(no subject)
For your seasoned football fan, a cup final is a minefield. It starts early that morning when you emerge from the shower. What to wear? Each item has to be assessed carefully for the potential impact it might have on your team's chances that day. Does this underwear seem too confident? Are these socks going to give the opponents an edge? And more importantly, what did I wear last time we won a final; what about last time we played that team; and what about last time we lost a final? It's a lot of pressure, the wrong combination of items and you might be letting down thousands of your fellow supporters. The newspapers will talk about tactics, formations, individual battles; but really, you will know and carry the terrible secret with you - they lost because you wore the wrong shirt.
There was snow over the hills as I drove to the city which gave way to a steady dull rain on the coastal plain. I picked Dan up at Straiton.
"I think you're forgetting something", he said as we drove off.
"Hmm... don't think so."
"The scarf...out the window."
"Yeah... but it is raining, I don't really want to wear a soaking scarf at the other end"
"Well, ok, if you're happy to alter the routine..."
"No... you're right."
I pulled the car over and lowered the window, placed about 3/4 of the scarf on the outside and drew the window back up. There was the comforting thud-thud-thud of the scarf streaming out against the back side window as we pulled onto the bypass.
"I'm just taking the whole journey at 50. Anything more and little Jimny gets ridiculously inefficient. Even 50 is generating 3000 revs"
"Yeah, I saw that. Those cars that are overtaking are probably only producing closer to 2000"
"By the time you work up to 70 in this, you're doing over 4000."
"4000!"
Soon revs were the least of our worries as motorway roadworks choked the road. We spent the next half hour at 5mph, the clock ticking slowly on. 12:41... 12:53... 1:02
"Turnstiles open in 28 minutes... we'll be lucky to be in our seats for kick-off".
The traffic got moving in time, and we arrived in Glasgow. Straight into more traffic.
"I have an urgent need for urination", I declared.
"Yeah, me too."
We crawled along. 5mph. Stop. 4mph. Stop. Wait. Wait. 3mph. Stop. Dan gave comedy progress updates on his Glasgow street map.
"We were here 5 minutes ago, but now we've progressed all the way to here", he explained, pushing his finger 1mm along the page.
"My bladder is causing me physical pain. I'm actually going to loosen my belt."
The car behind us had a guy in a Hearts shirt in the passenger seat. Dan had just declared that we'd be quicker walking when I saw the guy get out his car, and for a minute I thought that's what he'd decided. Instead he came up to our window.
"D'youse ken where we're parking?"
"Just at...", I began, then realised that Dan was not only closer, but also holding a street map. He began to explain.
"Right, we'll just follow you"
They stuck close to our bumper, but when we reached the roundabout and turned off towards the Queen's Park, they were nowhere to be seen.
"There's no toilets, just bushes. We should just get a move and walk to the stadium and go there."
For some reason I agreed. I was waddling up the road, feeling every step.
"You're walking just like a man who needs a pee"
A road sign for walking appeared. 'Hampden Stadium... 9 mins.'
"9 minutes! Of all the ideas you've ever had, walking to the toilet is the worst."
"That's 9 minutes for normal people at their normal slow pace. For us... I'd say... 7 and a half"
"Damn you!"
"Ahhhhh"
"You sound like you just peed yourself"
"Not quite. But I did just let out a fart, and that's freed up some valuable cubic millimetres."
"Excellent."
(a few minutes later)
"Ah, I see just what you mean about those cubic millimetres."
"Every little helps..."
We reached the walls of Hampden, and I saw a welcome sight.
"The outside toilets! I'd forgotten about those... we don't even have to wait until we go in!"
The joy was short lived.
"Shuttered! The bastards!"
To make matters worse, the turnstiles were queued back a good 30 people deep at each and every one.
"If you hate the fuckin Hibees, hate the fuckin Hibees... hate the fuckin Hibees clap your hands"
I'm not one for singing, but I clapped my hands as a I joined the queue. It's amazing just how foul-mouthed a football queue is, everything is fucking this and fucking that, anyone who isn't shit is a cunt, every woman is a bitch and every man is a bastard. A fucking bastard. A fucking shit cunt bastard.
