Author Archives: cheeksboy03

This Tartan Army tale does not begin in a pub in England’s capital London but rather the story was in its infancy when the Tartan Army were forced to stay home and armchair surf during the pandemic and witness David Marshall leap to his left to claw away the 5th spot-kick from Serbian talisman Alexander Mitrovic in the deciding penalty shootout for a place in the Euro Finals in 2020 but 21 really. David or Davie as we know him looked over to the officials before being given the nod that we as a nation would be gracing the European Championship finals for the first time at any major international finals for some 23 years and if you had told my 23 year old self that after the humping by Morocco in our final game at France 98 that there would be biannual near misses at these finals for over two decades then I perhaps would have simply given up there and then having been oh so close at Wembley in 1999 and the qualifying campaign for the 2008 European Championships where we somehow beat France twice and hammered Ukraine at Hampden before throwing it all away against fucking Georgia with that awful wine coloured maroon strip. Oh and when McFadden had us 1-0 up in the first leg before we were utterly annihilated 6-0 in Amsterdam which well and truly pissed on our ambitions once again. Yep it would have been easier to follow motorsport rather than endure the heart string snapping energy sapping trials that our beloved national side puts us through on a biannual basis and we as football fans keep on coming back for more sessions through the wringer such is our fascination with the beautiful game.

Yes, that left paw save from Davie which sparked an Andy Considine inspired the “Yes Sir I Can Boogie” hit sang originally by the Spanish duo Baccara sparked the team and subsequently the nation into song firing Baccara to the top end of the download charts another spin off from the player in their post match hotel celebrations was a reworking of Whigfield’s Saturday night and the players conga lined round the table in homage to our number one shot stopper Davie Marshall with the words “na na na na, na-na-na-na-na-na-na————-DAVIE MARSHALL” another firm favourite that resonates around the troops now as Davie has worked his way into Scottish football folklore.

So almost immediately Tartan Army troops, knowing that we would already know our opponents and venues as Hampden had been selected as a home venue and we would play against the Czech Republic and Croatia in the oldest international arena but more so the game that had us all licking our tournament dry lips in anticipation was the game against The Auld Enemy our neighbours England which meant disappointment for many of us because we could not get a ticket as limited numbers meant they were like gold dust and as per you expect a majority would go to corporate sponsors in the prawn sandwich brigade. Anyway I’m not bitter about arseholes that get complimentary tickets in the slightest not one bit, I hope they had a great time the wankers.

Anyway I digress, my brother and I were online immediately, ok, not immediately because were continuing the post Serbia game by getting out of our faces whilst on FaceTime breathing sighs of relief and inhaling pretty much anything alcoholic. So ok, in the next day or so whist our innards were recovering from a non recommended months worth of alcohol consumed in one evening was filtering its way out of our systems we set about booking the accommodation for London that would see us situated in Paddington and Hyde Park for a relatively unknown way to follow your side in such numbers as we would all be travelling and boy were we going to be travelling. I never met a single person from the tartan half or indeed any of the England fans I met that had a match brief and we had all elected to still get into the spirit of the tournament and get smashed out of our tits and watch games in local boozers across the big smoke. Booking pubs wasn’t as easy as you may think especially whilst travelling in groups larger than six bodies because of the Covid regulations in place at the time and until July the 19th at present. Anyway we booked two because we couldn’t stay in one pub beyond our booking time slots although the second pub was a tad more generous with the time slot and we would be able to watch the entire game without fear of jobsworth custodians foisting us out to the kerb at half time.

The tournament kicked off and we were getting into things eagerly anticipating Scotland playing against the Czech Republic and as the game drew to a close we were once again cursing another brave performance where we allowed a rather average side win two nil and whilst we played reasonably enough most of us felt we should’ve started with two main strikers up front and young Billy Gilmour wasn’t even in the match day squad and as Bayer Leverkusen’s Patrick Schick seized on a speculative Calum Hendry shot and subsequently chipped a wandering Davie Marshall from 45 yards to make it two nil then we knew the game was up and we would be staring down the barrel of the exit gun when we faced England because if we were to fail to pick up anything from the classic oldest international encounter then we would be on our way to our final game at Hampden with nothing to play for but pride and. That simply would not do, we had to get something that would give us the belief that we could break the eternal failure of reaching the knock out phases of an international tournament for the very first time.

