The Scotland v England game

source – Wingo at When Saturday Comes.




As anyone in possession of a wireless, television set or a freshly ironed newspaper could not have failed to notice in recent months, it was put to the Scotch by way of a referendum that they might consider the prospect of independence. One only needs to look at a map of the British Isles, that serene, sedentary body sitting dominant at the centre of the globe, to realise that Scotland is no more than the hair upon the head of the United Kingdom. Were it to choose to be sheared from the body upon which it depends for growth and life, it could no more hope to survive and thrive than could the sweepings of a barber shop’s floor.

However, the question was put to the Scotch in entirely disinterested and impartial terms by their English masters.

“ATTENTION, THE SCOTCH. Do you propose to stay within the realm, labouring at the behest of Her Majesty, so that you might enjoy food, warmth, security, shelter, free access to goods and services, the protection of the world’s finest army and be left unmolested and in peace to toss cabers and so forth to your heart’s content? If so, vote “NO” to independence.

“ALTERNATIVELY, do you wish to go it alone, resulting in isolation, cut off from English civilisation and its boons (remember those colour television sets that first reached you just ten or so years ago?) a return to Bronze Age austerity, an endless winter of bloody inter-clan warfare in which the heads of your male elders are set on pikes, in which you are forced to subsist on peat soup, and, when that runs out, obliged to deep-fry your own babies in giant vats in order to last through the winter? Then vote YES.”

For the latter choice, at my suggestion in a telegram to Mr Cameron, a 2p charge for administrative expenses was imposed. It was doubtless this factor above all which ensured that the churlishly frugal Scotch voted resoundingly for the “NO” option.

And so, the Scotch remain subjects of the Kingdom – Pictish pariahs, of course but members of the Union and, like the Welsh, a welcome reminder of evolutionary staging posts one has long passed in order to attain English eminence. A few tips, however, to those thinking of flouting the advice of the Foreign Office and visiting the country.

BEWARE OF MIDGES. They are particularly active in summer. I refer to short, squat, ginger-haired little Scotchmen in public houses squeaking incomprehensible imprecations. Stand well back from them, as they are liable to leap up when riled and try to punch you in the testicles.

WHEN LIFTING UP A SCOTCHMAN’S KILT to see what he wears beneath it, be sure to shield the eyes of your womenfolk and children. The sight is quite rancid and beggars description.

TAKE VITAL SUPPLIES with you when venturing across the Scotch border. These should include basic sanitary items, edible comestibles, a phrase book, a purse of brown coins for tipping purposes and, above all, plenty of heroin. It is simply impossible to endure life in Scotland without ingesting vast quantities of heroin.

Such were the wild-eyed, feral creatures against which England were ranged throughout. The National Anthem was the measure of the disparity. England’s eleven men sang it like lusty, ejaculating cocks erect, for Her Majesty to drink in at her pleasure. Naturally, it then should have been played again for the Scotch team, in light of the recent vote. However, in a studied act of insubordination, doubtless perpetrated by some spiritual descendant of the treacherous Wallace, an alternative ditty was selected – “Donald, Where’s Your Trousers”, or suchlike. For although the game was played on home territory – the Celtic Park Stadium is British, and therefore to all intents and purposes English – the mood of the locals was seething, hostile, as if they resented the running water, electricity and increase of life expectancy to 47 years old that the Union had brought their country.

The game began at a cracking pelt, with England benefitting from the use of an UEFA approved football as opposed to the haggis that is customary in the Scotch leagues. The eight o’ clock kick off, meanwhile, seemed to induce a panic and anxiety among the Scotland team, concerned that they might only be able to fit in an hour’s drinking before closing time come the final whistle. It was a measure of how lightly England took the fixture that James Milner was given a start, the equivalent of noted beat group The Beatles allowing Ringo Starr to sing on one or two songs per album. Wayne Rooney took up a Wayne Rooney-shaped shape in the forward line; Stewart Downing crowned a superlative 45 minutes with a single crossfield ball which went out into touch, while Jack Wilshere did what he does best; be Jack Wilshere, anus jutted, ready to fall over at a moment’s notice for the cause. Chris Smalling showed why he should justifiably change his name to “Chris Bigging”, so effectively did he quell the Scottish attack, doing the job a maypole could have done hardly less effectively.

