Living in London When the Tartan Army Visited

Ye wains ask whit did ah dae in the invasion o 1977? This is the script, it’s important, cause jeezie-peeps, it’s been a lang time since oor squad won anythin worth getting radio rental aboot. So gies a brek, shut yer geggies and let yer grandpa tell it.

Ah wiz finished wi 3rd year o uni and wiz wurking in London to save dosh tae go travelling aroon Greece wi some uni pals. Ah hid a job looking efter a newspaper shoap wi a room thrown in, in the flat above, in Dalling Road, Hammersmith which The Pogues made immortal later in ‘The Dark Streets of London’.

The business belonged tae John, the uncle of a pal from uni, Shug, who had left the previous year and had come doon frae Coatbridge tae find work. When I arrived in early May, I hud drapped in tae see him on ma wey tae the south coast to find a joab in hotels. We met up efter he finished his work at the DHSS in Sheperd’s Bush and had a few pints. When we goat back tae his uncle’s hoose in Ravenscourt Rd, efter we sat doon, we right aff clocked a few spaces where the TV and stereo had been and the fluttering curtains at the windae. We called the cops and when his uncle came hame, he took it all very stoically with whit ah wid learn, tae be his catchphrase:

‘All part of life’s rich tapestry.’ He wiz a wee bit mair erudite than uz.

We waited for the cops for two hours – who nivver arrived – before gaing oot for a kerry oot. Somewherr near the end of that very boozy evening, John’s commiseration had turned to celebration on opening a bottle o his Talisker and he said:

‘Why bother going to the south coast? Just get a job and you can stay here.’ Ah goat up, still pished the next morn, and went doon at 9 am tae King St, tried a few agencies and by 10 am ah had a job waashing dishes at Heathrow, or ‘thief-row as it wiz called then. But it goat a wee bit tedious despite watchin Concorde takin aff through the windae by the sink. Then magic, the looking efter the newspaper shoap joab cam up. Ah learned tae play mooth organ blues in the quiet spells and listened tae the radio, which learnt me a love o Jimmy Buffet’s ‘Margaritaville’ which led tae yet anither life... a tale fur anither time. Shug an ah usually went up the West end oana Seturday efternoon efter checking oot the gigs in Time Oot. I wiz enjoying the excitement o living in “the Big Smoke”.

Ah had been ther a month when the Tartan Army came tae toon. Wembley tickets were like gold dust, so we wur watching the Scotland vs England gemm oan the telly at John’s and planned tae meet some pals that wir doon. Of the 96,000 fans at Wembley 2/3 wir Scots. Efter the early heedir o Gordy McQueen we were aff the sofa and punching air and clinking cans. Then Kenny Dalgleish stopped herts wi a two kick strike intae the goal through the bourach o a defence. Even the eeksie peeksi John goat aff the couch as delirious as aw o us. Channon’s successful penalty couldnae faze us; we were on oor wey as Ally’s Army. Easy! Easy! Final score 2-1 tae Scotland. The 65,000 strong Tartan Army invaded the pitch and climbed oan the posts, which collapsed and were rapidly cannibalised. Ach, even Rod Stewart wiz oan the field. Oan the box, the Jocks were o’er Trafalgar square, in the fountains and dancing like it wiz the end o’the wurld. Oor celebrations efter retaining the home championships cup were just beginning.

We hud tae get up toon, Rab, Vid and Gord an some ither boays frae Glesga were stying up the West End in a hotel. Shug had the address, so aff we went frae Ravenscourt Park tube station wiz jist up the street. Central line up tae Victoria and oot tae find oor china’s.

A the wey up tae the West End oan the tube wi saw kilted laddies and lassies wi tartan scarfs and bunnets dancing as the host nation fowk looked horrified and shot the craw, but ah saw nae violence or abuse, mebbe they were jist stunned by oor conviviality – or lack o underwear. Peety thers no enough o’ that in the wurld noo. Naw – conviviality, ya numpty! We goat aff at Victoria, went tae their ludgins, but they were obviously missing in action. The crowd, like a swarm o steamin Bay City Roller clad zombies had gied the pubs the skits – aw wir shut. It wiz like a ghost toon, apart frae the fans. So we sat in a square like an occupying army under oor Saltires and Lion Rampants and drank wi whatever clan proffered booze while boays offered goal post wid and turf for sale frae army surplus rucksacks. ‘Wanti buy some chief?’

But graciousness in victory wiz the biggest trick. Ah didnae see any rioting or vandalism, jist stupid stuff like guys climbing lamposts, for the hell of it… and fawin aff. Even the polis were nae wherr tae be seen. In every Scots hert there wiz a feeling o a being Jock Tamson’s bairns and withoot the triumphalism and nastiness. Aw the usual sectarianism and rivalry wiz gone like the froth aff a freshly opened can o Tennents, nane ae - ur ye a Hibee or a Jam Tart? Tic or Gers? It wiz just a feeling of being the tap o the national footballing world again. Even when we hud tae come south to find joabs, we could still be the nation that gied the UK somethin tae think aboot; Cele-brat-ion!

Noo get alang and let me huv ma tea in peace.