LAST week, for the first time in my life, I experienced the same freedom as that of generations of Scotsmen.
I wore a kilt.
I was back at the Sunshine Coast for the wedding of a great mate who happens to be Scottish, and the call went out for all the Aussie lads to kilt up for the occasion.
What a day!
I don't know how they did it over in the highlands, freezing their bollocks off with fresh, icy air blowing straight up their kilts and onto the canastas, working in their fields each day - talk about blue balls.
We were only up at Maleny, not exactly European cold, and still I had to chuck a pair of Batman jocks on under the kilt to retain a bit of warmth in the old spud sack.
The kilts are an incredible thing.
Not only are they a bloody nightmare to put on correctly (seriously, there are about 11 different pieces that have to come together, and don't even start me on the shoelaces) but once on, well, you can't help but want to paint your face blue and charge into battle Braveheart-style.
I hope those Scottish farmers weren't cursed with the same mini tree-trunk legs as I, because pulling those cotton socks on was harder than sitting through an episode of Ellen.
It was getting pretty dire, with the idea of buttering my legs for smoother sock pulling even considered at one point.
But luckily all went well, and the day went off without a hitch... until the reception, where the drinking powers of a bunch of Scotsmen met a bunch of Aussies, joined forces, and unleashed fury on the bar tab in a flurry of ales and way too much meat and veg on show as the novelty of high-kicking in the kilts soon became a reality.
Luckily, everyone came out of the night pretty well unscathed.
Except perhaps for the poor ladies ready to catch the bouquet, who were treated to a horrific reverse, jock-free kilt flash by one of the Australian blokes, which I'm sure left many downing vodka simply to ease the pain of what they'd just witnessed.