Dave Twentyman: There’s something in the Ayr

Braveheart

Braveheart

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I WAS in Scotland last weekend which was a slight contrast from Egypt.

The weather’s not as good and you won’t see any tropical fish in the sea although you might see the odd shopping trolley.

I was gigging in Glasgow on the weekend so my missus thought it would be a cracking idea to have a few days break on a caravan holiday in Ayr.

To be fair it was quite nice although it seemed like every single bloke was wearing either a Rangers or Celtic shirt.

Sometimes they were even topless but I can only assume that that was because their footy top was in the wash.

Glasgow was a good 40 minutes drive away so these lot had proper pushed the boat out for their summer holiday.

It was a four hour drive for me so I’d made the most effort. I do tons of driving with my job and I like to make myself as comfortable as possible.

Often on long journeys I’ll undo my belt and unzip my trousers for optimum comfort ... so if I crash and the police find me like that, please please remember reading this.

Friday night’s gig was really bad. It’s not easy gigging in Glasgow as obviously being English means you have to work extra hard to win them over.

The act before me was a proud Scot. He was going on and on about how great the Scots were and what they’ve done for the world.

He was one step short of putting blue face paint on and singing the flower of Scotland. The Scots are very patriotic.

I think it takes a big event like a World Cup to make us feel like that. Actually it reminds me of the old joke: What do you call a Scot in the World Cup Quarter Finals ... the referee.

I sensed that as soon as I spoke they were not having me at any stretch. I died on my backside.

It’s difficult to describe how it feels when this happens. I used to feel myself getting hot and sweaty, tripping over my words, constantly looking at my watch as every second feels like a minute.

If it happens these days I just shrug my shoulders and laugh it off. The predictable heckle of “freedom” came, even when I replied that shouting out George Michael songs wasn’t helping it barely raised a titter. The Saturday night was the total opposite, I had a stormer. Again, like the night before it was like following a mixture of William Wallace, Robert The Bruce and The Proclaimers but I wasn’t going through that again.

As far as I know I have no Scottish ancestry to cling too so I told them although I’m not Scottish but Margaret my next door neighbour is and she’s lovely.