They call it 'The Race that Stops the Nation'.

And unusually, this description isn't a case of Aussie hyperbole because for the Melbourne Cup, a handicap horse race over the extended two miles, Australia really does come to a complete halt.

It's a public holiday for a start and in Melbourne in particular, everybody - and I do mean everybody - becomes a rabid punter for the day.

Over 100,000 of them converge on Flemington Racecourse in their best bib and tucker, with fancy hats, designer frocks and lacy fascinators all getting an annual airing - and yes, you guessed it, that's just the blokes.

Actually, the men do make a genuine effort to look presentable, the Melbourne equivalent of Ralphie Slater doing a roaring trade as the natural informality of your average Aussie guy is cast aside in a welter of smart suits, shiny shoes and sunnies.

The day starts early. Morning trams are stuffed to the gills with well-dressed hordes heading to the track, many of them getting stuck into the bevvy long before the standard official hour of beer o'clock.

Naturally, this has an obvious logical consequence as, come late afternoon, the streets of the city are quite literally awash with hopelessly drunk people who, sadly, usually don't even have a pot to piss in.

Interestingly, this year, I noticed a few blokes who eschewed the standard lounge suit by donning full Highland regalia, or at any rate, the kilt, accompanied by Prince Charlie Jacket (or an equivalent thereof), dirk and sporran.

The kilt has actually enjoyed something of a renaissance down under, no doubt as a result of a new-found pride in Scottish antecedents, or possibly because - and I know this is true - women love it.

Some years ago I attended a wedding in New Zealand and happened across two youngish, slightly rotund fellas resplendent in Hunting McGregor kilts.

Assuming a common connection, I immediately sought them out, only to find that rather than being Scots, they were both Yorkshiremen and had made a conscious decision to go tartan on the simple basis that 'it'll help us cop off'.

Sadly it didn't, which was a shame for them but also for me since, as a lifelong fan of spoof Beatles group The Rutles, it would have given me a unique opportunity to reference the plaintive number recorded by the Rutles' erstwhile drummer Barrington Womble: When You Find the Girl of Your Dreams (In the Arms of Some Scotsmen from Hull).

The entire concept of clan tartans and the like are, of course, a classic case of life imitating art, or, in this case, literature, since the notion of regional tartans is an utter fallacy emanating from the creative quill of Sir Walter Scott.

SWS, as we know, gave us Scots a lot to contend with. There was his romantic gothic poetry, his epic classical prose and, of course, his porridge oats.

I've not read enough of Sir Walter's works to know for sure, but I'm pretty certain he wasn't the inspiration for the so-called tradition of going 'regimental', the - let's face it - frankly unhygienic practice of choosing not to wear undergarments under the kilt.

Historians are agreed that there is no historical authenticity in this custom other than the possibility that clatty Scotsmen over the years just couldn't be arsed finding a clean pair of y-fronts.

Let's face it, freeballing is a horrid concept under any circumstances though I must confess as one who has observed the non-existent convention of regimentarianism on the few occasions I've worn the kilt, I have actually quite enjoyed the feeling of fresh air and freedom.

Not that it goes down at all well with kilt hire companies. I seem to remember a sign prominently displayed in the various Glasgow stores which rented said outfits that declared with no ambiguity whatsoever: Gentlemen are requested to always wear pants.

However, it's to be hoped that the Scots who chose to wear the kilt at the Melbourne Cup enjoyed some success, if not with women, than at least with the horses.

Chances are they didn't though, since aside from the fact that even in these economically fraught times, you never seem to come across a skint bookie, I know from personal experience just how sulky your average horse can be.

Generally speaking - and I used to own horses - a cuddy would rather spend its time in a field eating grass in preference to absolutely any other activity.

Mind you, that's not really surprising since, given the choice, how many of us would fancy getting booted around a race track by a psychotic midget with a whip he's not afraid to wield on your back?

Dour isn't the word - a horse, being in my experience more or less roughly on a par with a sullen, ill-humoured adolescent whose wi-fi is knackered.

In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, a lot of the time, a horse simply can't be arsed.

And, as you might have noticed, horses don't wear pants either.