Scotland report

Well, as you might have expected, things did go a bit a-gley.

It seems you simply can't stick a bunch of well-meaning lads together in a country for a quiet weekend of contemplation, walks, deep-fried delights and beer and expect harmony to be maintained.

The lang and the short of it: I was enjoying the local beverages in order to quench myself of a mighty drouth mouth, as I am known to do. Beer, beer, beer. Lovely stuff. Especially with the old fruit in it.

Anyway, at about 10am, just three hours after we got our wolf lips on, I was feeling highly refreshed and ready to board our luxury hire vehicle and drive us to Loch Lomondness for a bit of a wander.

Finding it a struggle to match car key to car door lock, despite the noisy encouragement of Gordoon and Tim McRubbish, I called on a passing official for help. The old lad in blue - for indeed he was a bobby - bowled over and began speaking at me in Merican.

He was - strangely for those parts of the very North of England that the locals choose to defy all logic by calling 'Scotland' as if it had some kind of separate culture, language, economy, or governance - A Merican.

Despite being A Merican he was fully entitled to exercise his lawful duties and take me in for questioning, claiming I had control of the vehicle at the time in a befuddled state. Which is ridiculous as you can't control a car if you can't even get into it. But there you are.

So, now I'm submitting my compo claim for the severe and vicious bruising I sustained at the hands of the officer concerned. I have taken possession of the videotaped interview (below) and you can see for yourself how I was mistreated by this scoundrel.