We clicked through the turnstile. Naturally, the toilets were up a flight of stairs.
We had seats in the very front row, which at Hampden means you are sitting slightly below the level of the pitch, your eyes level with the grass. It's a terrible angle to watch a sporting event from, there's no chance of depth perception. Every time the ball went across the field, I'd have to glance up at the big screen to place just where the ball actually was on the field. The game was underway. It goes without saying that in football, and in finals especially, you need the breaks to go your way. You turn up on the day, you do all your training physically, mentally, tactically, but when all is said and done, the way the ball skids on a wet piece of grass might make the decisive difference in the game. That's what I was thinking when the ball broke to Ryan Stevenson. He turned his opponent outside, then inside, then outside, then inside. He's taken too many touches. Just at that point he hits a shot, and it takes a slight deflection. The deflection carries it beyond the diving goalkeeper and right into the corner of the net. We lead, 10 minutes gone. I'm on my feet with a roar, and all the momentum carries you forward onto the barrier, stretching your arms towards the field. Someone loses an Aero bar in the excitement, it goes scudding across the floor and lands out of reach in the fenced-off no mans land between the front seats and the track. The players are celebrating along the sideline and we're reaching out to them, waving scarves, applauding, pumping jubilant fists.
We miss chances, several chances. Then, late in the half, the defence switches off for just a moment. That's all the time that's needed to turn a match; St Mirren equalise. Polite applause breaks out at half-time. The big screens flash messages. HAPPY BIRTHDAY CALUM LOVE MUM & DAD XXX, then, just as the team re-emerge, DURING THIS MATCH, TWO PEOPLE IN SCOTLAND WILL COMMIT SUICIDE. The second half has barely begun when St Mirren score again. I sit and stare at the barrier. The stewards, who are paid to sit the entire match looking at the crowd, look back. One of them makes eye contact and quickly looks away. The game has turned, and before too long it goes to 3-1.
"Game over", I say to Dan, and people are already leaving for home.
We throw everything forward towards the end, and get a goal back with 5 minutes left. We're back on our feet.
"There's hope!", says Dan.
"It's the hope that kills you", I say, and then reaching down into the depths of my entire being, let out a roar of "COOOOOOOME OOOOOOOOOOOON!!!"
St Mirren immediately take the ball to the corner and try to run down the clock. Then one of their players falls down injured. Then they make a substitution. Still we push on. We hit the post, we hit the bar. Breaks. The final whistle goes. One end explodes in celebration, the other murmurs to itself and starts to leave.
We stay behind, watch the players get their medals, and we stay to see St Mirren lift the trophy, and applaud them when they do. It's only sporting to do so, although we're lucky if we're one of 50 people left.
"I don't grudge them it", I say. "Fair play to them, they were the better team and deserved to win. And it means a lot to them and will be remembered for a long time, I'd rather that than another trophy for Celtic."
The confetti cannons go off for the corporate photoshoot, and we head for the exits. As we leave, a familar song blasts from the speakers.
"I cried to my daddy on the telephone / how long now"
I thought it was a strange thing to hear at a football match, until I remembered the chorus.
"The saints are coming
The saints are coming
No matter how I try I realise there's no reply
The saints..."
Hell of a song though.
Outside, the fans aren't too downbeat.
"Did you hear what that guy said?", Dan asks me.
"You can never take 5-1 away from us"
"I think that's how everyone feels... at least we won the one that really matters."
It takes forever to get out of Glasgow. The streets seemed designed to keep you off the motorway, even with a street map. Finally back in Edinburgh, we slip into the Tolbooth Tavern.
"You'll be needing those, will you?", asks a man sitting at the next table.
"A commiseration drink"
"Maybe next time" says the barmaid.
"Ach well, you can't win all the cups", I tell her.
"No, that would just be selfish", Dan adds.
The man laughs. The rain falls. A clock ticks on a quiet pub, Sunday evening.
