WE retreated from Ibrox on Saturday night with mixed aromas in the nostrils.

There was that awful, and admittedly familiar emotional passage late on in the game for us, when you felt Scotland had taken their Baked Alaska out of the oven too soon and melt-down threatened.

For up till the last half-hour the Georgians looked only capable of burning toast while Scotland were treating us to a souffle which promised an outcome much sweeter to the taste than the 'cauld kail' which has stuck in our thrapples far too long. There was a sense of almost bewildered exhilaration sweeping through the stands as Scotland cut ornate swathes through the Georgians and probably softened the resentment at having to pay through the nose to feast at this table.

It was football to our taste; our Scottish taste, our belief that football of fine touch, cute passing, fluid interchanging was born here and then was deserted in the obsessive belief that limited resources compelled us to adopt the siege mentality. Remember Prague of 2011, as an example? It remains the Ground Zero of our footballing heritage. But Gordon Strachan's side do not do history obviously. You get the impression that instead the manager feeds them a contemporary diet of Marvel comics whose culture is one of irrepressible audacity. There is something of that in them even though, clearly, we are still short of the, 'Zap! Wallop!' bits.

The centrefold picture in all of this is Scott Brown. Perhaps to say he is part of a souffle would be like saying Hulk Hogan is famed for crocheting. But there has to be a stirrer to achieve the overall effervescence that pleased so many on the night. And Brown's stirring stemmed the potential of a physically stronger, but less talented Georgian team, to use that quality to intimidate and bully.

For his performance at Ibrox stood out distinctly as if he had adopted the heroic guise of man against aliens. As he battered into his opponents the message was drummed into the Georgians that the motto in our national coat of arms means: 'Wha Daur Meddle Wi' Me!' - sometimes to excess it has to be said.

There are times, when the midfielder is at his fieriest, that the fourth official ought to be advised not to stand too near the touchline. There is still the fear of the unnecessary tackle being made by Brown that handicaps his team-mates rather than aids them. There is still that sharp intake of breath from on-lookers as he makes for an opponent, none of us predicting what the outcome may be.

But the Celtic captain is clearly indispensable and asking him to be a bit more polite about his game would be like asking him to wear wellies. In breaking up moves, and fetching and carrying, and refusing to believe a ball has been lost to possession he is a model of self-belief for others. That is at the basis of the revolution which is taking place before our very eyes. For when last could we claim of a Scottish side that they consistently had the greater percentage of possession? Look back at most of our Hampden performances, in the past decade, either in the rarity of a win or in defeats and you will find most of the opposing sides, of whatever standard, had a bigger share of possession. We have struck up an acquaintance with the ball again like it has been a long lost toy.

That it is being used by both those who have been around long enough to know what it is like to be searching for the ball rather than commanding it and the newcomers to it all, is all pleasing on the eye. For instance, nature bestowed on Andy Robertson a left-foot which must have been kicking dummies out of the cot from early on as his crosses are as good as any in the game. Marry that to the full-back's urge to show what he can do in any part of the pitch and we have unearthed someone looking astonishingly like a potential world-class figure, despite a late hiccup in the game which might have cost the victory.

Ikechi Anya was not as effective as he had been in Germany for his worth is clearly as a counter-attacker and the Georgian coach's defensive set-up mostly stymied him.

Then there was the last half-hour. It seemed like we were meeting up with our torrid past again. And all because we could not deliver the killer second goal. Scotland's scoring rate in the modern game is extremely modest. Even with some outstanding players like Denis Law and Kenny Dalglish - who were more than out-and-out strikers, of course, but who were top-scorers with 30 each in their day - we have to go back to Hughie Gallagher in the 1920s and 1930s, with 23 goals in 20 games for the kind of average you dream of.

That factor ought not to diminish our respect for the solid progress that has been made by Strachan's team, who are now well-enough equipped to face a resurgent Polish side which look like they are achieving the rebirth they have long sought. Even a draw there would mean they could double the prices in the future to witness a Scottish team more inclined to serve up banquets than emergency rations.