Welcome Back – Hands Across the M8
Those of you not fortunate enough to endure existence in Caledonia (stern and wild) under the benevolent and all-intruding rule of Wee Nippy (aka Mother Nicola) probably don’t care very much about the football-related tribal strife which has, on occasion, stained our national name.
Wow. Just wow! That’s a whole paragraph with one sentence. Mind, I’m swithering a wee bit about whether it needs a comma after ‘wild)’ and ‘Nicola)’.
Moving on. As I slide reluctantly towards the exit, I have to say that it will always be a joy when things go pear-shaped for any sad wastes of space who believe that they occupy the moral high ground on any matter. Anytime. Anywhere. Anywhy.
I have never had much time for Oliver Cromwell but he struck the gong right on the button, in my opinion, when he wrote to my Presbyterian ancestors:-
I beseech you, in the bowels of Christ, think it possible that you may be mistaken.
I will always march to that particular drum. Although, to be fair, I believe that he should have used an ‘?’ at the end of his beseeching.
The Huns are clearly bad people. Everybody in Jockland knows this. More, and worse, they are not the same Huns as we used to have. Those Huns got buried under unsustainable debt and consigned to the Outer Darkness for ever. Didn’t they?
Well, no they didn’t. It took them a while but they are back. Proud to say that us Jambos delayed their resurrection by a year but the fact remains that they are back from never being away. And as vibrant a part of Scottish football as they will, I hope, always be. We need to remember Slim Jim, the Famous Five, The Terrible Trio, the Lisbon Lions and all the rest. Baggage indeed but our baggage,
So, JW. Congratulations. A deserved victory. Good luck in the Final.