It’s highly possible that this has been done before, but I’m newer here than a pair of boxed Ghillie brogues, so please humour me. Not just me, but let’s humour each other with true stories from the deepest recesses of our Celtic past !

I’d like to open the book with something that happened to me in 1986. In 1984, my wife and I had emigrated from Edinburgh down to London where I took up with a professional consulting company. Now, this alone was something unusual, as I was about the only Scot working in the London office and was a bit of a novelty. As well as that, the company partners were old-school English gentlemen and a lot of my colleagues were quite “posh” from “posh fee-paying schools” and posh backgrounds, so I was different, coming from a working-class Scottish background and community schooling. But I had reached the same professional qualifications as my colleagues.

Every Christmas, the company held a lavish ball at the Grand Ballroom of the prestigious star Grosvenor House Hotel in London’s Park Lane, a very top swish location ! Everyone was in evening dress and ball-gowns of course and all looked like a million dollars. The first couple of years, trying to fit in, I wore a DJ (black evening suit & bow-tie), I think you call it a tux. But the 3rd year, I decided to air my own Gow kilt at long last – a MacTux ! (My owned kilt-wear is daywear only)

You know how smart it always looks of course and I was in my hired Prince Charlie outfit and lovely sealskin sporran (yup ! the real thing !). Remember, getting a sealskin hire sporran is a bit like going to a puppy pound – you want to choose the cute, fluffy one. And the black ghillies – avoid the tired, wrinkly ones !

So we rolled up to the Grosvenor House Hotel and my appearance caused quite a stir and loads of admiration and I was loving it. I was strutting my stuff on the dance floor and my female work colleagues were amazed by the transformation a kilt makes. But you guys know that already ! Then the night started to kick in.

I was standing with a small group of friends in a carpeted ballroom lobby, drink in hand, with other groups dotted around. Suddenly, I became aware of a sense of airiness around my lower regions, like someone had opened double doors from the outside. I turned around slightly to find the mega-senior partner’s wife, in ball-gown, jewellery etc, turning away from me and letting go a clump of my kilt-pleats. She was with a group of her pals, all wives of the most senior partners in the firm ! They were all looking at me and smiling. Obviously, they were discussing my kilt and whether I wore anything under it. They obviously decided to find out and found my bare bum (possibly covered by the tail of my evening shirt, but perhaps not) and all was this done very matter-of-factly without them giggling or anything, in fact just like lifting a bain-marie lid to see what hot food’s inside. Once their curiosity was satisfied, they went back to their general conversation again ! Can you imagine lifting a woman’s dress like that, without fear of a black-eye ? I was astounded ! Why do women always lose control around kilts ? 


The next event took place soon after. I was standing, with legs apart in manly kilt-wearing pose, with a pal near the bar when I became aware of something not quite right. I looked around and behind and saw nothing. But something felt not quite right. I happened to look toward my feet to find an Irish secretary down on her hands and knees on the floor, head between my feet, a big grin and looking right up my kilt ! Unbelievable ! I should have pee’ed in her eye !

The third event of the evening was when I went to the gents toilets. Most of us had had a fair to reasonable amount to drink and as soon as I got into the toilets, some of my colleagues (the bigger, rugby ones) up-ended me by the ankles and my kilt fell over me like a lamp-shade. My clan treasures were on full view ! A clan ball – two in fact !!

As it came time to leave at the end of the ball, a few of us decided the night was still young and we soon were off to a night-club/disco in Shaftesbury Ave. We piled into taxis and off we went. As we were going into the disco entrance, one of the big tux-dressed doormen (bouncers), stopped me and said “Can you hand over your sgian-dubh please Sir ?” in a thick London accent, like Jason Statham or Vinnie Jones. I looked at him agog and he smiled and said “It’s awright mate, I used to work in a night-club in Glasgow”. So I handed it over and we went into the disco.

Amazing – the kilt - I love it - Thank you God !!! It’s babe-magnet supreme !! On the dance-floor girls are giving you the eye and watching your moves etc. If I had been a single man …….. or a naughty married one ………. .

So it was my turn to go to the bar to get a round for my pals and our wives and I was standing at the bar waiting to be served, when this jaw-dropping, man-killing blonde appeared at my elbow. She was just about wearing her spray-on shimmery long red dress and no bra – definitely. She started to talk to me. I don’t think she was overloaded with brains, as she started asking me about Ireland !   But whatever, next thing she said something which I couldn’t hear right, due to the music. I thought she said something about did I come to this disco often, so I said no. She looked at me with surprise and dismay and I thought “Oh crap – she must have asked me if I would buy her a drink and I said no”. So I thought “I better not say “no” again”. Then she said something else which I couldn’t hear, so I made a point of smiling, nodding and saying a big smiling “Yes !”. This time she looked daggers and stomped off into the dusk of the disco. She must have said “Do you want me to leave ?” and I had said Yes ! Damn ! not even a phone number !!

Eventually, all danced-out etc, it was time to go home. Us husbands went to get the coats for wives, GF’s and our own, while the wives and GF’s went to the ladies powder room. So there we were, the four of us guys standing in the queue and with a group of London lassies behind us in the queue. They started chatting and laughing then one smiled and said to me “Can I find out what’s under your kilt ?” and, having had a few drinks too, I replied “Yes you can, as long as I can find out what’s under your skirt”. Next thing, she put her hand right up my kilt, feeling my legs right up to my wee set of bagpipes. Hee hee ! Then it was my turn. My hand up her skirt ! “OMG she was wearing the kit – sussies and stockings ! I ventured as far as she had with me ;)

After that, the wives returned. We were on our way out and I was looking for my sgian dubh. A bouncer noticed me looking for the right guy to get my sgian dubh back from and he came up and with a rough Cockney voice said “If you go to that doorman over there, he’ll give you’re your blade back”. I thought “BLADE ???” Maybe they had a BLADE-check counter with a collection of stored butterfly, flick and switchblade knives – and my sgian dubh ! Mac The Knive indeed !

So off home to sleep soundly and wonder what next year’s Christmas Ball would be like !!