Those who tuned in last week will no doubt be veritably burning up with anticipation following my revelation that I would be wearing a kilt for the wedding of a friend north of the border.

Well, dear friends, the day has been and gone and I'm happy to report that it went swimmingly (aside from the usual wedding jape of losing my cufflinks)... so much so that as you read this I will be saying a tearful farewell to my kilt as I return it to the safe hands of Terry in the hire shop in Bradford.

For any gentlemen reading I would like to pass on the secret knowledge that women have been keeping from us for centuries: that wearing a skirt is actually quite good fun.

While I'm not about to follow in the footsteps of the bloke off the Sheila's Wheels insurance ad and rip off my trousers to reveal a shimmering pink sequinned number underneath (well, I'm not going to tell you lot about it if I do, put it that way), I could actually be talked into wearing a kilt on a more regular basis, or at least I could if I was 100 per cent sure I wouldn't be beaten senseless on the way home from work.

Perhaps the first thing I should do is lay to rest an inaccuracy I might have fostered with last week's column, in which I speculated on the wisdom of handing out skean dhus or ceremonial daggers to people about to attend weddings and, no doubt, imbibe a huge amount of alcohol before realising that they never really liked Uncle Trevor that much anyway.

As you might expect, the gentlemen's outfitters across the land have certainly thought this through and the dagger they provide to slot down your socks is, in fact, just plastic, a bit like those wibbly-wobbly joke knives you used to be able to buy at seaside tat shops.

I picked up the whole outfit a couple of days before the Saturday wedding and once I'd worked out how to slot myself into it had great fun stalking around the living room pretending to be off Monarch of the Glen or something.

Quite a few of the chaps who attended the wedding were wearing a kilt for the first time, and to a man we all agreed that it was a very liberating experience.

Fearing that the old story about not being meant to wear any grundies under your kilt was merely a gag and having been threatened by the missus that she was in no way accompanying me to a social event if I was going to insist on going commando I did wear a pair of my favourite boxers.

But to be honest and stop reading now if you're the type of person who covers your eyes and shrieks "too much information!" at things like this I divested myself of them sometime between the starter and the main course.

The problem is lack of hands. Once you've grabbed your sporran, hitched up your kilt and secured the hem between your teeth and then manouevred your underpants, you simply don't have enough grippage for the necessary, if you see what I mean.

It does take some getting used to after that, mind. Sitting with your legs akimbo or casually crossed is a no-no. And now I know why women do that smoothing down of the back of the skirt thing before they sit down. Or at least, my mate does. Plonking himself down on a wrought iron chair he unwittingly... shall we say, weighed anchor between the verdigris, not noticing until he stood up rather sharply and brought not a few tears to his eyes, and the sobering knowledge that he almost went home without something far more valuable than a pair of cufflinks.