The time for our pilgrimage had finally arrived and my son Connor and I boarded the train for our first time in over a year and a half for our relatively short trip to London from Stoke-on-Trent a mere hour and a half away and as we arrived in London. It was apparent as we disembarked at Euston there was already a strong presence of kilted tartan army foot soldiers milling around so much so In fact that you could have quite as easily believed that you had gone to Glasgow Central by mistake.

Figuring out the tube, because I hadn’t been on it for some time was a minor issue but eventually the old grey matter made sense of once again.

Arriving at the digs which was basically a costly Euro Hostel where the fittings were tired and the plugs didn’t work (well one did and six didn’t) it was a one star hovel that was overrated really but the beds were clean there was a fridge and a hairdryer ….. yeah like I need one of those, oh and the mirror light above the cracked sink was brighter than the sun and there was also a dripping extraction fan which I may suffer long term health respiratory health conditions later down the line but that’s worth the dance with the devil when football trips with your family is the payoff. Anyway we had barely chucked our bags in the room before we were off to Sawyers Bar at the end of Norfolk Square and my brother and nephew were there with a cold pint of lager was waiting and so the alcohol consumption began in earnest. We spoke for a while with a guy from Inverness and exchanged rounds before gearing up for a supposed jamboree down at Hyde Park as the social media rumblings would have us believe stocking up on Carlsberg and transported to the venue in a Glasgow suitcase or carrier bag if you will, we arrived looking for the massive get together and we were met with about 6 lads from Dundee supping some sort of cough mixture like brew and we participated and stood around some chained up deck chairs that weren’t going to be rented out today for fear of them being used inappropriately I’m sure. We were joined by a few other weathered foot-soldier campaigners from Falkirk and our small group became 15 or so but it wasn’t the ground swell of tartan plaid that we had anticipated. One of the lads got wind of further happenings deeper into the park by The Serpentine and as we wandered closer and made our way through some trees we caught a glimpse of the thronging masses of Saltires and Scottish standards draped around necks, branches and flagpoles and stood looking on amazement at the party happening in front of us and we made our way to the outer edges of the ever increasing circumference of foot soldiers. Song after song from Boogie to Marshall and all in between were sung from already strained throats as gallons of liqueur and ale were sank at a frightening pace, there was enough aluminium and glass strewn around to build a spitfire. The police were in presence and bar the young man whom decided to go skinny dipping before being lifted for indecent exposure, we were never at odds with the establishment and they were happy to let the antics proceed as we were pretty self contained something the Tartan Army are pretty good at self policing matters. Having rattled through our drinks haul and not having eaten substantially since the morning we returned to near our abode for sustenance, Connor and I went to the Aberdeen Steak House and I emptied £60 on two meals and drinks. Full bellies then meant the earlier exertions would lead to the need for slumber and we returned to our accommodation to rest our weary heads. The room that night was warm, when I say warm I mean fucking boiling. We opened the window which might not have been there for all the use that was. It was a night of tossing and turning and praying for just a whisp of a cool breeze to ease the clammy torture of our one star room. It got to the point that I retrieved a cold can of Tennent’s from the fridge to cradle and move from the top of my head to my neck and chest. Eventually I fell asleep cradling the unopened can in my hand and when awoke the can was warm. My Brother and I arose leaving our younger offspring to snooze off the previous days frivolities and we went to a café and sat outside in the drizzling rain enjoying the fact that we no longer sitting in Beelzebub’s oven of a room and a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast was consumed and another cup of coffee.

We bought two six packs of water for the room, something we were in short supply of due to a schoolboy oversight the day before when it was only customary to drink copious amounts of lager and forget about the necessities that the drinking of copious amounts of lager would inevitably bring the next morning.

Anyway ……. Today was the day, we had waited so long for this day and we still had hours to go till kick off. It was a case of camping out at first Sawyers Bar where some England fans mostly with an Arsenal allegiance and one Reading fan were sat and we joined them and sank some beer and swapped football stories and exploits which eventually led to a banter to and fro sing-song about German bombers. It was good craic the way it should be. No trouble, no hassle just good clean fun.

The four of us then had a booking across the street in Dickens Tavern where we made sure we ate and had some more lager. We were there for a bit watching the 2pm kick off between but the landlady was a bit jobs-worthy on the old Covid front so no one was staying longer than their allotted booking times and before we knew it we were on the way to The Mitre at Lancaster Gate.

