Australia - and the city of Melbourne in particular - has long been lauded for its enthusiasm in embracing the concept of multiculturalism.

Quite right too, because despite continued red neck hysteria about refugees, illegal immigrants and asylum seekers, the plain fact is that people from various differing cultural backgrounds co-existing in - more often than not - peaceful concord - leads to far more wins than losses.

Good food, music and entertainment, cultural multiplicity, tolerance, linguistic and artistic diversity and all the rest, can and does result in a level of harmonious social cohesion only people more blinkered than Steptoe's horse could possibly deride or deny.

Take me for example. A Scot who lives in a Greek household, has a Kiwi for a next door neighbour, a best mate who's Hungarian, works in a predominantly Indian community and has a local pub which is Spanish.

Only, as they say, in Australia.

Even better, my local, a Spanish tapas bar no less, is called, The Robbie Burns Hotel.

Why the owners kept the pub's old name I'm not sure and even though Rab himself might have preferred his name to be associated with one of the nearby 'Gentleman's Clubs', where young women parade around in no more than a cutty sark, over the piece I still think the ploughman lad would have broadly approved.

Perchance he'd even have celebrated the happenstance in his traditional style, prior, no doubt to being chucked out after disgracing himself, which would of course have given the landlord the chance to deliver that classic - i.e. old - line - 'Rabbie Burns - you're Bard'.

Like many Scots, I've always had a soft spot for Spain. 1970 sojourns to places like Lloret De Mar, Ibiza and Magalluf were my and many others first overseas adventures and whilst exposure to genuine Iberian culture was limited amidst the ubiquitous fish and chips, Tetley's beer and tea like mother used to make, the richness of Spain still left its indelible mark.

And so it was that last week, I noted that Melbourne was hosting a Spanish Film Festival, highlighting the work by famed auteurs as Pedro Almodovar, Iciar Bollain and Rodrigo Cortes; grand sweeping dramatic allegories which ponder the issues of life and lust, passion and propensity, tension and tragedy.

In actual fact, I didn't go to see anything like that.

Instead I caught 'Messi', a biographical movie made by Alex De La Iglesia about the greatest football player of this - and possibly any other generation - the magnificent Lionel, or as we hipster aficionados prefer to call him, Leo.

To be honest, it wasn't as good as I'd hoped. Denied the participation of the titular genius, it featured too many talking heads (including the legendary Luis Cesar Menotti) discussing Leo's background and talent with, in my opinion, far too little clips of the artist in action.

More than a tad cliched, it portrayed Leo as a kid from the other side of the tracks whose incredible, seemingly innate football skills, as recognised early in the piece by his beloved Granny, led to him conquering the world, or at any rate, the parts where they worship the round ball game.

Small and stunted, suffering from a serious growth deficiency, Messi signed with Barcelona FC at an early age, where he was prescribed expensive hormone treatment, which subsequently helped him grow to the respectable, if decidedly average height of five foot seven.

At that point in the film, I got to thinking about what might have happened had Jimmy Johnstone or wee Gordon Strachan been given a similar opportunity.

Come to that, I thought, what about Jimmy Krankie? Maybe, instead of having to trade his lack of inches for laughs, Jimmy could have grown to become a six foot plus international goalkeeper.

Imagine, he'd even have been able to keep his cap on.

You've got it, the movie was starting to drag. See, Leo's back story wasn't really what the punters had come to see, especially as it appears that Messi himself doesn't really possess much of a back story.

Unlike some footie hero's we could mention, Leo never seemed to have a predilection for booze, burdz or bad behaviour, being content to just play football, albeit at a higher level than almost anyone else on the planet.

And isn't that just what we want to see?

I mean, talking about the game is all very well, especially when it comes to wins, losses, promotion and relegation, the standard discussion points in average, run of the mill football, but there's nothing quite like watching true genius, in football boots, at work.

Discussion and debate has its place but when it comes to perfection - and Messi is as close to it as it comes - it simply has to be watched, marvelled at and sincerely applauded.

We Scots like to think we invented the game and we have had some fine exponents down the years, but we've never had a Messi, Maradonna or Pele.

For that, we have to look elsewhere. Look and marvel.

Football, art, culture.

Sometimes, you have to look outwards rather than inwards to find it.

But when you make the effort, it's well worth it.