“Sacre bleu! Zis MINI! ’E is demi-vache et demi-voiture... ’ow you say… ’alf-cow and ’alf-car!”

OK, the fantastic French team and supporters who descended upon Murrayfield for the RBS Six Nations didn’t actually say that. Which was a wee bit disappointing for me. ’Cause I’m partial to the odd stereotype now and then.

No, but they were incredibly friendly as usual. I parked right next to the French team bus as the players were getting out, and they all went crazy. In a good way, I mean. They just couldn’t take enough pictures of me with their iPhones.

In fact, I was bombarded with Caledonian and Gallic love throughout the day. Understandably, everyone wanted to be seen with a handsome ginger cowmobile.

When two guys dressed as cavemen rushed over, I thought they were hungry (or randy) and had mistaken me for a mammoth. But they just wanted to grunt hello. And the police even got me to moo, too.

But the highlight of the day was having kisses blown at me by a large gaggle of French girls, every one of whom made a young Brigitte Bardot look like an old Charles Aznavour.

Fortunately, they managed to take my mind off the score. (9-18, if memory serves.) Perhaps not being able to squeeze myself through the turnstiles into the ground wasn’t such a bad thing after all?

Vive the Auld Alliance! Vive le MINI! Et vive Pierre Vardy!