bell tower of Oran Mor, a converted church, proved the ideal setting for the night’s proceedings. It was right, too, that tribute was made to Alasdair Gray, who painted the rooms.

“Though we don’t have Alasdair anymore, we have this, and we always will,” arms extended upwards. You’ll have to forgive me as I had far too much wine to be sure who was speaking at that point. It’s a miracle I noted down quotes at all.

Iain Robertson was a superb host, but it was the Reply to the Toast to the Lassies which stole the show. Flitting seamlessly between speech and song, it was as hilarious as it was lewd, and certainly not fit for publication in these pages. In other words, justice to the bard.

As we were later told: “He was neither the angel nor the devil, he’s somewhere in the middle – he’s human.”

My friends said my vegan haggis outstripped the standard version, while the mashed potatoes were the best they had ever had. Heady hyperbole borne of the high spirits of the night or the voice of object truth? Perhaps we shall never know.

I may just have to book a trip back up to Scotland next January 25 but in the meantime, praise be that Waitrose stocks vegan haggis year-round – even in the south east of England.