THE WHOLE OF THE MOON

It’s always wedding season in Gretna and the profusion of excitable men in kilts makes Fiona Armstrong wonder about the things you see when you haven’t got your gun

Fiona Armstrong sees more than she bargained for when out for lunch in Gretna Green

So, what happens to an Englishman when he puts on a kilt? I’ll tell you what happens. He takes on a whole new identity, that’s what. All that colour swinging round his legs. All that fresh air flowing round his bits. It makes him giddy. It goes to his head. He does not know what to do with the tartan skirt he now finds himself dressed in. Indeed, this newly kilted Sassanach thinks he can throw caution to the wind. He goes mad. And this is the story…

We are on the border between England and Scotland. We are in a hotel in Gretna Green, which the learned among us will know is the wedding capital of Scotland, if not the entire world.

Anyhow, it is Sunday and the girls are out for the day and having a bite to eat. There is me, darling daughter and my mother – and we are waiting for our plates of fish to arrive.

And as we sit we can admire the brides that are coming and going. These ladies look beautiful. They are dressed in various shades of white and beautifully coiffured. They come in all shapes and sizes. And they are of all ages.

Because, however fat, thin, young or old you are, romance never dies. Yes, even on a dreich Sabbath day, couples are queuing up to tie the knot at Gretna.

Small wedding groups are milling round. They are drinking Champagne and eating canapés. All is happiness and elegance. Then DD lets out a shriek and points to the window. Because outside a man has just bared his bottom. He has lifted his kilt to show his rear end. And he is now looking rather pleased with himself.

Boasting loudly, he sounds English. Then I suppose he could have been from Wales, or Ireland. But he cannot be a Scot. Because a real Scotsman would surely have a bit more reverence for his national costume. Or would he?

‘Don’t look Nana,’ DD says disapprovingly as her grandmother peers out to see what’s going on.

‘But I want to look,’ she says. And let’s face it, at the age of 90 you’re entitled to a bit of excitement – and she’s probably seen it all before. But while my mother is not a bit fazed, the youthful DD talks of calling the manager. I tell her not to worry. It is a freezing cold day and the culprit will soon be regretting his actions.

I also remind her that, distasteful as it is, men have been presenting their bottoms to strangers since time immemorial. The Romans and the Greeks used to do it. So did the ancient Highland warriors.

And if you’re in any doubt about that, watch the film Braveheart for the mass moon to the English. Footballers have been known to give it a go. So have pop stars. Sir Elton John among them. In California, meanwhile, there’s an annual event where folk spend the day baring their butts to passing trains.

Whisper it, but even the Queen is not safe from this unbecoming male practise. Back in the day Her Majesty found herself being mooned by a Maori in New Zealand.

That said, I don’t approve of the practise. But what would be the good of complaining? The thing is, I don’t think you can be locked up for it. Well, not here in Scotland anyway. But back to our cheeky chappie.

Very pleased with our reaction, off the Englishman saunters, kilt swinging in the wind.

While DD, Mum and I, predictably British, return to our wholesome Scottish salmon and chips…

“He has lifted his kilt to show his rear end. And he is now looking rather pleased with himself