Magnus Pole and I decided to stay up late and watch the Scotland Wales game. It proved to be an unwise decision. Yes, Scotland were several shades of crap, but every cloud has a silver lining, or in this case a tartan one. I’d heard rumours that deep in the bowels of Shanghai there existed a Scottish pub. Scavenging about we eventually found it just in time for kick off. We were pretty sure it was the correct place as the curtains were tartan and it was called the Tam O’ Shanter. However, the doors were locked. Banging on the glass, Magnus took control manfully only to be scared witless by a fat Scottish man yelling out the now slightly ajar door. “Who the hell do you think you are, banging on my bloody door?” He enquired politely. “We’re here to watch the Scotland game!” We growled back in our thickest twang. “Aye, not with those beers in your hands you bloody jakeys, now piss off!” We’d forgotten we had purchased some road sodas for the journey to the pub. Convincing the landlord that we’d dispose of the beers correctly and behave appropriately once within the premises took some doing, but eventually we were in. While watching the game the landlord told us various stories, usually with a racist or sexist punch line. We then spent the rest of the time swearing at the TV. Scotland lost and we went home in a drunken huff. Ah, home sweet home, how I miss you!