The phrase “proud Scot” has always struck me as vaguely tautologous. Every Scottish person that I have ever known and loved has regarded their heritage with an infectious mix of fierce pride and healthy cynicism; to be a displaced London Scot, it seems, is to be both a woad-smeared revolutionary behind enemy lines, and an inveterate piss-taker afforded the clarity of distance.
I will never forget the friend whose Fife-born dad had turned the family’s downstairs toilet into his own cultural fallout shelter: a meticulous shrine to Dunfermline Athletic called “The Jock Stein Suite”.
