Having lived in New Zealand for a couple of years, I generally find your average Kiwi to be amazingly Scot-like in his demeanour and mien – a bit dour and remote until you got to know him, but then funny, engaging, loyal and fiercely patriotic.

That initial crabbiness could well be - like ours - a result of having a larger, more confident nation as neighbours (in their case Australia, in ours, of course, Wales), a neighbour what’s more, who constantly delights in making cheap stereotypical jokes at the expense of the poor old put upon Kiwi or Scot.

Dean Martin’s famous Neapolitan ditty used to comprise more flattering lyrics when he was a Celtic favourite, but right at the moment your man Paolo is proving himself to be – yet again – a football  controversy magnet.

As everybody knows, Di Canio is currently dodging the flack after he professed an abiding affiliation with a secretive, undemocratic, malign organisation of yesteryear. 

And what’s more, as well as being an alleged champion of the Knights of St Columba, it seems he’s a fascist as well.

Call me cynical, but I suspect they asked me because every other bloke they approached suddenly became unavailable, in the anticipation of being personally held accountable for every nefarious act perpetrated by men stretching way back to the mists of time.

Maybe even as far back as when it was considered acceptable to bash the missus over the head with a blunt instrument prior to dragging her into your cave and forcing her to rustle up a some dinosaur casserole. 

Reading this on a typically grim Scottish February day you might feel in desperate need of some dazzling down-under therapeutic summer warmth, but before you think about selling the family car, boarding out the kids, (or vice versa),  and signing the emigration papers, you should consider some of the less alluring elements of life in the Land of Oz.

As Scots we’re used to disappointment. Some might even say we like it that way. Saves time later on.

Inside the Rod Laver Arena, you can tell which particular members of the Murray Mob are truly genuine Scots.

The ones who, like me and my posse, don’t really expect the Big Man to win.

Years ago, during the World Cup of 1982, me and a bunch of mates were at the Brazil game - famous for David Neary’s “toe-poke” goal.

‘You know what’s it like when you’re fighting a wee skinny guy in the National Health glasses’? says my mate Billy Abbott high up in the stand at Hisense Arena. ‘You take it easy.  It’s almost impossible to go completely radge.  You feel kind of sorry for him…’

It’s 41C.  That’s 106F in the old money. You could fry an egg on the pavement outside Hisense Arena except you’d probably burn it.

Hot.  And humid.  ‘Okay if you’re with a women, not so good at the tennis’, as Robin Williams nearly said in the film Good Morning Vietnam.  

It’s hard to believe – and about as easy to swallow as a Tunnocks Teacake if you’re reading this on a typically Baltic Scottish winter’s day - but it’s a picture perfect high summer here in Australia.

There, that makes you feel much better about the wind and the rain doesn’t it?

Yes indeed, blue skies and searing heat all the way through to April, which potential bush fires and sunstroke aside, still beats the keech out of whatever Ma Nature has in store for Pitlochry, Pittenweem or Partick.