jass1960
Literotica Guru
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- Aug 20, 2001
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Euan Ferguson
Sunday December 2, 2001
The Observer
Oh to be alive and Scottish in this dawn! Yesterday, with a fine serendipity to mark the passing of St Andrew's Day, England's World Cup hopefuls won the Hellspooked Draw from Obsidian Deep, and suddenly all is right within our Jock world: the winter sun beams golden, the air is fresh and hearts are glad, especially for those of us absurdly patriotic Caledonians who live in London. Or, as our own Bard himself put it, in tongue so belovedly expressive: 'Aye gang dree ma weerd ye reet numpty frauchie wheeshmacrackle bodniggle frowsty drouchtie slichtie wee hypocrite.'
It would be untrue to say that we take pleasure from your pain. Schadenfreude there is, for generations of Scottish football teams made careers out of woebegotten World Cup draws, albeit with a twist. Normally, the form seemed to be that we would play out of our drink-sodden skins to beat the likes of Holland and Brazil, leaving just one miserable goal needing prodded past the last team from the qualifying group, this usually being Tasmania, the Faeroes or the Women's Own One-Legged Macramé Team; and we would, of course, self-immolate, letting in 15 goals, fighting on the pitch, throwing girders at the ref and cheering to the rafters as Joe Jordan toe-punted another open goal high into them, letting us swim happily in our misery and go home broke and beaten and strangely comforted; for the great advantage of being in a rut is that one knows exactly where one is.
So there were a few salvadors* taken last night by London Scots cheered at England's grim prospects. It's not that we're wholly unsympathetic, for after a few years down here you learn to respect, revere and often adore aspects of Englishness; and so I cheered along with the rest of the pubful of mincing Jeremies when Beckham scored that last-minute free-kick, a sentiment which could have me garrotted in some of Scotland's more heroically unpleasant bars, such as one of those places in Aberdeen swimming waist-deep in fish-oil and bigotry.
So no, there's no actual hatred, far from it, but there is a mild frisson of anticipation and a little bit of hand-rubbing. Maybe it was, as I say, St Andrew's Day, passing unnoticed down here yet again. I know you don't really even celebrate St George's Day in England, apart from those people who dress up and scamper round the mimsy tree with a fol do lol or whatever, many of whose number I assume are now in jail following last week's paedophile swoop; but at least in Scotland you knew the day had passed, even if it just meant Glasgow was more impossibly drunk than usual. So, as Friday approached, someone suggested I wear the kilt to work, which would surely have knocked them out, especially those predisposed to severe anaphylactic reactions when confronted with insufferable nationalistic pomposity, or a man who looks like an arse. I didn't of course, not having the self-belief needed to be a true arse, or the brogues... and the day passed unfussed, again.
And then, suddenly the news comes through of England's sickener, and it seems like St Andrew himself is beaming down on us, sitting up there with his spider and Bonnie Prince Bruce and his... um... shortbread. And all is well and as it should be, for cheap emotion, false division, meaningless totems and a ludicrously overblown sense of national character are the fine steady rocks on which the Scots psyche is built. Wha's like us?
* For you poor uninitiates: Salvador Dali - a wee swallie. From, of course, Niall MacDiarrmidddh's 1850 classic, Falling Ower Again Wi' Ma Pockets Full of Porridge and Landin' oan the Dug
Sunday December 2, 2001
The Observer
Oh to be alive and Scottish in this dawn! Yesterday, with a fine serendipity to mark the passing of St Andrew's Day, England's World Cup hopefuls won the Hellspooked Draw from Obsidian Deep, and suddenly all is right within our Jock world: the winter sun beams golden, the air is fresh and hearts are glad, especially for those of us absurdly patriotic Caledonians who live in London. Or, as our own Bard himself put it, in tongue so belovedly expressive: 'Aye gang dree ma weerd ye reet numpty frauchie wheeshmacrackle bodniggle frowsty drouchtie slichtie wee hypocrite.'
It would be untrue to say that we take pleasure from your pain. Schadenfreude there is, for generations of Scottish football teams made careers out of woebegotten World Cup draws, albeit with a twist. Normally, the form seemed to be that we would play out of our drink-sodden skins to beat the likes of Holland and Brazil, leaving just one miserable goal needing prodded past the last team from the qualifying group, this usually being Tasmania, the Faeroes or the Women's Own One-Legged Macramé Team; and we would, of course, self-immolate, letting in 15 goals, fighting on the pitch, throwing girders at the ref and cheering to the rafters as Joe Jordan toe-punted another open goal high into them, letting us swim happily in our misery and go home broke and beaten and strangely comforted; for the great advantage of being in a rut is that one knows exactly where one is.
So there were a few salvadors* taken last night by London Scots cheered at England's grim prospects. It's not that we're wholly unsympathetic, for after a few years down here you learn to respect, revere and often adore aspects of Englishness; and so I cheered along with the rest of the pubful of mincing Jeremies when Beckham scored that last-minute free-kick, a sentiment which could have me garrotted in some of Scotland's more heroically unpleasant bars, such as one of those places in Aberdeen swimming waist-deep in fish-oil and bigotry.
So no, there's no actual hatred, far from it, but there is a mild frisson of anticipation and a little bit of hand-rubbing. Maybe it was, as I say, St Andrew's Day, passing unnoticed down here yet again. I know you don't really even celebrate St George's Day in England, apart from those people who dress up and scamper round the mimsy tree with a fol do lol or whatever, many of whose number I assume are now in jail following last week's paedophile swoop; but at least in Scotland you knew the day had passed, even if it just meant Glasgow was more impossibly drunk than usual. So, as Friday approached, someone suggested I wear the kilt to work, which would surely have knocked them out, especially those predisposed to severe anaphylactic reactions when confronted with insufferable nationalistic pomposity, or a man who looks like an arse. I didn't of course, not having the self-belief needed to be a true arse, or the brogues... and the day passed unfussed, again.
And then, suddenly the news comes through of England's sickener, and it seems like St Andrew himself is beaming down on us, sitting up there with his spider and Bonnie Prince Bruce and his... um... shortbread. And all is well and as it should be, for cheap emotion, false division, meaningless totems and a ludicrously overblown sense of national character are the fine steady rocks on which the Scots psyche is built. Wha's like us?
* For you poor uninitiates: Salvador Dali - a wee swallie. From, of course, Niall MacDiarrmidddh's 1850 classic, Falling Ower Again Wi' Ma Pockets Full of Porridge and Landin' oan the Dug
