I now have the answer to that age-old question: "What does a Scotsman wear under his kilt?"

Today I shared a packed Hammersmith And City Line carriage with twenty drunk Scottish rugby fans. They got on the train at Kings Cross and - Scots being renowned for their penny-pinching ways - hadn't bought tickets. Watching drunk blokes in kilts trying to clamber over turnstiles is very entertaining - it should be introduced as a new sport in the Highland Games. I've never seen so many ginger bollocks and arses - Jonathan would have been over the, ah, moon.

Once they'd crammed themselves into the carriage and held the doors open for straggling mates and opened cans of extra strength lager, they launched into bawdy rugger songs. We were treated to the strains of "The Flower Of Scotland" and "Do Re Mi", and I spotted a young Asian woman in traditional garb, tapping her feet along to the martial beat of "when you hear the noise of the Tartan Army Boys".

There was a song about a wee young lassie with what sounded like a "hairy wee parting" and a young man with a great big hairy something, though I didn't catch what. I did, however, catch sight of a great big hairy something - the bloke opposite me had passed out, legs open wide, and his kind friends had pulled his kilt up, so his, um, sporran was exposed for the entire journey to Baker Street. The teenaged girl next to me kept muttering "I'm too young to see things like that. What am I going to tell my mum?" I noticed that she didn't get up and move to another carriage, though...