When we think about long, warm, sunny weekends and bank-holidays at the beach, we can’t help but imagine lilos, sun-tans and sand-castles; deck-chairs, donkeys and ice-creams; and, of course, a massive police presence, and an ugly, oppressive air of horror and trepidation….

Wait a minute… what?

Perhaps I should clarify: I’m talking specifically about sunny days on a Scottish beach.

Ah, now it all makes sense.

During our recent spell of good weather (which at the time of writing is still ongoing – I don’t know who’s been sacrificing children to Ra the Sun God, but whoever it is, please don’t stop) our family headed east-to-west for a day out at Troon’s South Beach. If you’ve never been to South Beach before, I can assure you that it doesn’t invite any comparisons whatsoever with Florida, save for the high number of Goofy bastards milling around.

It was 26 degrees. The sun was fierce, the sand hot to the touch, but the beach itself was calm and peaceful. A light, balmy breeze caressed the assembled sun-worshippers, some of whom were skipping, some slouching, some splashing, but all of them just enjoying the day without kicking sand – literally or metaphorically – in anyone else’s face. We were happy to join them.

It helped that we’d chosen the section of the beach farthest from the town itself, which we could see curving and fading into the distance along the coastline, with its gaudy amusements and hellish postcard pomp. It wasn’t all good news: being so far away from ‘civilisation’ meant that we were outwith comfortable walking distance (and within uncomfortable melting distance) of the nearest available ice-cream. That was the price we had to pay for peace; the cross we had to bear, and, yes,I have just indirectly compared our suffering to that of Jesus Christ’s – another saintly man who was cruelly deprived of ice cream on a really hot day.

Anyway, our kids loved their time at South Beach. It was a picture-perfect, peaceful day, but not without its oddities. For instance, the policemen and -women who kept popping their heads up over the dunes for a little look-see every now and again, like illuminous meerkats. Or the heavy police presence in general. Or the mounted officers clomping their horses up and down the streets that ran parallel to the beach.

We didn’t understand it until we got home later that afternoon and learned that we’d arrived on South Beach one day before the one-year anniversary of the occasion when 6000 teenagers from all along that stretch of coastline, and from the bruised and battered heart of Glasgow, swarmed upon South Beach after answering the rallying call of a Facebook event invite.

They’d arrived by the train-load and fought, fucked and frolicked in the surf and sand-dunes, fueled by a cocktail of booze, bravado, pheromones and amphetamines. Officers on horseback had thundered down the beach trying to herd and repel the stampeding teens. Hundreds of sets of handcuffs had glinted in the sunlight, the closest thing to a sparkling diamond bracelet many of these young people would ever wear. It was absolute chaos.

These days, as a responsible, slightly dull father of two young children, it’s easy for me to tut-tut-tut at these weed-and-speed-whacked William Wallaces who re-enacted Buckfast Braveheart on the beach. But if I’d been a west-coast young ‘un with nothing better to do on a sunny bank holiday, and stumbled across that Facebook event notification, I’d’ve been supping Buckfast in my shorts down the train station before you could say, “Let’s do this! Who’s got the Vengaboys CD?!! No-one? What? They’re shit? Are they? … Oh, ha ha, yeah, fooled you, I was only joking… ha, YOU FELL FOR IT. I WAS ONLY JOKING! WHERE ARE YOU GOING?? COME BACK! I HATE THE VENGABOYS, YOU KNOW THAT!!… I WAS ONLY JOKING… I was… joking……”

That’s why the police were there. In case of a repeat. Which there sort of was. Maybe an echo is a better description. If it was a sequel, it would be Jurassic Park 3. The same pot, essentially, but just a little bit lamer, tamer and smaller. On the day we left, somebody was stabbed in the leg. The next day – the true anniversary – a mere few thousand drunken teens descended upon South Beach. A drop in the ocean.

Troon isn’t alone. Going to Largs or Ayr or anywhere along that coast-line on a sunny weekend or public holiday is like walking on to the set of an all-zombie reboot of the D-Day landings. It’s like God himself scooped up every ned in Glasgow and dumped them down on the sand.

Scotland doesn’t get much sunshine, so when it strikes it has a profound effect upon our brains and bio-chemistries. Other parts of the world get summers: definite, verifiable summers. We, on the other hand, might only get one sunny day throughout the whole season, or a disjointed string of sunny days spaced weeks or even months apart, so when we see the sun we scramble to condense three months of glee, glugging, gallus patter, fish batter, sun-stroke, chip-pokes, tugs, chugs and drugs into one single, savage day. It’s like that Paul Simon song re-rewritten for Hell: 50 Ways to Leave Your Liver.

But try adding 6000 ways to that.

You don’t get this kind of behaviour on the beaches of the east coast. I wonder why…

Hmmm, I think I know why…

But that’s a can of worms for another time.