Like the opposite of heat-seeking missiles, hundreds of folk flung themselves seawards on New Year’s Day in the annual Loony Dook. The temperature of the Firth of Forth was, give or take 2 degrees, minus infinity °C.

It’ll be June before the blood returns to the favourite bits of these brave souls’ anatomies. Assuming those parts are still attached to their bodies, of course.

Me? I was watching from a dignified/cowardly distance with my driver/travelling companion Euan. Weirdly, half the city of Tokyo seemed to be in town and wanted to be photographed with me. Very sweet they were, too.

And, at one point, a boisterous Aussie lass clambered aboard me before Euan could find the can of CS gas under the passenger seat. He let her drive around for a bit with us on condition she shouted “Happy Moo Year” at bewildered passers-by.

Other revellers, people from closer to home, were less well behaved. And tried to detach any part of me they could get hold of with their hands or teeth. For a while, I knew how Les McKeown must’ve felt like in the 1970s.

Although Les never had to endure the indignity of having his wing mirrors mauled by a pair of pink angora mittens.

But, there again, I’ve never had to endure the indignity of singing Shang-A-Lang in ridiculous tartan trews.

Check out pics of the shenanigans at Flickr or Facebook