What’s Under the Kilt?! E2
After a whirlwind ride of a first episode, I realise that the tense and setting was somewhat varied. So I’m committing to this. We are going full bampot fiction. Its Buckfast and brawls with fictional gangs of Danish hoodlums. Fuck those Bacon Motherfuckers.
After our gigantic 4–1 win against Germany, we take a short flight from Glasgow to Cardiff for our second game. Wales appear to have Mark Hughes as boss, although he is listed as being ‘Unemployed’ — a fact that bodes well. They look decent in attack, with Bellamy, Hartson and Giggs, but defensively they are leeks ready for stewing in a giant pot of Aberdeen Angus beef. And ‘El Fuckin Mago’ Marc Anthony is salivating at the prospect of a defence unit made up of Rob Page and Ryan Valentine, who sound like they own a quaint card shop in Carmarthenshire that sell 43 different types of tea.
Pre-game, we stir ourselves with an outing for the terrific ‘Look Away’by Big Country whilst I shout ’57 Thousand Square Kilometers’ over and over again to emphasise how much bigger our country is. Its a tinpot move, and I fully recognise that. But I’m not here for tactical genius and stirring Al Pacino-esque oratory. I’m here for a pool cue in the eye and borderline xenophobic observations about our opponents. Remember, my team is essentially made up of pub players — who I leave unchanged for the Millenium Stadium.
The first 20 minutes are dominated by us as Sheerin, Lavety and Anthony crack off shots in quick succession. A warning shot from Hartson whistles over the bar in response and we are pushed back in the lead-up to half time, but bang on 45 minutes Burkey gets away down the wing and wins a corner. Gary Teale hangs in a great ball to Alan Archibald and…..over. Half-Time. 0–0.
The opening 15 minutes of the second stanza are a dull affair, only punctuated by the Tartan Army singing songs about sheep welfare and Neil Kinnock. If I wasn’t pishing myself laughing I’d have taken Paul Sheerin off earlier as he has been shite, but he gets until the 62nd minute where he is repalced by Jim Sherry. I begin to stretch out in the dugout, pull my cap over my eyes and dream of Tignabruich…but there’s a shout from my assistant! El Fuckin’ Mago has got loose outside the penalty area and drives towards goal…PENALTY! He’s taken out by Paul Jones and we have a chance to lead. He steps up and
1–0! El Fuckin’ Mago!
I look at the players and immediately bring on Stein and Robertson for Burke and Teale. Kev Fotheringham is absolutely blowing out his arse by this stage but I have no other defenders and I can’t be bothered with him trying to hide his post game chain smoking. No matter though, as the last 20 minutes zips by with the same amount of action as a cold night in Wick, and we move to 2 wins from 2 games. Piece of piss this!
We move into game 3 against the fictional powerhouse of Belarus. I could wax lyrical about Nikiforenko and Tsigalko but quite frankly can’t be bothered, I’ve got El Fuckin’ Mago and Frank Conway — who cost far less and don’t need work permits. When we get to squad selection, I notice that Ian McCaldon — usually a first season bargain from Oxford — has moved to Partick. Despite his ‘Scottish/English’ nationality I send 14kg of tattie scones and black pudding to his house and tell him to embrace the culture and ignore the fitness tests. Kevin Gaughan also gets a first call to represent as I stunningly remember to pick another centre back, whilst remembering the key point of Scottish Football to always have at least 1 bloke called ‘Kev’.
Its Wednesday 9th October 2002. Belarus scudded Wales 4–0 the other day taking the gloss off Feeder topping the UK singles chart with ‘Come Back Around’. I vow revenge for all of Newport and pick the same side that has done the business so far. Conway, Scally, Teale, Anthony — its a team of winners — and we enter the fray to the classic ‘Letter from America’ by The Proclaimers. It’s time to kick more Eastern European ass than a mid-2010s Seagal film.
The commentary kicks off by saying ‘Belarus are happy to sit deep’ and do they ever. 10 men behind the ball, negative football. It’s almost like communism was a terrible idea and some free thought might unleash their star-studded side. We eventually carve out an opening through Lavety who shoots wide, but he makes amends 5 minutes later with a delightful cutback that finds Paul Sheerin steaming into the box like the Flying Scotsman carrying a delivery of Arbroath Smokies. 1–0!
Belarus decide to step out of defence and Nikiforenko and Gurchenko sting the hands of Myles Hogarth. We create chances through Lavety and Anthony but cant add to the scoreline before the half-time pies. 1–0.
I decide to take Baz off. Whilst he set up the goal, we need to bury them. So I bring on Eddie Annand. I also sub Kev Foth off for Kev Gaughan to ensure that the relative Kev balance remains. We immediately create a couple more chances through the excellent Sheerin and Gary Teale but the second goal eludes us. El Fuckin’ Mago is now up to 4 shots and fuck all else but I decide to bring on Jay Stein for Burkey to give us something fresh.
Kharapapakapaakapakaoakaoakoakovskiy gets himself sent off almost immediately after this and I yell at the boys to swarm forward and get the clincher. We give the ball away and unnoticed to me, a menacing presence lurks in our box and leaps to meet a Nikiforenko cross….Tsigalko! NO! IT’S HIT THE FUCKING CORNER FLAG!
We continue to push forward as sitting on a lead is for the West Brom’s of this world. Teale goes close and then an Annand header is saved into the path of Anthony…hits the woodwork! We’re into the dying embers of the game when Neil Scally, his engine forged out of pure girders,drives through the heart of midfield. I watch as he moves to 30 yards….20 yards….into the box…..and draws the keeper before squaring it to Paul Sheerin to roll into an empty net. 2–0! Take that you hidden attribute fucks!
What a start to the campaign. 3 wins from 3 and I can already taste the lager in…wherever Euro 2004 is. The Tartan Army sing long into the night as the players pile onto the team hotel roof and drunkenly ping golf balls into the loch, to be retreived as part of hangover recovery tomorrow morning.
But for now…we look at the table and smile. Fuckin aye.
