When Scotland play England in any sporting event, especially rugby, I feel a familiar sinking in my stomach, dreading yet another loss and aching for another of the – fewer – glorious victories. My Dad was Scots and, after living abroad, around Army bases, we arrived in Scotland when I was eight years old and stayed until I was 18.
8-18 is the making of a man, culturally at least. I laugh at cartoons and jokes that my English family and friends just don’t get, and so much else is foreign to them
‘Oor Wullie’, The Broons, Jimmy Shand and his band (terrible), the pipes, ‘Y’a’ right?’, short, short winter days, snow every year, a pint and a chaser, the feel of a woollen kilt on the legs, lamb pies, pinched white faces in thin clothes hunched against the bitter, wet East winds off the sea, moors and heather, Hogmanay..