I've decided to provide the answer to the age 
old question.
What does a Scotsman wear under his kilt??? 

 A glance left will give you a big clue!
 
OK My friends. Here is a fun quiz question for you.
If you place an order and correctly answer the 
question below you will receive  my "mystery 
gift" with your order!  
Anyone ordering anything and getting the 
question right will win a gift!!  
QUESTION What is Scotland's OTHER National drink?

You can Email me with your answer.

If it's right you will be getting a 
very fine mystery gift with your order. 

Finally a true yarn I penned. Hope it brings a smile to your face!

One of the great, unsolved mysteries that have flummoxed the academics and philosophers since the dawn of mankind is what a Scotsman wears under his kilt. Does he let his family jewels swing like Christmas tree decorations? Is his tackle free to swing unfettered and unrestrained underneath his precious plaid? Sadly it would be tantamount to treason for me to be the one to offer the definitive answer. The newly formed Scottish Assembly could seek my extradition and, if found guilty of being the source of the information, I could be hung up from the very orbs that I am trying to protect. Yet, the Scots are continually asked about the dark secret that lies beneath their national dress. An Act of Parliament laid down the guidelines, which must be strictly adhered to when responding to the poser, “ Hey, Scottie what you wearing under that skirt?” The answer must always be a close version of the following. “ Hello you sweet little gorgeous pumpkin, it’s for me to know and for you to find out.” It is fully permissible to accompany this reply with a huge happy smile and a suggestive wink. But discretion must always play its part. If you reply in this manner and your wife happens to be within earshot, and she also catches the wink, your nuts are most likely heading to adorn the, afore mentioned, Christmas tree. Tragically there are no guidelines for when a 350lb hairy-assed truck driver poses the very same question.

Our first American New Year, Hogmany to we Scots, was in Virginia Beach. A dozen friends had organized a table at a dinner dance at an ocean front hotel. The girls were in their finest gowns, the men were resplendent in smartly pressed tuxedos and I was proudly wearing my national dress. Being the one and only person out of 250 guests wearing the kilt made me feel like a million bucks. As the revelers started to enjoy the delightful effects of alcohol the enquiries regarding my kilt began pouring in. Polite, innocuous questions about clans and other mundane issues were soon replaced with delightfully risqué questions. The night was early and Scotland’s secret was safe with me! By midnight the secret was certainly less secure. And when the last dance was announced at 1am, I couldn’t give two hoots about national security. As we weaved our way off the dance floor there was a collective plea from the 250, now well and truly drunk, revelers. My presence was required on top of a strategically placed table. Fuelled by gallons of fine hooch and never one to miss my chance for immortality I drunkenly clambered onto the table. I was informed at a later date that one sweet old lady was prematurely “mooned” in my staggering effort to reach my personal stage. I looked out on my rosy-faced audience. With growing confidence I started clapping my hands. 250 drunken Virginians clapped and whistled and roared. To give them value for money I started to do a tantalizing highland dance. The atmosphere was electric. My hands slipped to the hem of my kilt. And as a pregnant silence filled the ballroom I felt a couple of stubborn prods on my ass. Looking round and down I was confronted by one of Virginia Beaches finest in full uniform. He unequivocally informed me that if my kilt disappeared over my head I was to be spending a long cold night in the slammer! My chance to be forever notched in the memories of Virginia socialites had been nipped in the bud by this over-zealous killjoy. Like a whipped puppy I slithered off the table. The poor officer was booed at great length as he wandered off to dampen someone else’s fun. I’m delighted to report that I was to return to the same venue 12 months later. This year there was no sign of Officer Dibble. Did I do “The Full Monty?” “ That’s for me to know and for you to find out!”