Try a haggis hunting expedition.
Confessions of Aleister Crowley, Chapter 50:
"On April 27th, the good Tartarin, who had published a book (in the Swiss
language) on our expedition to Chogo Ri, illustrated with many admirable
photographs but not distinguished by literary quality or accuracy (in many
respects), and had lectured in Paris and other capitals on Chogo Ri, dropped
in. I was heartily glad to see him. He was the same cheerful ass as ever,
but he had got a bit of a swelled head and was extremely annoyed with me for
not leading him instantly to stalk the sinister stag, to grapple with the
grievous grouse, and to set my ferrets on the fearful pheasant. He could not
understand the game laws. Well, I'm a poet; I determined to create sport
since it did not exist. More, it should be unique.
I opened the campaign as follows. Tartarin knew the origin of the wild
buffalo of Burma. When the British destroyed the villages, their cattle
escaped the bayonet and starvation by taking to the jungle, where they had
become practically a new species. After the '45 the British had pursued the
same policy of extermination --- I mean pacification --- in the Highlands,
and I thought it plausible to invent a wild sheep on the analogy of the wild
buffalo. And more, the beast should be already famous. I described its
rarity, its shyness, its ferocity, etc., etc. --- "You have doubtless heard
of it," I ended; "it is called the haggis." My '52 Johannesburg completed
that part of the "come-on". Tartarin dreamt all night of scaling a lonely
and precipitous pinnacle and dragging a lordly haggis from his lair. For my
part, like Judas in the famous story of the Sepher Toldoth Jeschu, I did not
dream at all: I did better!
Two mornings later, Hugh Gillies, with disordered dress and wild eyes, came
rushing into the billiard room after breakfast. He exploded breathlessly,
"There's a haggis on the hill, my lord!"
We dropped our cues and dashed to the gun case. Trusting to my skill, I
contented myself with the .577 Double Express, and gave Tartarin the
principal weapon of my battery, a 10-bore Paradox, with steel-core bullets.
It is a reliable weapon, it will bring an elephant up short with a mere
shock, even if he is not hit in a vital part. With such an arm, my friend
could advance fearlessly against the most formidable haggis in the
Highlands.
Not a moment was to be lost. Gillies, followed by the doctor, myself and my
wife, tiptoed, crouching low, out of the front door and stalked the fearsome
beast across the Italian garden.
The icy rain chilled us to the bone before we reached the edge of the
artificial trout lake. I insisted on wading through this -- up to the neck,
guns held high --- on the ground that we should thus throw the haggis off
our scent!
We emerged dripping and proceeded to climb the hill on all fours. Every time
anyone breathed, we all stopped and lay low for several minutes. It was a
chilly performance, but it was worth it! Tartarin soon reached the point
where every bent twig looked to him like one of the horns of our haggis. I
crawled and dripped and choked back my laughter. The idiocy of the whole
adventure was intensified by the physical discomfort and the impossibility
of relieving one's feelings. That interminable crawl! The rain never let up
for a single second; and the wind came in gusts wilder and more hitter with
every yard of ascent. I explained to Tartarin that if it should shift a few
degrees, the haggis would infallibly get our scent and be off. I implored
him to camouflage his posteriors, which arose in front for my balaclava,
heaving like the hump of a dying camel. The resulting wiggles would have
driven Isidora Duncan to despair; the poor man was indeed acutely conscious
that, anatomically, he had not been constructed with the main idea of
escaping notice.
However, after an hour and a half, we reached the top of the hill, three
hundred feet above the house, without hearing that hideous scream-whistle of
alarm by which (so I had been careful to explain) the haggis announces that
he has detected the presence of an alien enemy.
Breathlessly, we crawled towards the hollow space of grassy and heathery
knolls that lay behind the huge rock buttress that towers above the garden
and the lake, that space whose richness had tempted our distinguished
visitor to approach so near to human habitation.
The mist drove wildly and fiercely across the hillside towards us. It
magnified every object to an enormous size, the more impressively that the
background was wholly blotted out. Suddenly Gilles rolled stealthily over to
the right, his finger pointed tremulously to where, amid the unfurling
wreaths of greyness, stood ...
Tartarin brought forward the 10-bore with infinite precision. The haggis
loomed gargantuan in the mist; it was barely fifty yards away. Even I had
somehow half hypnotized myself into a sort of perverse excitement. I could
have sworn the brute was the size of a bear.
Guillarmod pressed both triggers. He had made no mistake. Both bullets
struck and expanded; he had blown completely away the entire rear section of
Farmer McNab's prize ram.
We rushed forward, cheering frantically. Gillies had to be first in at the
death; the supply of oats with which he had induced our latest purchase to
feed in that spot all the morning without moving, might, if observed, have
detracted from the uncanny glory of that romantic scene. But next day at
dinner, when we ate that haggis, the general hilarity passed unchallenged.
The atmosphere had become wholly Homeric; there was no reason why the
wildest glee should seem out of place.
Tartarin sent the ram's head to be stuffed and mounted; a suitable
inscription was to be engraved upon a plate of massive gold. For had not the
gallant Swiss vindicated their race once more? Would not the Gazette de
Lausanne literally foam at the mouth with the recital of so doughty an
exploit?"
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/scotland/3240190.stm
