It's not those fucking bagpipes, that's for sure. That was the diabolical screech that stabbed my hangover every Saturday morning for three entire years until I invested in a .50 calibre sniper rifle. Even after that the sound keeps coming out of them, like I'd shot a flatulent cow. Nor whisky, which everyone knows is made out of the hot sweats of a sobering Glaswegian. A rare commodity for sure.
There was a girl named Melanie. I am naming her as my favourite Scottish thing. Gingernuts were always better than shortbread.