As for the clueless, malnourished Scotch, darting about the pitch with the confused agitation of badgers chivvied from their dens during daylight hours, there is little that can be said. They had a Chris Martin upfront; however, no one in the world knows the names of those playing alongside him.

Before long, England had taken the lead. “In defence God me defend” is the Scottish motto; given their application of said dictum in the back four, it might as well have been “Let’s go to bed early on New Year’s Eve, eh?” A second was added in the second half by Rooney himself, “Captain Potato”, before the Scotch were allowed to dance through the English defence and register a goal themselves. They reckoned without the cunning of the likes of Cahill and Sterling, however – since Scotland voted to stay in England in the recent referendum, the goal effectively made it 3-0 to Rooney’s men. He himself made it four just moments later, with the entire Scotch team having repaired to the stadium bar to mistakenly celebrate their own effort.

Another triumph to be notched up to the Kingdom, then, and surely proof that the Scotch people, in voting against independence to were right to acknowledge their own, fundamental inferiority. Tonight, their midfield and back four were like ghillies ably assisting their English masters on a stag hunting expedition. They were as right to do so as we were right to dismantle Scotland’s entire manufacturing base. For where there is industry, there is the potential for socialism; and, when socialism flourishes, industry suffers, so industry must be destroyed in order to be saved. This is English thinking at its finest, and it is to the good that the Scotch have seen sense and paid heed to it.

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Dumbarton fans……..



So what’s the nearest good pre-match pub?

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Imbibing Emporium….

I am heading off on a short break with Mrs Fitlike in a couple of weeks to Belfast, taking in the attractions of the normal and of the ‘recent historic’ type plus maybe a wee excursion out and about.

But mostly strolling around, herself for a bit of shopping and me to collect a few interesting taverns as is my wont.

So it was onto Google Street View to recce out some likely spots rather than wandering completely at random.( I can do random gadding about all day long but herself is a wee bit mobility restricted)

I really want to visit this place… (click to enlarge)belfast deer's head
I think all pubs should be officially designated as Imbibing Emporiums…
But hold on………

The Deer’s Head had an image problem as an ‘auld mannie’s’ pub and has been re-vamped….

The Aether & Echo anyone?

You wouldn’t do that with The Prince of Wales in Aberdeen or The Horseshoe Bar in Glasgow!


And as a Dons fan there is no way I will not be visiting this pubjohn hewitt

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Salmond and Cameron Face Off


Politicians are often called ‘two-faced bast  so and so’s. But… if you swopped over the two faces……..

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A Real hiding….

It was a stunning result in the Allianz Arena last night as the defending European Cup holders Bayern Munich were utterly trounced 4-0 by Real Madrid. The first goal was critical as it meant Bayern needing 3 in reply to retrieve the situation… and that wizna going to happen.

It did free up Madrid to frolic freely and notch up 3 of their own, including Ronaldo reprising the old Ronaldinho party-piece of slotting a free-kick under the defensive wall as they jumped in unison.

As much as I enjoyed the Calderwood era joust between Aberdeen and Bayern in the Europa League – the epic 2-2 draw at a packed Pittodrie was followed by the inevitable 1-5 away from home, but no matter – the fact we were drawn together spoiled one of my favourite one liners….

On a previous Champions League Real / Bayern clash, I was asked….

‘who do want to win, Ken?’

‘I’m not really fussed – Aberdeen beat both of them the last time we played them’

/AFC fan still living in the 80’s

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Not getting carried away or anything….

…but with the League Cup Final being on a Sunday*, the Aberdeen traffic will be hellish on Monday March 17th, what with the open top bus parade from Bridge of Dee to Pittodrie Stadium….

