Odd fellows, the Scots.
The other week, a few of the chaps and I boarded a charabanc and headed off to jolly old Glasgow to watch a couple of Caledonian also-rans contesting a cup final of some description. How they managed to get to a cup final is beyond me. Still the crowds of folk who had turned up seemed to be enjoying themselves.
The chaps in green, Hibernians, took up most of the stadium and a right rum lot they were too. It seems your Hibs fan doesn't consider a face to be complete without a whacking great scar on it. I admit not every chap had the matching Alex Ferguson boozehound red nose and the Rugby forward cauliflower lugs, but they all had a scar. Still, nice chaps.
The other lot, Livington, were away up in a corner. They seemed a bit bashful and didn't make a lot of noise. The two goals they scored at the start of the second half brought them out of their shells, though. They even started a bit of a sing-song. I suppose it kept their mind off the godawful football being played on the pitch.
The boys in green by this point were concentrating on mumbling discontented scotch curses to themselves, doubtless with half a mind on the forthcoming drinking binges and ensuing punch-ups they had planned for the evening.
As we departed for our waiting chariot, any thoughts of a refreshing tipple were dashed by the sight of the boys in blue, jealously guarding the entrance to the only nearby hostelry, which had a notice informing all and sundry that they would be restricting admittance to regular customers. Any visitors to their fair city were cordially invited to go boil their heads.
Impressed with this fine Glaswegian hospitality, we boarded the bus and headed for home, stopping only to partake in another fine Scots tradition, the enormous carry out from an off licence.
Predictably, in Glasgow they keep their retail liquor behind bulletproof glass.
Suitably awed at the scotsman's passion for strong drink, we made our weary way home.