One such fear is that on which the criminal justice system is based. And, like most fears, it’s not entirely rational.

I’m talking of course about the myth that any infraction of the law can and very well might result in long term incarceration in a grey-walled, spartan prison cell. Then, once ensconced in this sorry hell-hole, you’ll be immediately two-ed up with a large, unfeeling beast who goes by the name of Big Bubba and personally organises an extreme, violating, 'welcome to chokey' party that you’ll never forget.

And he doesn’t even have a nice personality.

I say 'he' because I’ve always seen Mr Booze as a particularly masculine sort of substance.  Oh, I know it can turn women mental too – believe me I know – but nevertheless, there’s something essentially mannish about The Swally. 

Not very subtle.  A bit brutish, sometimes.  Not easily given to compromise, but, in the right circumstances and controlled quantities, not a bad bloke really. 

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…’