What’s Under the Kilt?! E3
January 2003 rolls around and we are sitting top of the qualification group with a very pleasing 3 wins from 3. We even managed to travel to Santiago to beat Chile 3–0 in a meaningless friendly with a beautiful new formation featuring 3 players in the Free Role. Jamie Mckenzie excelled in this formation and our still clubless big man Alex Martin scored a rare strikers goal.
But now is the time where the awkwardly feminine get separated from the possibly Canadian. Its transfer window time. One player I had targeted for a callup — Michael Craig from Stenhousemuir — has inexplicably secured a move to Newcastle, and I’m fearful of losing Teale and Scally in particular…I click continue and zip through to the start of March…
I’m don’t wish to be over the top about this, but this is the worst day of Scottish history since William Wallace got butchered. Neil Scally has moved to the Spaghettihad in a move that I try to violently talk him out of. I’m still considering sending a coked up Gerard Butler to SFA headquarters to get them to rip up the paperwork but FUCK. My only scoring striker Alex Martin has moved to an Italian village to try to grow a wine that tastes more like Tennants. Paul Sheerin has moved to fucking Rangers. I can’t even fathom a simile or metaphor to express how angry I am at that. We’ve lost two of our key performers and I take a long hard look at the Clyde from my 5th floor apartment and consider throwing Sheerin in next time I see him.
This leaves big holes in the squad ahead of Turkey and Germany away — our two toughest games if you discount the fictional minsk hotbed we’ll probably get destroyed in. I call up James Grady because I forgot he existed, along with his Ayr clubmate Marvyn Wilson. I try to call up John Collins who has just been named Dunfermline manager but apparently he has retired. I send him a 6-pack made of faeces through the post and leave him a voicemail calling him a twat. I name a 24 man squad as I am so angry I can barely see when I get a message the following week saying Frank Conway is injured and I don’t pick a replacement.
So Turkey. Away. Istanbul looks like a quiet Saturday night in Leith and the chants and firecrackers and missiles thrown our way are laughed off by my increasingly disheveled looking side. We are really getting down to the gritty edge now — If Gary Teale leaves Ayr I will probably take my leave to a large uninhabited island…
Its our usual back 3 of Archie, Ian and Kev, but Andy McClay and Marvyn Wilson patrol in front. Burkey and Teale flank Jamie MacKenzie with El Fuckin’ Mago behind James Grady. Surely we have a chance here…
Well we don’t start well. We give away a penalty that Turkey score in the 7th minute and they continue to press and probe us, while we offer fuck all in riposte. Its all we deserve when Buruk Okan turns into the Turkish Stanley Matthews, nutmegs 4 of our players and crosses for Hakan Suker to head past McCaldon for 2–0. Utter pish.
I decide to go rogue and try out our special 3 free role playing CMs with 1 at the back in a vain attempt to create anything. Jim Sherry comes on as we take the risky move to drop the Kev ratio to 0. This completely backfires as Turkey keep all the ball and we complete about 3 passes in 15 minutes. So its back to tactic one and some personnel changes as Lavety and Slater enter the fray. We do create a couple of chances in the last ten minutes through Teale and Grayd but we are a very poor second best and it finishes 2–0 as I lambast the team in the changing rooms over the strains of Lulu for maximum effect.
No time to mope around as we have to jump on a plane to Berlin ahead of the away game against Germany. The mood in the camp isn’t great after our complete non performance against Turkey and I lock the entire squad in a dark room for 90 seconds with various sharp implements and tell them they aren’t leaving until I see blood under the door. They exit a little worse for wear but far more jovial and I tip the cleaners 2000 euro to clean up the mess. The price of success (hopefully).
As we arrive at the stadium I look at the table and I’m puzzled, only to realise on reflection that Germany got beat 3–0 at home by Wales in a Yaki-coupon-buster. They look like they have the morale of an Ullapool sheep farmer in February and I yell at the boys to get up for the game. We sing a swift verse of ‘Rip It Up’ by Orange Juice and we set about the Germans with gusto. We make a couple of changes with Maxwell moving to DM, Wilson to CM and Slater coming into defence.
We nearly make the perfect start when Grady gets into the box, only for Lehmann to make a good save at his feet. The game settles into a steady pattern of attacks with little substance, with Grady and Deisler the two main dangers on the park. And its Deisler who makes the difference, firstly setting up Ricken to curl in a pearler from 25 yards and then a minute later crossing for Carsten Jancker to slot home. 2 goals in 2 minutes and I’m sweating like a man in a trainspotting themed bed. It’s their only two shots on target so I take the increasingly portly McCaldon off and bring on Myles Hogarth.
El Fuckin’ Mago has been quiet for a couple of games now, but he creates two good chances early and forces Lehmann to save,but there is nothing he can do when Marvellous Marvyn Wilson storms into the box and fires one past his oustretched right hand into the top corner. Berlin goes quiet save the 2000 scots up in the gods and I turn to them to wave and ask for more noise.
They duly oblige, and we push forward for the equaliser. I bring on Eddie Annand and Ross Tokely and tell them to give us everything. Incredibly, Annand is on the pitch for 2 minutes and his run creates space for Burke to slide the ball into EFM. He turns, shapes right, then turns back left and buries one into the bottom corner. ITS 2–2. HWFG!
We hold our for a precious precious point against the Germans which leaves us with 10 points from 5 games. An incredible record considering the squad but still feeling a little light.
On the plane I turn around to Gary Teale who is sitting with the Ayr boys and tell him how well he has been playing. He smiles and thanks me before I lean in close to him and say
“If you ever leave Ayr and make yourself ineligible for Scotland, I want to make something extremely clear to you……
I will fucking pump yer maw”
