I AM PEERING INTO a sheep’s entrails, not in search of an augury but in hope of a haggis. Admittedly, the traditional dish is revolting: dark brown mounds of tiny pellets, flecked with bits of beige and diabolised with too much pepper, presumably in order to mask the awfulness of the offal.
The dollops — or “hurdies”, as Burns might scatologically say — of potato and swede are typically waterlogged, mashed to a pulp, and as pallid
