Oh, Flower of Scotland

You’ve got to hand it to the Tartan Army.

After all, those poor buggers have been following the Scottish national football team all around the continent of Europe (and occasionally beyond) for donkeys’ years.

And all clad in their ritual attire, come rain, hail, sleet or snow … the dark blue football strip, the kilt, the sporran, the ‘see you Jimmy’ bunnet & hairdo, the Caterpillar boots, the saltire flag and the traditional half-bottle of Famous Grouse whisky stuffed down their boxer shorts, while they stood there shivering their way through the latest miserable no-scoring draw in far-flung places like Lithuania and Uzbekistan.

So, how absolutely fitting it was, then, for the same resilient souls to be rewarded this summer with a trip, albeit a very transient one, to the good old US of A. The sun shone, the Tartan Army’s impact was immense and their conduct was impeccable, a real credit to our proud little country. They sang, they danced, they ingratiated themselves to their American hosts and everybody was happy.

Until, that was … the fitba’ started.

The whole tortuous affair lasted a total of 270 minutes, which if you’re at all interested, roughly equates to the entire lifespan of the common household moth (non-smoking, non-drinking moths we’re talking about here).

And when all the huffing & puffing and spitting & grimacing were over, we had managed to accumulate a grand total of two shots on target, one of which actually counted but was in reality an own-goal, while the other trickled at a snail’s pace into the grateful arms of a Moroccan goalkeeper who had just awakened from a deep, deep sleep.

It was completely and utterly dismal stuff, courtesy of a head coach called Steve Clarke whose football philosophy is about as entertaining as gawking at a crumpled black-and-white photograph of an ancient church ruin.

To be fair to Clarke, though, he did throw in the towel immediately after Scotland’s final match had ended in a humiliating thrashing from The Boys from Brazil.

I’m thinking that the discussion with his employers might possibly have been somewhat less than in-depth.

‘I think I should resign.’
‘Cheerio.’

But then, of course, we come to his employers themselves. I mean, who in their right minds would contrive to hire a guy with a track record of inane mediocrity and the countenance of Victor Meldrew undergoing root canal treatment? The contrast between Clarke’s sullen moroseness and the Tartan Army’s gregarious joviality will remain in my consciousness for a very long time.

On the upside, at least we’re not moaning about Scottish referees this time around … principally on account of the fact that we were one of the very few countries not to have a single official representing their country at the World Cup.

I wonder why? Could it possibly be that our own whistlers are utterly, completely and demonstrably useless? Perhaps the Scottish Football Association’s latest foreign junket should take in an educational trip to places like Slovenia and El Salvador, both of whom were fully represented, to find out how it’s done?

Anyway, we’re out … and Engaluuund are still in. And they won the World Cup in 1966 … or haven’t you heard?

At the time of writing, they’ve just got themselves into the last eight of the competition, and in my humble opinion, they have a very good chance of winning it. But if they did, at least they would be graciously modest about it. Well, wouldn’t they?

However, for those of you who crave the Sassenachs’ fall from grace (and there are a few around these parts, I am told), you have one trump card up your sleeves.

Their head coach is called Thomas Tuchel and he is … well, he isn’t English … he is German. Actually, German.

And English football fans are about as fond of their German counterparts as Wile E Coyote is of Roadrunner. With very good reason too, I might add, because the Germans have stuffed Engaluuund on more occasions than I care to remember.

So, the question about Thomas Tuchel is this, then.

Saviour … or saboteur?

If the former, he will be forever revered in English football folklore. However, if the latter, he will go on to enjoy the same ignominy as the aforementioned Steve Clarke … the only discernible difference being that Herr Tuchel had a real go.