THE makers of Poltergeist VI: The Ultimate Curse have been forced to shut down production. Apparently, they were fine about the 1000 broken mirrors in the commissary, the trashing of a Native American graveyard and the wean that seemed to appear at the window of the script meeting late at night, but they baulked when they found out that one of the production stuff was a Hibs fan. “It is destined for crisis,” read a statement in green ink. “We just could not take the chance of an on-set disaster.”

Today’s Scottish Cup final will just have to suffice, I suppose, for long-time lovers of grisly horrors. The expectation is that Hibs will extend a losing record in the Scottish Cup that stretches back to the days when both flights and tweets were reserved for birds and the mainstream media was not called lazy. Yup, that long.

For those of us whose idea of a pass is now only restricted to buses, the Hibs curse is a relatively recent phenomenon. I know it goes back to 1902 but I cannot remember anyone banging on about it in the dog days of the last century. Then again, I cannot remember much about the last century, mainly because I was amnesic as a newt.

What I do remember is that Hibs had the best side not to win the league that I ever witnessed. This is, of course, the sort of compliment that is hardly sought after in the competitive world of football but it remains sincere. Any neutral of a certain age surely holds at least a sliver of regret that the team managed by Eddie Turnbull and captained by the sublime Pat Stanton did not achieve ultimate domestic success. They were unlucky rather than cursed. Their major problem in the seventies was they were competing against a Celtic side that contested at the pointed end of the European Cup and a Rangers team that won the European Cup-Winners’ Cup.

But Hibs were very, very good and a pleasure to watch though one league cup and a couple of Dryburgh trophies seems scant reward for their flowing enterprise and their collection of marvellous players. But no one talked of ‘’Hibbsing it’’ or curses then. They were admired rather than held up to ridicule.

But I believe it is a crueller world today. As Hibs and their fans are experiencing in the run-up to the cup final. Cup final day is routinely a time of nerves for any fan supporting a participating club but imagine being a Hibee (Hibbee?, or in the case of an ecstatic fan a Hib E?) and knowing that defeat does not just mean sadness but invites the sort of jokefest that will be unrelenting if also resolutely unfunny. My mate, Hugh Crivvens, has already remarked on radio how it is not enough for the Scottish football supporter to see his club succeed. They must also rejoice in the failure of others.

Poor auld Hibs seem measured to perform that role, yet again, this afternoon. But wait…surely there must be a chance that today is one for sunshine on Leith after the Scottish Cup darkness of more than a century?

I have a Hibs-supporting mate who is doing everything to ensure that his team prevails this afternoon. He has employed a cleric to exorcise his scarf. He took it for walk. He has expunged all memory of the cup past by the simple expedient of undergoing a pub crawl along Rose Street and destroying his remaining brain cell. And he has become so positive he is not allowed to tweet about Scottish politics. In an attempt to rid himself of all previous cup final rituals, he plans to change his journey to Hampden, including the slightest of tweaks in that he will head for his local pub rather the national stadium.

Selflessly, even desperately, he believes that “I wasn’t there” is the last, crucial factor that will get his team over the line in a Scottish Cup final. “This is not cowardice,” he said from behind his couch. “I just think it is far too much to expect Hibs to win the Scottish Cup final on a day I happen to be there. Statistics prove this is such an extraordinarily flawed concept that the Scottish Labour Party wants to include it in its next manifesto.”

His mates, of course, will make the trip. Some of them have indulged in extreme behaviour to ward off the curse, only stopping short of human sacrifice on Arthur’s Seat. Though, I would suggest that if Hibs lose tonight it might not be the time for a wee jaunt up that Edinburgh hill.

However, Hibs supporters travel in hope which is, of course, the curse of all football fans. Their apprehension, of course, will be matched by some Rangers fans. If there is one thing worse than suffering from a century-old curse, it is being the fall guys when it is ended.

It is why this final offers both the certainty of triumph and the horror of failure. For those of us of a certain age, there might not be a more gaudily spooky, awfully chilling cup final since that day at Hampden when Margaret Thatcher turned up. But, then, she did not shut down production on a film. Merely the nation’s manufacturing industry.