Back in the car, I phone Sharon to say I'm on my way. She tells me Harriet isn't doing well, and immediately I just want to be back there with our little family around, all tucked up safe for the night. The fire burning, the animals happy, a little frozen snapshot. It's a snapshot worth 100 cups.
There was snow over the hills as I drove to the city which gave way to a steady dull rain on the coastal plain. I picked Dan up at Straiton.
"I think you're forgetting something", he said as we drove off.
"Hmm... don't think so."
"The scarf...out the window."
"Yeah... but it is raining, I don't really want to wear a soaking scarf at the other end"
"Well, ok, if you're happy to alter the routine..."
"No... you're right."
I pulled the car over and lowered the window, placed about 3/4 of the scarf on the outside and drew the window back up. There was the comforting thud-thud-thud of the scarf streaming out against the back side window as we pulled onto the bypass.
"I'm just taking the whole journey at 50. Anything more and little Jimny gets ridiculously inefficient. Even 50 is generating 3000 revs"
"Yeah, I saw that. Those cars that are overtaking are probably only producing closer to 2000"
"By the time you work up to 70 in this, you're doing over 4000."
"4000!"
Soon revs were the least of our worries as motorway roadworks choked the road. We spent the next half hour at 5mph, the clock ticking slowly on. 12:41... 12:53... 1:02
"Turnstiles open in 28 minutes... we'll be lucky to be in our seats for kick-off".
The traffic got moving in time, and we arrived in Glasgow. Straight into more traffic.
"I have an urgent need for urination", I declared.
"Yeah, me too."
We crawled along. 5mph. Stop. 4mph. Stop. Wait. Wait. 3mph. Stop. Dan gave comedy progress updates on his Glasgow street map.
"We were here 5 minutes ago, but now we've progressed all the way to here", he explained, pushing his finger 1mm along the page.
"My bladder is causing me physical pain. I'm actually going to loosen my belt."
The car behind us had a guy in a Hearts shirt in the passenger seat. Dan had just declared that we'd be quicker walking when I saw the guy get out his car, and for a minute I thought that's what he'd decided. Instead he came up to our window.
"D'youse ken where we're parking?"
"Just at...", I began, then realised that Dan was not only closer, but also holding a street map. He began to explain.
"Right, we'll just follow you"
They stuck close to our bumper, but when we reached the roundabout and turned off towards the Queen's Park, they were nowhere to be seen.
"There's no toilets, just bushes. We should just get a move and walk to the stadium and go there."
For some reason I agreed. I was waddling up the road, feeling every step.
"You're walking just like a man who needs a pee"
A road sign for walking appeared. 'Hampden Stadium... 9 mins.'
"9 minutes! Of all the ideas you've ever had, walking to the toilet is the worst."
"That's 9 minutes for normal people at their normal slow pace. For us... I'd say... 7 and a half"
"Damn you!"
"Ahhhhh"
"You sound like you just peed yourself"
"Not quite. But I did just let out a fart, and that's freed up some valuable cubic millimetres."
"Excellent."
(a few minutes later)
"Ah, I see just what you mean about those cubic millimetres."
"Every little helps..."
We reached the walls of Hampden, and I saw a welcome sight.
"The outside toilets! I'd forgotten about those... we don't even have to wait until we go in!"
The joy was short lived.
"Shuttered! The bastards!"
To make matters worse, the turnstiles were queued back a good 30 people deep at each and every one.
"If you hate the fuckin Hibees, hate the fuckin Hibees... hate the fuckin Hibees clap your hands"
I'm not one for singing, but I clapped my hands as a I joined the queue. It's amazing just how foul-mouthed a football queue is, everything is fucking this and fucking that, anyone who isn't shit is a cunt, every woman is a bitch and every man is a bastard. A fucking bastard. A fucking shit cunt bastard.
We clicked through the turnstile. Naturally, the toilets were up a flight of stairs.
