We have our Burns Night Competition 2024 winners!

Our beloved Burns Night Poetry Competition 2024 has drawn to a close. We have picked our winners. We’d like to thank all who submitted words inspired by the Scottish bard and whisky and say congratulations to our champions, who have bagged some tremendous bottles. 

Just a reminder, here’s what was up for grabs:

Winner: Talisker 25 Year Old

Runner-up 1: Dalmore King Alexander III

Runner-up 2: Deanston 21 Year Old 2000 Organic

Runner-up 3: Aberlour A’Bunadh Alba

Runner-up 4: Wolfie’s Blended Scotch Whisky – First Release (Signed by Sir Rod Stewart)

By our count over 2,000 poems were submitted. You really wanted that bottle of Talisker! 

But there is something we need to address. The computer-generated elephant in the room. A lot of you submitted poems clearly written by AI. When it comes to a poetry competition, ChatGPT is a cheat, not a muse. A sadly very high number were done this way and obviously were disqualified. This is the kind of thing that makes it very difficult to run a competition like this. We’re not angry, we’re just disappointed. 

Another little note, not all of you gave us titles, so we’ve taken the first line. If you have a preferred title, get in touch and we can update your poem.

Our winning Burns Night Competition 2024 poems

Anyway, without further ado, here are the winning poems. Congratulations again. You can read the full poems below. 

Winner: Nail polish remover by Richard Foster

Runner-up 1: Tom Campbell and The Devil by Helen Terry

Runner-up 2: Ol’ Mac by Neil Andrews

Runner-up 3: I poured myself a double scotch by Michelle Brown

Runner-up 4: Advice by Eleanor Cantor

1st place – Nail polish remover by Richard Foster

Nail polish remover

Grandad’s old chair

Pear drops and banana sweets

Raspberry custard eclair

 

Old ladies handbags

Horse stable straw

Mushy peas & gravy

Dusty library corridor

 

Carburettor oil spill

Wet Wellies in the sun

Beaver gland excretion

Cooked spaghetti (underdone)

 

Laddered tights (skin tone)

House plant soil mould

Uncle Eric’s toupee

Red brick mansion(old)

 

Heather (Graham), honey

Pete (bog) Postlethwaite

Harry Enfield’s Loadsamoney

Beckinsale (Kate)

 

Outer space on Tuesday’s

Ghosts in underwear

Gossip, chat & hearsay

Boy bands in despair

 

Faith and hope and meaning

Beansprouts in the bath

Back windows that need cleaning

Jimmy Carr’s weird laugh

 

1-10 in Spanish

“Where’s the bin” in French

Clothes stains washed in Vanish

DAME JUDY DENCH

2nd place: Tom Campbell and The Devil by Helen Terry

Tom Campbell on the Lecker Stone, more patient now than in life.

Silent, still, coffin lashed by sheets of wind blown rain.

Inside, eyes shine, fires crackle, coats steam.

Whisky passes around the inn on a familiar wave of blether.

 

“Tell us a tale of Tom”.

 

“Was a hellish time; Tom left the Inn with a heart which was heavy.

Once back at his bothy he’d ne’r go out for fear of catching the plague.

The uisge beatha he took with him to remind him of the hills,

the sound of the stream, the smell of the dew and the comp’ny of fellow men.

 

With an almighty roar a rippling hulk cast a threatening shadow upon him.

Heart lifted by the golden Liquor, Tom offered a Auld Hangie a dram.

Liking the fire it lit within him, the devil downed the lot.

He smashed the glass and fixed Toms eye as he offered a fight for his soul.

 

Fearful but seeing Auld Hangie blootered, Tom considered the fight,

What will you give me if I win? “Anything you like”.

“Cure Wigtown of the plague” was Tom’s robust reply.

The deal agreed, Tom set to and battled for his life.

 

Care free and numb with liquor, the devil bled from his wounds.

As he staggered, Tom thrust a shard of glass and pierced him through his heart.

Next morning our sick were well again. The fearsome plague was gone.

The whole of Wigton went to his bothy and toasted our Tom with a dram.

With his secret weapon, the water of life, he’d turned our lives around.”

3rd place: Ol’ Mac by Neil Andrews

Ol’ Mac sipped a dram by his crackling fireplace,

Persistent aches dulled and with warmth replaced.

All ailments soothed he turned in for the night

But awoke ambling in glorious morning light,

He strolled along a verdant valley trail,

To him a foreign yet familiar vale.

 

Ol’ Mac peered in a clear, adjacent stream

And was shocked to see a youthful Mac peering back at him.

He continued on toward a fence, high and gated,

Where a dapper gent stood and patiently waited.

 

“Welcome Mac, we’ve been expecting you.

Firstly, yes, you have passed but not yet passed through.

Now you must choose your next path to follow,

One is your paradise, the other, well, less so…”

 

The man concluded as Mac trembled inside,

“You may ask but one question to help you decide.”

 

From the left, peaceful birdsong and lavender scent,

From the right arose laughter, music and merriment.

Mac paused, confused, then it all became clear,

There was only one detail he needed to hear,

Though he knew the question may be forever damning,

Gesturing right, he simply asked, “are they dramming?”

4th place: I poured myself a double scotch by Michelle Brown

I poured myself a double scotch

One day last week at work

My boss told me that’s not allowed

In fact, he went berserk

 

He started citing silly rules

Of codes and expectation

I suggested a single malt

Might ease his irritation

 

This was the moment all came clear

And I looked quite the fool

He didn’t have an issue with

My choice of drink at all

 

And my contract of employment

Evidences why he cursed;

When the whisky’s being poured the

Boss’s glass must be filled first!

5th place: Advice by Eleanor Cantor

Standing at the duty-free shop

with a dad who didn’t care

on our final holiday together

I ask him to recommend a bottle of whisky,

“for who?”

“a friend”

“If it’s a good friend, then this one’s best,”

he regally points to a smoky 12-year-old single malt

that’s way above the budget of an English major,

and does not offer to add it to his cart.

Nor do I ask.

 

I bring the fancy bottle in a cab

tracing the embossment to avoid the driver

and try not to make a big deal of it,

but place it, nonchalant, by the CD rack

of a man who didn’t care about me

and he drinks half of it that night,

the other half with someone else a weekend later.

 

& the smoke washes off in the laundry

the taste of malted disappointment lingers…fades…

& 12 years on

I’ve wonderfully matured

and single.

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