‘Get it up these ENGLISH C*NTS!” So it came into the world, loudly, right beside my partner’s left ear. A Shropshire lass with a Scottish soul – she’s lived more than half her life up here. It was a sound not so much orally ejected, like some ne’er-do-well from a dive off Lothian Road (although said avenue is no longer an artery of vice; quite bougie now) as belched out, polluting the already rich, reekin’ air of the crowded boozer.

I won’t mention the establishment’s name. For one thing, it’s a cracking pub. A bit faded around the edges. And, as per noted, a musty smell seems to be one of the regulars – previously camouflaged by the narcotic perfume of a Bensons or two no doubt. But decent beers, nae food, old-school décor, a top bar manager, and a cast of locals and random passing trade that still sees it filed in the ‘proper boozer’ category.

That evening though, there was nothing remotely proper about what played out. For context, some detail – both mitigating and damning, like doomed twins in a death spiral of schizoid national identity, AKA what it means to be Scottish. It was the second half of Scotland-England from Murrayfield. Us Scots were ‘in’, with a breakaway try. The place roared. Then came the offending comment. Right into my partner’s left ear.

I mean, I say ‘offended’. Not really at first. Because to begin with, I turned around with a slightly bemused smile on my coupon. Like those shots of Tim breaking the fourth wall in the sitcom, ‘The Office’, when Brent or Gareth said something ridiculous; as though I couldn’t quite believe his need to bellow this into the fading post-try hubbub. Not because of profanity (I’m no angel in that respect), but because it sounded so violent.

So, as diplomatically as I could, and lubricating my comeback with knowing smiles, I said to the laddie words to the effect of: “I’ll try and take that in good spirit, but my partner is English mate.” And the most remarkable series of events ensued. He, now as nice as pie, issued an insincere mea culpa, while his sarcastic wee mate sort of deflected it all, and – here’s the dynamite – NO ONE ELSE DID A BLOODY THING.

“ENGLISH C*NTS!” at top volume, in a pub full of people. And not one person seemed to even signal their concern or even solidarity. And I’m talking respectable-looking old geezers, mostly; a lot of them with footie scarves on (Hibs had just beaten St Mirren doon the road). I wasn’t expecting the cavalry, but I was expecting at least one wise old elder to maybe say: “Hey, rein it in a bit, eh?” Yet, as I looked around all were glaikit.

All but one person that is. And lock up your irony meters as they’re about to go into overdrive. For as I turned away from this awkward exchange, an attractive young woman caught my eye – no, not in that way, those days are over – with a look that said: “Did he just say that?” It was then, and only then, I realised she was French. Yes, the only person shocked by that language was someone who spoke another language.

Being a natural cheese merchant (or rather ‘Marchand de Fromage’), I babbled an attempt at humour in French to her. She was touched by the intent, even if the accent and pronunciation was utterly merde. So, I turned back to my pint. But it kind of stayed with me. Not, as explained, the concept of industrial language in a pub – guilty as charged on that front. But rather the openly venomous xenophobia, accepted by all.

Accepted… caveat. *For I’ll wager my next winning scratchcard that if someone had bellowed the c-word with Irish, Welsh, French or Italian before it, an adverse reaction wouldn’t have been far behind. Or even stern rebuke. And that’s the thing in this soi-disant progressive wee country of ours: anti-English is still a tolerated prejudice. Some go into contortions to deny it, furious at the accusation. But they protest too much.

They’ll be the same Scots who still insist we’ve been ‘colonised’ by the dreaded Englussshhh. Even though we were, ourselves, enthusiastic colonisers as participants in the Empire, And boy… we enjoyed the spoils too. Check out the street names of the Merchant City in Glasgow. They’re a palimpsest which betrays our chequered past: the tobacco barons, Ingram, Glassford, Cochrane; or lands looted, Virginia and Jamaica.

Or take the inconvenient fact that Scots fought with Redcoats at Culloden (nearly 3000), and not just oor Charlie. It threatens our specialness. Our difference. The myths we tell ourselves. Francis Gallagher’s “shabby spoor”. Except unlike Gallagher, I don’t hate Scotland. Far from it. I’d just love us to have the honesty to, as an altogether different Scots bard once wrote, “see oursels as ithers see us”.

Be that lousy or not.