AN ARISTOCRATIC friend of mine recently attended a party on a boat called the Unicorn.

His eyes locked across a crowded poop deckwith those belonging to a glamorous young lady from the Netherlands. Soon he was teaching Janine Highland dancing.

My pal, who is a knight of the realm and is one of Scotland's most eligible bachelors, reflected upon his meeting with the entrancing woman, and decided to pursue matters, as one does nowadays, across the ether.

He managed to get her e-mail address, and was soon in contact with her. He even hinted that he might be able to make an honest lady of her. The e-mail that came whizzing back revealed that she was aware of his aristocratic credentials because she had, as she said, "Google-stalked" him. Googlestalked? It seems that this term is applied to the tracking down of information about people as a result of keying their names into a number of internet search engines. In the old days, of course, your actual aristocrats would have checked out potential marriage partners by means of well-placed informants. Now, even the toffs are manically Google-searching well-bred and not so well-bred tottie. Welcome to the world of modern human relationships.

When I heard of this, I remembered that I, in fact, had been Google-stalked some years ago. What happened was an old pal of mine, Quentin Henderson, who keeps bees on the Caribbean island of Nevis, wanted to get a contact address for me. He told me that he had typed my name into Google, and up came the information he needed.

This rather intrigued me. I was naturally curious as to what else might be on the internet. Were there reams of text describing me as a Renaissance Man from Cowdenbeath? Was there entirely justified international recognition of the electronic crofter's status as Kirkwall's Kierkegaard, and the Schopenhauer of Stromness? With a mounting sense of anticipation, I typed my name into Google and settled back to watch for the wellearned tributes.

The first statement that came up was the following: "Ron Ferguson is a complete arse." As you can understand, the electronic crofter was nonplussed.

Shome mishtake shurely? No.

the link led straight to a Celtic supporters' website. I had written a column for The Herald about sectarian singing a few days previously, in the course of which I opined that sections of the Rangers and Celtic support were equally guilty of abuse. The website contributor wished to rebut this calumny on the entirely innocent, indeed saintly, Celtic support.

Other entries were less defamatory. All my great contributions to international scholarship, like Donald Dewar Ate My Hamster, Hitler was a Vegetarian, Fear and Loathing in Lochgelly and Black Diamonds and the Blue Brazil were listed, with links to amazon. co. uk. I invite readers to check out these links themselves, preferably with credit card in hand.

What is becoming clear is that searches which once would have required hiring a private detective are being carried out every minute of the day by ordinary punters. People not only seek the whereabouts of ex-lovers and friends, but check the credentials of potential employees. The worldwide web traps many flies. Spyware software tracks our habits and shopping preferences. Even without identity cards, authorities possess huge amounts of info about us as we inhabit a global village with CCTV cameras on every corner. Not only does it encourage us to live out fantasy multiple personalities in interaction with people from all over the globe, it is making spies of us all. The idea that modern technology simply represents innocent efficiency is a myth.

Ah, but what happened to my aristocratic friend's romance, I hear you cry. Alas, it foundered.

After a while, the lovely Janine revealed that she only continued because she thought my pal had good legs in a kilt. In the direct manner of the upper classes, the silly Count replied that his legs were his second best feature. Her farewell message was that she hoped his best feature wasn't his brain, otherwise he was in serious trouble.

He who lives by e-mail shall die by e-mail. He then took up with another lovely lady; Googlestalking revealed her to be a competitive caber-tosser from Germany. I kid you not.

The electronic crofter is currently in Edinburgh, reporting on cultural matters for a grateful nation. I can reveal exclusively that tomorrow night I'm going out to dinner at the abode of my aristocratic friend. Guests will include someone who unashamedly claims to have slept with many of Scotia's movers and shakers, and a female pilates teacher who smokes a pipe and used to collect weasel bones.

I swear that every word in this article is true. My experience is that real life is much more bizarre than the wildest Festival Fringe play. Pity, though, that we're all living in a Big Brother Google house of ultimately no mercy, run by a voyeuristic webmeister from whom, in the archaic words of the Book of Common Prayer, no secrets are hid.