We, my Dad and I were returning from the France 1998 World Cup. Sent homeward to think again. The Eurostar from Paris to London I was driving up the M40 back home. My kilt was in the car boot however I refused to take off my Scotland replica shirt, it had been on manoeuvres and had been  worn with distinction. 

We stopped at a motorway service station for sustenance, caffeine to lift the weight of disappointment from our eyelids.

Entering, my Dad sauntering we encountered a young lady selling credit cards. She beckoned us over.

‘Are you Scottish?’ 

We nodded.

‘My Dad’s Scottish’. She was not exactly proud we guessed, her accent showed no sign of Scots.

‘ We haven’t seen him for a week. We think he’s gone to the World Cup’.

All these years later Scotland haven’t been in the World Cup finals. My replica shirt is washed and pressed  for a return trip and that father living in Oxfordshire still waiting. ‘Won’t be long dear, just nipping out for a pint of milk’. 

Spain, just another Tuesday….

 The wee girl beside us, top row of Hampden’s South Stand turned round, pointed, smiled and explained ‘ this is my kilt’. Well, it certainly wasn’t her Dad’s. She was tiny, her big sister not much bigger. The new generation of Scotland fans. 

The national stadium of old was masculine and full of alcoholic testosterone. I saw Hampden from the 60’s onwards. Great Scottish heroes from Denis Law, Jim Baxter, Jinky and Kenny Dalglish. More, many more fierce some warriors. From 1973 onwards we qualified for World Cups and the odd Euros. Massive crowds expected so much and yet, we knew there would be stramashes, disasters and more, or less looking at it objectively.

However, here are the kids, parents with kids and young folk of all sexes and genders. I could bore them with tales of the Tartan Army. Scotland’s propensity for being Scottish. Grabbing defeat from the jaws of victory. We saw this twisted and fateful skill as being exclusive to us.

But now, the new set of fans just see Scotland as their football team. Win, lose or draw. Lose and it’s a loss, all teams lose, all countries. Argentina won the World Cup and still lost in the first set of matches. We suffered shame and embarrassment in 1978 under the hapless leadership, or lack of, Ally McLeod. We, Scotland are not the only country that suffers disasters and embarrassments.

The double header gathered 6 points out of 6. We never looked like losing to Cyprus and to be honest neither did we look like losing to mighty Spain.

Tuesday evening under the floodlights was magic. What an atmosphere and to finish a world class celebration. Scotland won and won deservedly, the Spanish superstars were sent home to think again. They flew home from Glasgow airport leaving a sour taste. 

So back to the celebrations. The final whistle blew and the DJ played a set of songs that had old and young dancing a Hampden jig. ‘ Yes sir I can boogie ‘ and the piece de resistance ‘ Freed from desire’.

Scotland fans now perhaps just accept that we lose, draw and win. We have no exclusive right to win and neither do we have the exclusive right to chuck it away in the last minute. Roll on the next double header. Oslo here I come, fingers crossed and just as important a credit card to buy a beer.