When we arrived at The Mitre a large pub set on the apex of Lancaster Mews and Craven Terrace it did not look like your traditional football watching pub and to be honest it seemed rather sparse with supporters inside leading us to think that we had dropped a bollock on our venue for watching the clash of clashes later on. Anyway perseverance was the name of the game here we thought as we checked in and were led up the stairs to a large room with 4 tables and large windows. We were told that Erik was our waiter/server for the evening and we sat down and he brought us our first round of drinks and we wondered who may be joining us in the room as the night wore on towards kick off of which we had some considerable time because it was only five o’ clock and there was an entire 180 minutes to pass before the big kick off as we were the only bodies in the room at this point Erik who was this rooms personal waiter was very enthusiastic in his repeated requests to see if we wanted more drink and given that we had barely sat down and barely tickled our tastebuds with our first round of Estrella his constant efforts to please us were a little annoying but I guess the hospitality industry was so eager to please that we can forgive Erik for wanting to get us necking ale at such a blistering pace. I joked that the other tables will most likely be filled with the Croydon England supporters club and how would we cope if we got trounced by our footballing foes and have to suffer the ignominy of having to sit there whist our counterparts laughed mercilessly at our saddened faces and perhaps that’s why we had been placed there as entertainment for English Latin guests. As it was a we watched the Czech Republic draw with Croatia 1-1 we soon realised that we were not to be alone and the other three or four tables filled and all were Scotland fans and another couple were squeezed in. Cypriot born Erik was now having his work cut out servicing the hoard of Scots thirsting for more on an increasing pace for pints and shots of whatever it was we had afforded to us by the far table. Erik was trying to be Covid compliant and asked us not to sing but he could soon see that this request would fall upon deaf football starved ears so he sensibly just got on about with his task in hand. To be fair Erik put on some shift as he marched almost infinitively up and down the stairs like the Grand old Duke of York on a wrap of speed and this only cranked up further when the National anthems were belted out full force in that room and the kick off was imminent.

The team lineups were announced and it was clear the Steve Clarke had got his nut sack out on the anvil and put two front men on in Dykes and Adams but also the ace card of young Billy Gilmour had been given his first start his debut against the might of the English so it was a bold statement from the gaffer and we were all jumping for joy at these decisions albeit that one of our pantomime villains from the Czech game was in the line up in the guise of Stephen O’Donnell….

The game went so well we could barely believe it and we had gleaned something from the game which was the minimum requirement which was one point, but it was more than a point for us because we are Scotland and losing to England is a bitter pill to swallow and we were given our pride back and more importantly so we were still in the tournament with the final game to play against Croatia. Gilmour was outstanding putting the wish version of Gazza, Phil Foden in his back pocket along with Kalvin Phillips and Stephen O’Donnell answered his critics by having a stormer keeping Sterling & Kane quiet, Imagine that eh? A Motherwell right back who finished in the bottom six of the Scottish pub league keeping two “world class” strikers at bay.

After the game drink was still keeping Erik well on the way to smashing his steps record and somehow I ended up leading a Davie Marshall conga all round the entirety of the pub including outside. Around then we realised we must go to Leicester Square and continue the party but upon leaving The Mitre pub thanking its patrons for a wonderful evening I couldn’t help but wonder what we would be like if we won?

Much more happened beyond this but I’ll leave the party bus here and tell you that we possibly had a better night than those that actually went to Wembley. We kicked a football between us that the landlord had gifted to my son Connor before stocking up on more beer for the cab ride to Leicester Square who incidentally turned out to have went through the same training regiment as me in my army days, small world.

So if you’re reading this before the Croatia game you will still have that one thing we wanted prior to winning the 0-0 Wembley trophy and that was hope, a hope that we could have a go a hope that we wouldn’t embarrass ourselves and a hope that we could have a squad that will reach stratospheric heights should we do the unthinkable and qualify for the latter stages of a major tournament for the first time in our heart wrenching oh so close, near but far history.

Of course if you read this after that game I’ll say “isn’t goal difference a bastard” as we crash out on a late goal scored at some other venue deep into injury time.

But whatever happens i’ll always have THE NIGHT AT THE MITRE.