CAN'T remember if I told you about my loan deal.

Indeed, can't remember who you are. In fact, can't remember who I am.

But back to the loan deal. This refers not to the cash I borrowed from wigglewoggle.com. That has been paid back at a very reasonable 1000 trillion % interest plus add-ons and one takeaway. Mercifully, the doctors insist I only need one kidney.

No, the loan deal in question was part of my stellar football career. It all flooded back to me at Celtic Park on Wednesday night. But that is enough about my prostate.

My memory was jolted into life by the appearance of Mo Bangura. The Sierra Leone forward is a Celtic player who was turning out for IF Elfsborg.

This may be confusing to the uneducated in football terms but it was severely provocative to the Celtic fans. His reception was similar to the one I received when I addressed the Ukip conference on why open borders promote cultural friendship and then invited them all back for a pint in a pub in Edinburgh.

Mo's loan was thus a matter of some controversy but my spell with a Scouts team in the late 1960s has strangely lain unrecorded by football history.

Never had much time for the Scouts. If I ever wanted to spend time with people with knobbly knees who went on treks and lived under canvas I would have joined my maw and her sisters on their jaunts to the family pile in Eddlewood.

But I did like a game and was thus open to a discreet approach from a Scout. I turned this down but did agree to play football for a short spell [Akela was a magician].

Thus I played for the 91st Troop - named after the date of their last victory, AD presumably - and embarked on an experience that was as strange as the time my maw gave me an LSD tablet believing it was a vitamin pill that helped you become wealthy.

The Scout team were so crap they all qualified to play for Turdistan. They needed a compass to find the goal and handed out badges the first time we won a corner. Our centre-half was so knock-kneed he once started a fire by sprinting in the penalty box.

This was all good for me. They made me look like Zinedine Zidane. It was the equivalent of painting with a roomful of monkeys.

As they throw body matter at the canvas, one draws mum and dad with Popeye arms, a box-like car and rays emanating from a yellow sun, while accepting plaudits likening one to Van Gogh. The loan had to come to an end mainly because I was beginning to accept that the rules of football consisted almost entirely of my side repeatedly kicking off.

And talking of kicking off, that brings me to my spell in Stirling amateur football that began as an interim measure because most of the players at St Ninians Thistle had committed offences so grievous they had either been suspended by the local association or by the neck.

This St Ninians tale was a sort of prequel to the Dirty Dozen, a sort of Dirty XI. In the Dirty Dozen, the criminals are freed from jail so they can cause mayhem in wartime. The opposite applied in St Ninians.

After the intervention of the judiciary, football or otherwise, the team was left so short for the run-in to the season we included Big Tam, a jakey who was always in the park anyway and used his half-time orange to give a special zest to his Special Brew, plus a collie who, incidentally, burst two balls and won three man of the match awards.

Thanks to small mercies (and time served for good behaviour) the boys all returned ready for the start of the season. My loan deal was made permanent. And thus started a glorious career in the Stirling and District Amateur League where tackles flew so high we needed air traffic controllers rather than refs and at least one cup competition stipulated that the use of a ball was optional.

Can't remember if I have mentioned any of this before . . .