Picture the scene.

It’s Estadio Benito Villamarin, June 18th 1982  and after going a goal up through a David Narey speculator, notoriously described as a ‘toe-poke’ by Jimmy Hill - the bloke every Scotsman loved to hate until Jeremy Clarkson came along - Brazil has redressed the balance by giving our boys a classic football lesson they’ll never ever forget.

It’s only 3-1 but in reality they’re toying with us – they could score any time they wanted, the Brazilians are putting on a breathtaking display of fast, fluent virtuosity the Scots, both in the crowd and on the field, can only gasp at in admiration. 

With 5 minutes to go, the ball goes out for a throw-in near a section of the crowd containing thousands of delirious – even in certain defeat - members of the Tartan Army.  Amongst this throng of sweaty kilt and Tam O’Shanter wearing Scottish fans are Sean Connery, Rod Stewart and – honest, I’m not making this up – the louche British actor Denholm Elliot, who’d clearly lunched rather well.  (Oh all right, no point in being coy, he was pissed out of his brain.)

John Robertson, the polar opposite of the shimmering, seemingly air-brushed stars of Brazil – a classic Scotsman - chalk white, tubby and sort of dishevelled, goes over to collect the ball.

‘Come on Robbo’, exhort the Tartan Army, ‘let’s get intae them’.  Because in situations like this, what else can you say?

The little winger, clearly knackered, looks up at the fans in a rare moment of shared unanimity.

‘Haud on a minute now boys’, he says, ‘I mean, for ***** sake, this is BRAZIL!’

Brilliant.  And it really happened.

We got gubbed.  Of course we did.  4-1, as it ended up. 

It mattered, but it didn’t matter really, the thing was, we were there, competing against the best the world had to offer and holding our own.

Holding our own for a while, anyway. Thirty three minutes or thereabouts. Till Zibo’s free kick. Big Roughy absolutely rooted to the spot.

Yeah, we lost, but we kept our pride.

One of the most iconic and memorable games in the history of football and, for me, it perfectly sums up what’s so perfect and great about the World Cup.  

Having a laugh, watching some superb football under the sun in some exotic foreign clime, being with mates old and new, supporting your team and, of course, getting completely pissed - but obviously, only if your name’s Denholm Elliot.

Unfortunately, we don’t get to do it anymore.  The World Cup is a party we’re no longer invited to, even though we’re quite welcome to watch it from the outside, like street urchins peering in a window at the privileged nobs necking claret and eating barbecued swan, or whatever it is nobs do. 

Well guess what, I’m sick of missing out.  And next year, the tournament will be held in – of all places – Brazil - as football-crazy a country as Scotland, but with better weather, better looking women and well, let’s face it, better – much better - football skills, pedigree and top level success.

We don’t get to play with the big boys anymore.  It’s a national tragedy.   A disaster.  A crying shame.

The solution is a simple one though. 

Support another team. Transfer your allegiance to another country and follow their progress instead. 

No, it’s not treason.  Of course it isn’t.  It’s just practical.

Having said that, it’s probably best you go with a nation who approach the tournament with a good attitude, who don’t assume they should be leading contenders on the basis of one jammy victory back in the mists of time, largely due to a myopic Russian linesman and blatant home town patronage.

Bu then if you truly want to call yourself a Scot, you simply can’t support England in any sport, recreation or pastime anyway, not under any circumstances. 

In fact, in an independent Scotland, under the Presidency of Wee Eck the Corpulent, offering an English line-up any form of support or well-wishing will be regarded as a heinous crime against the state summarily punishable by death by firing squad, no questions asked.   Quite right, too.

Australia will be there, though.  I’ll be following them.  You should too.

They call it ‘soccer’ of course.  But that’s all right; it’s an abbreviation of Association Football after all, a name I don’t mind in the slightest since ‘association’ suggests friendship, fellowship and positive connection, all of the things that football is, or at any rate should be. 

And okay, they probably won’t large it up quite as much as we could; they won’t insist on wearing kilts, won’t paint their nether regions blue or flash them willy-nilly on the faintest of pretexts at anyone within a 10 mile radius.

They probably won’t harbour a massive chip on their shoulder, won’t sing songs about Jimmy Hill that are both politically and ideologically incorrect and ridiculously passé, they won’t abuse the English for no good reason whatsoever.

Actually, that’s wrong, they might do that last one.

However, they won’t take just as much pleasure – and possibly more – in England’s calamities than they do in their own modest achievements.

Come to think of it, that’s cobblers too – they definitely will do that.

You see where I’m going with this?  Australia will be there – in Brazil, in the midst of it, the thick of it, partying, having fun -participating. 

Scotland won’t.

If it’s a choice between missing out on the party and purporting to be an Aussie for a few weeks, well that isn’t too much of a sacrifice, is it?

And, the pay-off is, you’re still able to laugh when England get well and truly emptied.

I’ll be there. 

Care to join me?