My “haggis with an Irn Bru jus” name, of course, renders the confession of the fact somewhat redundant, but for those of you still unaware, I should tell you that I’m Scottish. Or, as a few resolutely unmoved parts of the Home Counties now refer to us, “Wimbledon common”.
And while my heather-scented DNA is as irrelevant to my ability to construct witty prose as it is to the boy Murray’s skill with a fluffy yellow ball, his triumph last weekend in that sweltering Centre Court pit of Hell very much went against type. We don’t really do heat, you see. Generally, anything north of 15 degrees leaves us crying in the loos. As a result, while Muzza heads off for a holiday (I assume to a snow cave in Antarctica), the rest of us are left here, facing the hottest day of the year with a whimper and a moistening sporran.
Handily, there exists a mildly offensive racial epithet which describes A) my inability to cope with heat and B) my heritage. That word is “Sweaty”. In Cockney rhyming slang, this means I am a “Sweaty Sock” which, thus expanded, means I am a Jock. Now, I’m not sure this means that I sweat, so therefore I am Scottish. Or that I am Scottish, so therefore I sweat. Either way, I intend to spend today with a bag of Tesco frozen parsnips down my pants. How you cope is your own business. Just don’t tell me how much you enjoy it.