LIKE MOST members of the ABE Club, I am beginning to worry. Their momentum is gathering power and there is a nagging small voice in the back of my head telling me: “the jammy bastards are going to win the bloody thing”. Begone nagging voice of doubt.
We Scots have to stick with our beliefs, keep playing Y Viva Espana and trust, the Gods of Football, having already booted us in the goolies with that late Hungarian goal have feasted enough on the corpse of Scottish expectations.
Coonsil Telly is a no-go area for the next week, as Fleet Street's Broadcasting Arm goes into overkill in support of The Lads. The nauseating deluge of Ingurland, Ingurland Ingurland ought to be a wondrous gift to the cause of Scottish Independence, if only we still had a functioning Independence Movement to take advantage.
We might have hoped that Ally McCoist might be The Voice of Reason in Germany, but, in last night's semi-final, he was morphing into Lord Haw Haw with a Scottish accent. Swept up in the fervour around him. Still, no matter how much Ally becomes a closet England fan, he cannot, ever, be as bad as Ian Wright, be thankful for small mercies.
But, let's be fair, even if that penalty, from which they equalised was right up there alongside one or two which The Brothers with whistles have awarded at Ibrox and Parkhead over the years, over the 90-odd minutes, even the most myopic member of ABE would have to admit, England did more to win the game than the Netherlands.
Had the penalty not been given and it had ended 1-1, I still think England would probably have prevailed, either in Extra Time or a Penalty Shoot-Out.
They have several quality players, but, I feel, Spain have, if not more quality players, fewer journeymen, and should prevail. That, however, is not to say they will, finals are always difficult games and it will, I feel come down to which squad is mentally stronger.
One thing I do have to say is, both teams in the final have some exciting youngsters involved – I just wish Scotland might trust more in youth.
We now have to, somehow, get through the tsunami of generally mindless media waffle over the next few days; get used to having the views of Sid and Vera from Stockport, Fred and Sandra from Lemington Spa and even Nigel and Hermione from Tunbridge Wells rammed down our throats as the broadcasters' foot soldiers in Germany go out and about in a desperate effort to justify their expenses claims.
Their colleagues, left back at home to mind the store will also be looking for the equivalent of football-themed Dead Donkey Stories, aware that, for once these will not be dropped, as they pump up the volume of their support for their Thre Lions.
But, for every winner there has to be a loser. I honestly feel for Sir Keir Rodney Starmer KCB, KC at this time. There he is, he's finally got the top job, after a stonking landslide. He wants to revel for as long as possible in the glory of the ride – only to be knocked off top spot in the news schedule by a bunch of over-paid prima donnas in shorts.
OK, he's got that nice shiney big personal 'plane to swan around in, but, after the drama of winning the General Election, he's been rushed off his feet – having to traipse around the UK meeting political lightweights like John Swinney, then being swept off to Washington to meet dear old Joe, who probably didin't know who he was, other than he was Prime Minister of England, then glad hand the other NATO hingers-oan.
On the plus side, I gather he managed to avoid The Criminal, while in DC; but, if he really does want to be Prime Minister for the whole UK, he maybe should have paid a courtesy call on Gregor Townsend and the Team, at their hotel.
After that, he was probably looking forward to a relazing week end re-arranging the cushions in his new tied cottage, but no, he has to fly off to Berlin, to sit beside Big Baldy Billy and watch a football match, one which, unlike the General Election, his side is not guaranteed to win.
Aye, the top job comes at a price.
I feel I need to get as far away from all this as it's possible to go – does anyone know of cheap long weekend breaks, somewhere remote and far away, like Dalmellington?
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