It was an ecstatic, exuberant eight try day for Scotland. It was also a two or three semmit day for those in attendance. These Autumn Tests in Auld Reekie can be an Autumnal test of resolve as you tend to be the greeted by the kind of shuddering coldness you’d get from a stalwart of Morningside if you dared to ask them for a cup of tea.

If losing Stuart Hogg prior to kick off was an early blow to the Scots, the chittering press folk, who seemed to be as heavily layered up as Lorraine Chase’s mascara, were dealt their own damaging dunt when the hot water for a pre-match cuppa ran out. “Princess Anne is arriving and all movement in the stadium has ceased for the time being,” said one of the media officials as the reason for the absence of a freshly-filled flask was given. One was not amused.

Oh well. Into the breach we shivered to be greeted by the remorselessly cheery stadium announcer who blurted out the team lines in the kind of fashion that Tony Green used to read out the prizes during an episode of Bullseye.

Instead of ‘iiiiiiiin two, it’s a carriage clock and candelabra’, though, it was ‘at No 4, it’s Graaaaaant Gilchriiiiiiiiist.’ You half expected old Jim Bowen to come waddling out at the final whistle with the Hopetoun Cup and say ‘here’s what you could have won’ to the defeated, deflated and demoralised Wallabies.

Of course, there wouldn’t have been all this shrieking, deafening razzmatazz when these two sides first crossed swords 70 years ago in 1947. But infernal racket, piped in music and thumping, ear-shattering interludes are par for the course nowadays in these times of forced fun which is almost akin to being implored to pull Christmas crackers on a doomed plane that’s hurtling towards a crash landing. You WILL enjoy yourself is the party line.

Those of a Scottish persuasion certainly had cause to enjoy themselves yesterday as their favourites had them roaring their lungs dry at every thrusting advance. This was a surging display of industry, invention, pace and purpose that certainly warmed those hitherto chilly extremities. The dismissal of Australia’s Sekope Kepu aided the Scottish cause but the hosts were as rampant as the lion on a billowing flag. In fact, they made said beast look positively timorous. Kepu’s moment of recklessness, when he thundered shoulder first into Hamish Watson’s head, was played over and over on the stadium screens as the TMO mulled over the assault. By the time the decision to give Kepu his marching orders was made, those aforementioned screens were just about seeping blood.

That moment of ill-discipline would prove to be the decisive moment during a rip-roaring, engaging, up-on-your-feet encounter in which Scotland had displayed bold ambition from the outset. Byron McGuigan showed a fine sense of adventure and footwork for the opening try when he kicked and chased his way to the line, careering hither and thither as the ball bobbled here and there. It still looked a more composed sprint than some of the nation’s international footballers perform, mind you.

The Aussies did hit the Scots with a rapid fire double whammy from Tevita Kuridrani but once Kepu departed the scene, it was the Aussies who were left reeling and lolling on the ropes as Scotland ruthlessly exploited the numerical advantage in the second half with the kind of regular, rousing charges that should have been accompanied by a bugle. In the end, the only thing that looked more tattered than the beaten Aussies was the record books that the Scots had ravaged.