We had seats in the very front row, which at Hampden means you are sitting slightly below the level of the pitch, your eyes level with the grass. It's a terrible angle to watch a sporting event from, there's no chance of depth perception. Every time the ball went across the field, I'd have to glance up at the big screen to place just where the ball actually was on the field. The game was underway. It goes without saying that in football, and in finals especially, you need the breaks to go your way. You turn up on the day, you do all your training physically, mentally, tactically, but when all is said and done, the way the ball skids on a wet piece of grass might make the decisive difference in the game. That's what I was thinking when the ball broke to Ryan Stevenson. He turned his opponent outside, then inside, then outside, then inside. He's taken too many touches. Just at that point he hits a shot, and it takes a slight deflection. The deflection carries it beyond the diving goalkeeper and right into the corner of the net. We lead, 10 minutes gone. I'm on my feet with a roar, and all the momentum carries you forward onto the barrier, stretching your arms towards the field. Someone loses an Aero bar in the excitement, it goes scudding across the floor and lands out of reach in the fenced-off no mans land between the front seats and the track. The players are celebrating along the sideline and we're reaching out to them, waving scarves, applauding, pumping jubilant fists.
We miss chances, several chances. Then, late in the half, the defence switches off for just a moment. That's all the time that's needed to turn a match; St Mirren equalise. Polite applause breaks out at half-time. The big screens flash messages. HAPPY BIRTHDAY CALUM LOVE MUM & DAD XXX, then, just as the team re-emerge, DURING THIS MATCH, TWO PEOPLE IN SCOTLAND WILL COMMIT SUICIDE. The second half has barely begun when St Mirren score again. I sit and stare at the barrier. The stewards, who are paid to sit the entire match looking at the crowd, look back. One of them makes eye contact and quickly looks away. The game has turned, and before too long it goes to 3-1.
"Game over", I say to Dan, and people are already leaving for home.
We throw everything forward towards the end, and get a goal back with 5 minutes left. We're back on our feet.
"There's hope!", says Dan.
"It's the hope that kills you", I say, and then reaching down into the depths of my entire being, let out a roar of "COOOOOOOME OOOOOOOOOOOON!!!"
St Mirren immediately take the ball to the corner and try to run down the clock. Then one of their players falls down injured. Then they make a substitution. Still we push on. We hit the post, we hit the bar. Breaks. The final whistle goes. One end explodes in celebration, the other murmurs to itself and starts to leave.
We stay behind, watch the players get their medals, and we stay to see St Mirren lift the trophy, and applaud them when they do. It's only sporting to do so, although we're lucky if we're one of 50 people left.
"I don't grudge them it", I say. "Fair play to them, they were the better team and deserved to win. And it means a lot to them and will be remembered for a long time, I'd rather that than another trophy for Celtic."
The confetti cannons go off for the corporate photoshoot, and we head for the exits. As we leave, a familar song blasts from the speakers.
"I cried to my daddy on the telephone / how long now"
I thought it was a strange thing to hear at a football match, until I remembered the chorus.
"The saints are coming
The saints are coming
No matter how I try I realise there's no reply
The saints..."
Hell of a song though.
Outside, the fans aren't too downbeat.
"Did you hear what that guy said?", Dan asks me.
"You can never take 5-1 away from us"
"I think that's how everyone feels... at least we won the one that really matters."
It takes forever to get out of Glasgow. The streets seemed designed to keep you off the motorway, even with a street map. Finally back in Edinburgh, we slip into the Tolbooth Tavern.
"You'll be needing those, will you?", asks a man sitting at the next table.
"A commiseration drink"
"Maybe next time" says the barmaid.
"Ach well, you can't win all the cups", I tell her.
"No, that would just be selfish", Dan adds.
The man laughs. The rain falls. A clock ticks on a quiet pub, Sunday evening.
Back in the car, I phone Sharon to say I'm on my way. She tells me Harriet isn't doing well, and immediately I just want to be back there with our little family around, all tucked up safe for the night. The fire burning, the animals happy, a little frozen snapshot. It's a snapshot worth 100 cups.