These are the moments in human history that set man against the elements - especially when that man is Scottish and the weather has earlier in the week/day/hour suggested the smoky sublimity of a big BBQ banquet.

Whenever I think of a Bishopbriggs BBQ the James Taylor Classic “Fire and Rain” is on a constant loop. It was 1977, the summer had promised much. The seven week-long holidays stretched ahead of us, laden with possibility and promise. We had a visiting uncle who was obsessed with food from an al fresco grill. He had traded the Punjab for Pretoria and had become something of a tong-manipulating expert, a meat basting past master. He spoke endlessly of the amazing meals they had in South Africa, he banged on relentlessly about bloody basting and how best to create the perfect coal-temperature. This almost weeklong tirade, this constant crusade was prompted by some loose-lipped weather person suggesting that the July temperature across the west of Scotland might, just might, reach twenty degrees Celsius on Saturday. Clearly the African uncle was fully au fait with food from a grill but much less familiar with the Scottish subjunctive and the vagaries of the Weegie weather.

That Saturday we watched him build his newly acquired B&Q BBQ - with a sense of disbelief that my dad didn't already have at least three different styles of coal, wood and gas powered grills.

Much as he had been a massively annoying pain in the posterior all week, we couldn't help but watch with wonder as he beavered away under a slate grey Scottish summer, the bitter July wind cutting though his ski jacket. This man was dedicated to his Barbie.

And it's invariably the pursuit of the man, this thankless outdoor grilling of meat. I know many men who wouldn't lower themselves to cook and create in a well-stocked warm and not wet kitchen. No. That is not the modus operandi of a man. A man must make a mess in the garden; they must have a full-on fight with over-sized implementalia designed to flip hand-made burgers; they must commune internally with their inner caveman. They must. (They must also ensure the sausages are cooked all the way through - a minor detail the caveman cook tends not to bother himself aboot). And this they must all do with a beer in hand and a comedy apron on.

Do not get me wrong. I love few things in life better than marinaded meat scorching and searing on a BBQ; delightful fish, foiled and fondly spiced cooking to the point of delicate delight; the Aussie style chicken, complete with open beer can up the jacksy; and of course the cornucopia of salads and leaves lovingly prepared to complement the meat and fish.

I have loved all of those things in London, New York and across the warmer climes of civilisation. I cannot remember ever having a successful BBQ in Glasgow or indeed over on the drier east coast of Edinburgh. Yet, I know with more than a degree of certainty that families will have spent some of this weekend in the hopeless and hapless pursuit of BBQ perfection. It’s just not going to happen.

Back in 1977, the Pretorian had taken guard against the almost horizontal rain, hoping against hope that the gold umbrella he was holding would protect the BBQ from, Noah-like, floating doon Meadowburn and towards Kilsyth. My brothers and I courried up at the kitchen windae as my wee mum started to cook chicken curry. We knew, she knew and I expect even the African Uncle at that point had realised that we would be cooking and eating in the kitchen that night.