It’ll be Burns Night this Friday, which in my house merits a dram or two more than the usual end-of-week celebration. It will involve no more haggis than the usual, which is to say, none. Most of all it will mean a great deal of poetry - Burns poetry - which is written in a way that all but forces you to try your hand at a Scottish accent. One of the great joys of marrying a theatre scholar is her shocking facility with such dialects, the result of studying under one of the best voice coaches in the world. My own attempts are less impressive.
All the same, bad accent or not, I’ll drink a toast to Burns. But a Burns Supper isn’t just whisky, haggis and poetry. It’s a meal of joy, melancholy and respectful remembrance of times and people now departed. In this house, this year’s will also be a Bogle Supper. On Friday, we will drink a toast to Jack, a genuine treasure who did more to make markets work for the individual investor than any person. Ever. He wasn’t just someone who was in the first place at the right time to capitalize on an inevitable idea. He made something happen that wouldn’t have happened otherwise, perhaps for many years.