Seven pubs, we tried to get into on Saturday night, in order to watch the football in, like, a communally cultural context. No chance. Not in the vicinity of Byres Road Bohemia, anyway. So it was a quiet pint in the Lismore and a wander back to Havelock Street as the game ended, updated by bulletins from the crowds crushed in doorways from Dumbarton Road upwards.
Next day, the newspapers were, to we veterans of 1978 and worse, wearily predictable: we wus robbed, the referee's a right pasta, the boys can hold their heads up high. Another glorious failure. But hey, we've learned how to hope hopelessly and lose wonderfully: on to the next. Or, as the flag-bedraped chap on the Underground said, 'We're gonnie win the World Cup!' Of course we are.
Grangemouth last night, which is like the set of BladeRunner, with a squeakily new ASDA, then back to Glasgow in the newly-acquired Volvo, which is going well so far. If only the heated seats worked...
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