What’s Under the Kilt?! E5
Its a celebration and a half after our Turkish victory sends us to a major tournament for the first time since France ’98. At one point there is a week where I get kidnapped by Alan Brazil and led on a hedonistic tour of golf courses adjacent to Spearmint Rhino’s, accompanied by Darren Jackson, Colin Hendry and Lorraine Kelly. One piece of advice, never concede a putt to Lorraine — whilst she is a sweetheart on the telly she won’t hesitate to make you roll in a nervy 3 footer after watching Brazil force you to do a yard of Belhaven Best on the 3rd tee.
We get the chance to try out a couple of different faces in November with a friendly against Greece as Frank Conway gets injured again and Neil Murray picks up a minor knock. I throw on ‘Real Gone Kid’ in the changing rooms and encourage the squad to throw their boots at a lifesize Halloumi model of Nikos Dabizas to warm up. Its unorthodox, but its a valuable protein source.
Its an imperious performance given our obvious limitations. I’m delighted to see McGarry get his first goals for us and Neil Bennett is clearly the greatest player playing semi-pub football in the lower fife region. We are 3–0 when Nikolaidis scores and make it 4–1 before a last minute penalty makes the Greeks look like they were in the game.
And now we wait…it’s the usual painful wait through January to see who moves and who doesn’t. But the most important thing now is the fact that this is the last window that can make players ineligible/eligible as our squad will be picked pre-June update. At least Christmas is good — I get to pop round to Mrs Teale’s and spend the night, making loud noises and throwing balls from hungry hippos at Gary Teale’s wall all night. I leave on boxing day with a hangover and a black eye — but I also get to fuck up his Scalextrix.
4th February 2004. I turn on my PC and review my emails to track movements and review any players we’ve lost. I’ve stopped getting any kind of hope around this day but I pray that we are at a stage that anyone being interested in any of my players is laughable (other than GOAT Bennett)….But hold the fucking phone! The only player who has moved is Steven McDermott — an uncapped DM who has moved to South Africa.
So we have it….our squad is basically complete. Or so I think until I realise that our warhorse, skipper and all round good guy Frank Conway has moved to Hibs for 26k. Fucking Judas sold out Jesus for more than that and he was the fucking son of Brian Blessed. That fucking snivelling defensive-midfield McFucknugget has royally screwed me and I declare a Fatwa on all things green in SFA headquarters, sending a stream of Golden Delicious and Granny Smiths onto the nearby street in a day dubbed “The Day of Apple Tears”
I re-add Jim Sherry to my squad and put myself into a green Sourz induced coma as the SFA neglect to arrange anything for us. I am rudely awakened 3 days later as we get our draw….
I mean it could be worse…in the same way that having no arms and no legs would be better than having no arms, no legs and no head. Holy fucking Huntly we are screwed.
I start to make phonecalls round every single manager in Scotland looking for any hints as to anyone I could fly into my squad at late notice. My phone is quieter than an away day in Uist and twice as damp as in my drunken stupor I threw it into my fishtank in a vain attempt to get my pet Koi-Carp to prank call Ken Stott.
We get an away-day to Vienna at the end of April. I tell Midge Ure to fuck off when he tried to talk to me on our flight out, but I’ll give him some credit — he puts on a helluva show and I tell him as much after his pre-match Ultravox dressing room performance. He tries to tell me about a revolutionary formation that he;s been trying out with his Live Aid Sunday league team but I ignore his talk of Catenaccio and Tagliatele and stick to my rigid 32311. Its the 442 of this (fictional) era.
Who has 2 thumbs and is going to lift the Euro 2004 trophy? This Fucking Guy.
Its an excellent performance and we dominate possession and shots, with 2 of our strikers scoring and a rare Brebner goal sealing the win.
Confidence? I fucking invented it.
Next Stop….PORTUGAL!
