Adele and set fire to the rain

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 oversized implementalia designed to flip handmade 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 in Scotland.

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 we would be cooking and eating in the kitchen that night.