Day 1. Birth. No biggie.

So, 1953 was a great year for Scotland when my, kind of, good-self fell out of my mother's womb and ran off down the road for a packet of ciggies, a scotch pie and a pint of heavy (Sometimes a wee chaser is advisable if you are born with the sniffles). Scottish babies are born knowing that only these three treasures will ensure survival (and a good slapping up a close for making your mum run after them). While mum was screaming, my dad was apparently trying to calm her down by telling her that as I had found my way to the pub and got the essentials processed, that they can safely leave me with a six-pack and half a bottle of fermented rodents while they go down the pub - 'moonshine' developed somewhat differently on bonny Scotland. Here it is know as 'ratshine' and is guaranteed to numb your face for about three days.  Of course I did not know these things - at about 10 minutes after birth you are running purely and simply on instinct and that is why "Scotland is great", the essential priorities are always at the top of the list.