While enjoying a well-earned tea break (freelance speak: procrastination) on Wednesday mid-morning, I switched on the TV to check the news, do some research on your behalf.

It's important, one feels, to find out what's happening in the world.

I stumbled upon Boris Johnson on the BBC Parliament channel, in Mayor's Question Time. I'm embarrassed to say I found it all quite entertaining. His colleagues were grilling him about London issues, particularly the economic effect of Tube strikes but Johnson was doing his usual bumbling and scrambling around looking through his notes, part chaos, part cross doppy golden Labrador with Rottweiler. It was strange; I had an uncanny feeling that I could be the only one watching it.

Later in the evening, as we sat down to watch the opening ceremony of the games, the idea of the Mayor crossed my mind again. By the time I saw the Leader of Glasgow City Council get over excited and start to shout and salivate, I thought right, time for him to go and while you're there, take the Provost with you. Glasgow is getting a new modern Mayor. If you really want to move on up, let's do it. Come on, let's come of age, let's flourish. Let's be inspired and go for something new and fresh.

At this point, you really have to imagine you can hear the writing equivalent of FX: screeching comedy breaks. Ah but there's always something holding us back, lack of confidence, navel gazing, being constantly reminded to stop showing off, to know your station and don't dare get above it, always taught to look inwardly, never outwardly.

Which brings us to the opening ceremony. The word ceremony, derived from the Latin caerimonia, goes back to mid-1st century BC and means ritual acts or ritual prescriptions. I wish I'd taken my prescription before it started. I'm trying to stay positive. I'm not going to comment on John Barrowman, in fake Jock accent mode. I don't need him popping out from under a giant kilt to patronise me about a nation he left when he was eight and for whom dual nationality is probably more a business move for his panto fees as much as one of national pride. No, all that would be churlish. I liked the Big Yin's narrative, about the river, the tales of pure dead authentic Glasgow people, pure heart of gold mixed with bampot, cheeky and compassionate. Like me or I'll kick yer head in pure gallus. We say come on in and will help you if yer lost, I'll be nice out of badness because you expected me to mug you, kind of gritty warmth.

I'm not going to mention the ropey start to the ceremony. That Loch Nessification and calumnious act of Brigadoonery and songs sung about hairy cows. The dancing tea cakes and Irn Bru cans were fun but it's also part of the cute wee Scottie Dugification that holds us back and keeps us in our place. It's important to see yourself as others see us, the start of the ceremony wasn't Glasgow or Scotland saying here we are, it was a Scotland represented through the prism of a UK point of view, The Queen, Better Together (Barrowman, Connolly) it's a register for those fearful of independence. Of course there was the ubiquitous Amy McDonald who I always find as flat as a shared bottle of ginger gone flat with the floaters. The Red Arrows fly past reminded you this maybe Glasgow's Games but it was a very British evening for the Commonwealth. Let's just say it wasn't my cup of tea-cake. In the end, the feeling I had was that Scotland had outgrown the UK, it was like a 47 year-old who realises it's time to leave the family home, cut off the apron strings and go it alone. I must be getting old; I thought the ballet showed a bit of class.

Back to the subject of our new Weegie Mayor, I nominated three for the roll. I was informed it has to be non-partisan, cross party, so I ignored that and picked Ian Pattison, Professor Willy Maley and Ken McCluskey. People who care, contribute to and love their city.

Then I was asked why all the white, middle-aged men? Then I thought OK, do you want someone older or younger? What about Alistair Gray? Paolo Nutini? Then I was accused of not selecting any women. Fair enough. That's a good shout. What about Michelle Mone? Allow her to hang her bras on George's Square? Carol Smilie? Oh, Kirsty Wark, she'd be good. Fine I was told but why no Asians? Blacks? Are you racist? No it's just…Why no gay or lesbian candidates? Why are they all able bodied as well? You live in a very narrow minded little world. Know what? Just forget my proposal and keep the bold Council chief and the Provost.

Some readers may recall my travails over a year ago on arrival at the golf visitor centre at Gullane, my wife needed the loo and we fancied a coffee. We were treated rather harshly, like third class citizens in fact and hunted. It made me worry, left me rather irked about Scotland's somewhat abysmal record with customer service.

When the sun shone brightly on Wednesday I continued to procrastinate and headed for a day out, writing could wait. How many days a year will we have like this? We decided to head to St Andrews but went via Gleneagles. I was keen to stand on the same hallowed ground as the top players from America and Europe and envisage them play there in September's Ryder Cup. We walked around, staff smiled, gardeners joked, golfers stopped to chat, even showed us the course that would hold the main event. I've big hopes, they were far more welcoming, friendly and warm. If it's anything to do with hospitality Gleneagles hosting Scotland's Ryder Cup competition will be brilliant, I can guarantee that.