Disaster for Scotland

During any sporting tournament whatsoever in which Scotland have been invited to take part (rugby, football, heck even tiddlywinks, let’s face it), blood pressure in this house is dangerously high. Engineer tries to pretend he doesn't care, but his face takes on a pinched, strained appearance and he swears a lot at the officials. Judge is beside himself at the unfairness of every bad refereeing decision, and has his bedroom draped in all manner of Saltire flags. Boxer would care, only she cannot hide her glee at the obvious distress of Judge.

Every commentator who has ever lived, or at least who has commentated on sporting events in which my beloved nation takes part, and particularly if he or she has the misfortune to actually be Scottish, has used the phrase “Disaster for Scotland!”, in a desperate, resigned, tragic tone.

When I talk about the misfortune to be Scottish, let’s be clear that I am immensely, steadfastly, axe-wieldingly fond of my homeland. Mountains, space, heather, castles, square sausage, whisky (and our other national drink, Irn Bru, possibly worse for a person’s health than whisky itself), the generally-accepted practice of men displaying their hairy knees in all weathers, Tunnocks tea cakes and Burns Night, an occasion where it is anticipated, even expected, that the nation will sink its annual quota of booze all in the one sitting. What’s not to love about it? We Scots are frank, funny, obnoxious, and passionate to the point of blindness in our refusal to admit that our beloved nation has any faults whatsoever (eg a smidgen over-patriotic, with a shocking diet and an over-reliance on the sale of plastic tourist tat to make us an extra few quid, not to mention one of the worst sectarian problems on the planet). Please note: I am allowed to make fun of Scotland by virtue of my being Scottish. However, woe betide anyone who isn’t Scottish making fun of Scotland. We just don’t have that kind of sense of humour, quite frankly.

We are, however, famously bad at sport. No, come on, we are. We would love to think we are good at it. The reality is, however, that we fail often, and we usually do it in the most dramatic last minute circumstances. No wonder our blood pressure is so high. No wonder we have the worst record for heart disease of any western nation. It’s our sporting heroes! They let us down you see. And we so badly want them to be glorious. We would do almost anything for them to be glorious.

I went to school very close to Murrayfield Stadium, so I feel rugby-related defeats particularly painfully. As you can imagine, the World Cup in New Zealand is not proving to be a happy, stress-free time for me. The only good thing about it is that the time difference means that most of the action takes place at unsociable viewing times, so I mostly just look at the result and sigh heavily. At least I don’t have to go through every jaw-clenching, nail-biting moment with our boys.

Our propensity to fail in sporting endeavours makes our very occasional victory so very, very sweet though. And we always have fun in the pub afterwards, usually alongside our protagonists, arms around shoulders, all singing “Scotland the Brave” together (if only we knew more words than just “Scotland the Brave”). Perhaps it is enough that we infiltrate our enemies and make them sing our songs and drink our drinks? I suspect not though.

Introductory musings

This will be a series of blogs for gentle entertainment and amusement, and by that I mean both mine and my readers'. I hope. This blog represents my own opinions only, and should not be used as a blunt instrument with which to beat my nearest and dearest about the head.


It takes something of a leap into the unknown, grasping ones self-confidence by the scruff of the neck, to publish a blog. At the back of one's mind is the nagging doubt that anyone on the planet will be remotely interested in anything one has to say on any topic. What if I inadvertently upset someone? Worse, what if no one reads it, and I expose my soul to absolutely nobody?


With all that in mind, and brandishing it as something of a caveat to the general drivel which is likely to appear on this blog periodically, let me introduce myself. I am a mother of 2 and wife of 1, and I also have a full time job which gives me a legitimate excuse to get away from the housework. My children are a good source of both amusement and poignancy for me. I'll call them Judge and Boxer (although just to be clear, those aren't their actual names, because that would be silly. And probably illegal, in some countries of the world). Judge is the older - he is constantly horrified by the unfairness of the world. Boxer doesn't spend too much time being horrified by unfairness - she is more interested in putting things right, and her favoured method usually involves contradiction and then physical violence. They are both still quite little, little enough to pick up (although, in the case of Judge, these days one needs to ensure one has core muscles locked and knees braced) and little enough to think that farting is funny. Oh, hang on. That's everyone isn't it.


My husband (let's call him Engineer) provides good insight and observations. He's erudite, although he will immediately ask me what that means. He observes the world, and then he applies his own not insubstantial intelligence and good, decent belief systems to those observations and comes up with...well, someone who wouldn't do a bad job as Prime Minister, quite frankly. I'd encourage it, and I'd even vote for him, only I wouldn't really want to live in London. Been there, done that, got the sweat-stained, blood-encrusted t-shirt.


We live in Edinburgh, although Engineer's family are scattered around Glasgow, which means they get a nosebleed whenever they come and visit. There are simply HUNDREDS of them. But that's ok, big families are riveting and provide a rich vein of amusing material. And there's always someone to laugh at you when you do something stupid.