When I lived in digs in Glasgow, some Skye cheuchters lived in the same flat and we shared a kitchen. They spoke Gallic all the time, which I loved to hear. One evening they put an enormous goose in the oven and opened a few bottles of whiskey. Once they were well and truly blotto in their room, a river of fat oozed out of the oven, across the floor and down the stairs to the hallway. I did nothing about it, and later I heard a torrent of Gallic as they tried to stem the flow and mop it up. I've never fancied goose since, as it smelled a bit ripe to me.