WHEN Saigon fell to the North Vietnamese in 1975 the signal for US personnel to evacuate was the playing on US armed forces radio of Bing Crosby’s White Christmas. It was April.

In London this week you could take your pick from signs that a royal wedding was afoot. Was it the bunting that suddenly appeared at the hotel reception, complete with photos of the happy couple? Was it the Transport for London warnings that travel to Windsor was going to be extra busy? Or was it the screech of suitcase wheels as I raced towards Euston as if to the final perch on the last chopper out of Saigon?

I had let my guard down. Leaving Scotland on Tuesday there was no hint of royal wedding frenzy. A YouGov poll reported 75% of Scots had no interest in the wedding of Harry and Meghan. Even when I arrived in London it was quiet. Too quiet. Had I left it another hour to depart I might not have got out of Dodge at all, and would be sitting now at a street party in Barking, keeping my mouth shut like a soldier behind enemy lines.

At the time of writing reports are coming in of two street parties taking place in Scotland, one in Colinton, Edinburgh, the other in Elgin. Now, I know I’ve just spent the preceding pars explaining why I had to get out of London, but I had a very important appointment with a pile of washing in Glasgow. But what’s your excuse, madam, for not celebrating the royal wedding? Why are you, sir, still in your PJs when you should be suited and booted in front of the television waving a Union flag? What is wrong with Scotland?

Meghan and Harry have certainly been pulling out all the stops to keep us entertained in the run up to today. The whole “will dad or won’t dad walk the bride down the aisle” has pepped up news bulletins no end. As the comedian Mark Steel put it: “It seems unfair there’s all this fuss leading up to the wedding, about that weird father with peculiar habits. Poor Prince Charles is trying his best.”

Folk have been Googling “How soon can you fly after open heart surgery” when they should have been working. It’s been a much needed distraction from Brexit, and one Scotland has secretly enjoyed as well. We may not adore the royals to the same extent as others, but man alive we love moaning about them.

And how does Scotland repay all this effort? We hold two measly street parties.

Now, I agree Scots are not the natural street partying kind. We don’t have any of those extra long tables for a start. We could use pasting tables, but as anyone who has had this not so bright idea in the past will tell you, such stand-ins are not 100% reliable. Most struggle to hold a length of wallpaper, never mind a full serving of afternoon tea complete with hot drinks, or, as parents say, HOT DRINKS!!! Sure, you could proceed carefully, placing one item at a time on the table, building up to maximum load carrying capacity, but who could enjoy themselves knowing they could be one fruit scone too many away from a trip to A&E?

As for putting up bunting and flag waving generally, that is just not Scotland. We are shy, retiring types, positively allergic to any expressions of nationalism. Admittedly, we may have given the opposite impression during the independence referendum and on many a weekend since, but that was street performance, a bit of a show for the weans. We caught the bug during one of those marvellous Edinburgh Festivals we host every year for the world. Show us a stick on fire and we’ll ram it down our gobs. Give us a flag and we’ll wave it. All we ask is a few pence in the hat. But flag waving nationalists or unionists? Not us, dear me no.

Nor do we have any truck with tacky souvenirs. You will not find Scotland punting overpriced tins of biscuits or tea towels designed around a theme. Being a forward-thinking progressive nation on the cusp of a new political dawn, we have no interest in banging on ceaselessly about the past.

Street parties also bring with them the risk of communal singing. By law, Scots are only allowed to sing badly at certain events, among them weddings, football matches, and coming home from the pub at 2am. The idea of warbling, stone cold sober, on a Saturday afternoon is about as attractive to the average Scot as having sex in the same circumstances.

So forgive us England. Our apologies Harry and Meghan. Many of us will be with you in spirit. Many more will be watching on television, even if they say they won’t, and having a party. From the sofa to the football terraces, we will salute you, but in our own way. Oh aye, and the gift is in the post.