KEY POINTS:
Growing up in Scotland in the 1980s, it was impossible not to be aware of the country's history.
The nation was pummelled repeatedly by the iron fist of Margaret Thatcher, the Conservative Prime Minister who thought Scots were good only for the front lines.
Any half-baked scheme that flitted into Thatcher's head, like the dreaded poll tax, got its first trial in Scotland - the guinea pig of Britain.
For a nation of free thinkers, a nation with ingrained socialist values, the reign of Thatcher was intolerable.
It fostered a burning sense of injustice, salted the historic chips that lay on shoulders which felt that for too long Scotland had been the losing party in the 1707 Act of Union.
But as much as it taught us to hate, it taught us to look at ourselves and feel proud. At school we learned about the legions of brilliant Scots who had put on this earth inventions that changed the way we lived.
We learned about Scotland's role in establishing and defending the British Empire and we learned that in every field of human endeavour a Scotsman had pioneered a revelation of some sort.
It was an upbringing that several generations before also received and the names, the achievements, the sense of pride, they stay with you for life - which is why, scattered across New Zealand, are Scots of all ages still muttering away in their unintelligible brogue.
If it didn't conjure such a ridiculous image, the phrase "bleeding tartan blood" would ring true.
And it is why when an expatriate Scot returns to Edinburgh and catches his first look of the castle or hears the skirl of the bagpipes, he feels his heart pound.
You suddenly get a little thirsty, craving both the smoothness of a 10-year-old Talisker and the sugary rush of the world's finest soft drink - the unspeakably sweet but undeniably Scottish Irn Bru.
The concept of a deep-fried Mars bar suddenly seems like culinary genius as does haggis, even porridge, which if you are honest, is really wallpaper paste only made tolerable by half a kilo of brown sugar.
You start to wish you had taken your kilt and learned Gaelic. You want to rush off and watch Braveheart.
No matter how many years a Scot spends away from Scotland, it will always be home.
There are no mixed feelings. There is no ambiguity - the heart will always be with Scotland.
Not even the mighty All Blacks can change that. Having watched them for almost four years now and had a pretty good look behind the scenes, there is an admiration and respect for how they go about their work. They are a seriously good team who are ahead of the rest of the world in nearly all they do.
It's objective admiration, though. The All Blacks will no doubt change gear on Monday morning. They have talked all week about their desire to up the tempo, to start screwing the nut and ready themselves for the knock-out rounds. Given the quality of their squad, of their preparation and their hunger to win this thing, they will probably belt Scotland. Give them the sort of hammering Scotland handed to England at Bannockburn in 1314.
But you can't grow up whiling away your youth harbouring dreams of one day wearing the thistle and then find yourself at Murrayfield wanting the All Blacks to win.
If nothing else it would give Thatcher the satisfaction of thinking she broke our spirit, turned us against ourselves. She didn't even get close.
- Gregor Paul is covering the World Cup for the Herald and Herald on Sunday
