Man in England shirt taps the window of the ticket counter. "Paris." "Yes, Monsieur. Single or return?" "What do you fink then? Fink I'm coming back?" "Single, Monsieur?"

"Yeah. Single. Write out what platform and time. Write it out."

"Pardon, Monsieur?"

"Write it out. Don't be so facking ignorant. You know what I'm saying, right it out. You're so facking ignorant you French. Right it out."

Man in England shirt bangs his fist against glass pane separating him from the woman behind the counter. Cracks the glass. Is led away. Lots of cursing and abuse from compatriots. It doesn't "go off".

Montpellier, Tuesday 11.03am.

The train to St Etienne is pulling away. The carriages are filled with French, Moroccans and Scots.

"Aye, got to tell ye, I love France. Vive la France, boys."

"D'ye hear about boy from Govan? Fell asleep lying up ageen the Arc de Triomphe, ye know that beeg arch in Paris, reet, fell asleep and the bus gonnae back to Govan is passing like and they see him. They put him on the bus and he's in a bad way mon, sleeps all night and puts the carrots on the seats, and they get his wallet and find his address and bring him home next morning and his oul Ma sees him and she cannae believe her eyes."

"What's he doing here? He's supposed to be in France on hees honeymoon. It was in the Daily Record, aye."

"Ye French. Sooperbe, ye've got it all sussed mon.

Look at this Jockie. Look at this. Ye pull down wee table, see, and there's a wee ring thingie for holding your beer so it cannae get warm in yeer hand. Beer gets hot in yeer hands, mon. They got it sussed. Hie that's sooperbe big mon."

"Ah'm gain' home a Freeday. De bevvie cost me a multitude but the vacance is over. Fini like. Vacance fini."

"Ah oui."

"This is sooperbe, big man. Bier blonde de luxe. Ye wannae bottle? Have a bottle mon. I been drinking that port mon all week, but see yesterday I switched to the Celtics, ye know what Celtics are mon, Pernods. That's a super soup by the way boys, the Celtics. Super soup."

"Ay there's room in here girls. Shove over boys. Yon lassies looking for seat."

"Ye dinnae want that sun block man."

"Nay, but Jockies got some on his cheeser."

"Big John d'ye want the sunblock."

"Nae, but I want some ice for me heed."

"That's not hootin man. Me wife she donnae know ah'm here see.

"I seed I was deen in sooth England for a contract man. She's gonnae wonder where I got all the sun rays from in Boornmouth. I'm gonnae have tee get train from Calais to Dover, big mon, gae to Boornmooth and get sticks of rock for the bains."

"Madammoiselle. Not gettin any kisses before ye go. Aye lassie, the kisses after ye smokin all the tabs on us?"

Woman in early 20s kisses succession of kilted Scots on cheeks. Carriage cheering.

"I hope ye dinnae mind us talking like. We're Scots. Three things we cannae talk aboot to each other. Fitba. Politics. Religion. The innae anythin' left, mon."

French man of indeterminate middle age stands up beaming.

"You are the flowers of ze highlands."

Kisses all round at change in Lyon.

The T-shirts tell the tale. L'Anglais Non!

L'Ecosse. Oui!