Morton’s sucker-punch removal of Celtic has injected 5000 volts of interest into what is normally a moribund tournament. All 8 clubs will fancy their chances.

The thing is you CAN catch Celtic – and the pre-crash and burn Rangers – on an off day, but these ‘Giant’ clubs  are ALWAYS the favourites and have cast such a dark shadow over the rest of Scottish Football ( plus all their unsavoury ‘baggage’)  that general interest has declined over the decades. Suddenly for a brief moment we have an even playing field for all the ‘normal’ medium sized clubs. They all fancy their chances here.

Game On!

The Dons seem to be flickering into life, as Derek McInnes tweaks the squad into something more than the rest home for idle chancers that the club has been for more years than I can contemplate without sobbing.

The Power of Positivity!

Even with several ‘main men’ out with a variety of injuries (Willo Flood, Barry Robson, Niall McGinn, Andrew Considine, Russell Anderson) the team that rolled over Falkirk on wednesday night was buzzing with an exhuberance that I haven’t seen since the Jess / Booth / Shearer / Paateneinen up front days.

A special plus point is the obvious quality of the Young Loons coming through. A youth system that provides the team with Robertson, Shaughnessey, Jack, Low and the fantastic 17 year old Cammy Smith is something for all concerned to be proud of.

Right. Now I have typed all that up, we await the wheels to fall off and we hurtle back to mediocre awfulness……

* of course, I am rota’d to be offshore for the final. But let’s attend to the quarters and semis first,eh?

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long time, no blog….

I just got out of the habit.

Well, there is more to it than that.  To be honest, I was never exactly sure what my blog was supposed to be in the first place. I bunged up random stuff, as things crossed my path – news events were worthy of a sly, dry, wry comment (but never with any great insights – not my scene really)  Various You Tubes of ‘bangin’ tunes’ LOL viral blogfodder have been thrown up (a phrase that works in more ways than one) The bulk of My Content revolved round the travails of following my Triple Burden of underachieving local football teams as they huffed and puffed at their respective levels and tested the tolerance of their long suffering supporters.


But as Justin Currie crooned on Del Amitri’s Nothing Ever Happens


anyway that is kind of my manifesto for the blog from now on

Post office clerks put up signs saying position closed
And secretaries turn off typewriters and put on their coats
Janitors padlock the gates
For security guards to patrol
And bachelors phone up their friends for a drink
While the married ones turn on a chat show

And they’ll all be lonely tonight and lonely tomorrow

Gentlemen time please, you know we can’t serve anymore
Now the traffic lights change to stop, when there’s nothing to go
And by five o’clock everything’s dead
And every third car is a cab
And ignorant people sleep in their beds
Like the doped white mice in the college lab

Nothing ever happens, nothing happens at all
The needle returns to the start of the song
And we all sing along like before

And we’ll all be lonely tonight and lonely tomorrow

Telephone exchanges click while there’s nobody there
The Martians could land in the carpark and no one would care
Close-circuit cameras in department stores shoot the same video every day
And the stars of these films neither die nor get killed
Just survive constant action replay

Nothing ever happens, nothing happens at all
The needle returns to the start of the song
And we all sing along like before

And we’ll all be lonely tonight and lonely tomorrow

Bill hoardings advertise products that nobody needs
While angry from Manchester writes to complain about
All the repeats on T.V.
And computer terminals report some gains
On the values of copper and tin
While American businessmen snap up Van Goghs
For the price of a hospital wing

Nothing ever happens, nothing happens at all
The needle returns to the start of the song
And we all sing along like before
Nothing ever happens, nothing happens at all
They’ll burn down the synagogues at six o’clock
And we’ll all go along like before

And we’ll all be lonely tonight and lonely tomorrow.


basically Life just chunders on for the bulk of people and I ain’t any different. (I’m not sure about that ‘burning the synagogues at six o’clock’ line is all about though – a wee bit jarring)



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