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.