You've not lived until you've staggered out of bed on Sunday morning to find an open box of your flatmates' previous evening's haggis pizza waiting for you in the kitchen. You have to punch yourself in the nads to confirm that it's not, in fact, some horrid nightmare you've yet to surface from. Hobbes, cat and chief executive of our flat, would be on top of the central heating boiler looking down disdainfully. This what you humans eat. No, no, my furry friend, it's what Scottish humans eat.
It was marginally better than the congealed kebab pizza they sometimes left, I suppose.
And yes, they'd eat it. Scottish humans, Hobbes, Scottish humans.