Legion of the lost

with them all the way

THE Russ Abbot bunnet with matted ginger wig attachment is very popular with this season's football fan about town. Ditto the Hawaiian shirt with kilt, the Royal-Stuart-shawl-as-bedouin-head-dress, the Jacobite feathered cap, the mohair tammy, and the brushed cotton pyjama bottoms (Royal Stuart, natch). Then we have the basic navy blue jersey, the next-door's-curtains-from-hell strip worn in the 1990 World Cup, and the shimmeringly synthetic tartan of Euro96. A Braveheart streaky saltire may be seen on many a cheek. Mel Gibson has a lot to answer for.

``Excuse me, there's a man outside with a painted arse: it might be newsworthy, it might not.......''

What could the football agnostic possibly learn from a pilgrimage to Wembley? I'm sick as a parrot of hearing that the game of two halves is a metaphor for national aspiration, a time when strong men weep. We all know it's not a matter of life and death, thank you Mr Shankly. When the last cliche is hammered into the back of the net, it's just 11 men against 11. Or that's what I always believed.

FRIDAY night at the Vine in Kentish Town. Strains of Cheer Up Terry V waft out into the summer night. (.......oh what can it mean/ to a/ sad English bastard and a/ shite football tee-ee-ee-eeam.......) The bar is already full, though most of the boys are whooping it up at a ceilidh in the Ukrainian Embassy and won't arrive till later. Our host Danny McGovern (he's the one in the saltire-stovepipe hat and orange nylon sporran) is providing free accommodation to the Tartan Army.

Danny hails from Glasgow but has lived in England for 29 years. He is 31, and currently approaching that stage of revelry where conversation gives way to the occasional eloquent, if contextless, handshake. Like an amiable retriever suddenly offering you his paw.

Some 300 guests are expected. Where will he put them all? ``I've 12 bedrooms upstairs.'' (Which works out at 25 to a room.) Plus, there'll be mattresses down in the other bar. (He has 276 mattresses?) Finally, he comes clean: it's a lock-in. ``We're open all night. They'll conk out where they are, most of them.''

Greig is 24. A joiner to trade, and by inclination. His aftershave cuts through the tobacco fug like Jeyes Fluid. Quite pleasant, actually. He flew down with 24 Jedburgh boys on Thursday morning. Between baggage carousel and taxi rank eight of them went astray. Now a succession of cheers announces their reunion. Their capering on the lions in Trafalgar Square made the Six O'Clock News, so the boys are high on publicity, among other influences. ``E-ed out of their faces,'' according to Greig, who sticks to the beer.

Just three of the Jedburgh party have tickets for the game. But then, the majority of the pub seems ticketless and, tonight, football is the last thing on their minds. Discussion ranges widely from the pros and cons of moving on to a nightclub, to Marti Pellow, to Ricky Ross, to where a certain well-known striker buys his drugs, and what a lovely lookin' lassie I am. (It is very dark in here.) Attempts to broach the subject of the match are headed off with ``hope for the best, expect the worst'' and ``win, lose, or draw we'll have a good time''. One thing about supporting Scotland, you soon become fluent in the cliches of philosophical defeat.

The songs are more bullish in tone ..... we're the famous tartan army and we're off to Wembulee ..... I'm a bastard I'm a bastard I'm a bastard so I am/ but I'd rather be a bastard than to be an Englishman ..... If you hate the f***ing English clap your hands ..... This one should not be taken too literally. When Davy grimaces ``Four English boys just came in'', the look on his face is not hostility but sympathetic concern: ``I don't think they thought too much of the atmosphere.''

Around midnight a trio of fans clamber on to the pool table for Flower of Scotland. Davy is profoundly moved. ``The hairs are standing up on the back of my neck,'' he confesses hoarsely. ``All the fans are the same: they're that emotional, they could cry.'' Tam's sweeping arm takes in the Russ Abbot headgear, the Bonnie Scotland tattoos, the profesionally-printed Jimmy Hill is a Poof flags, the kilted fan propped upright and fast asleep amid this cacophony. ``You can go nightclubbing any weekend. I'm here for this.......''

Playtimes at my school were segregated. The girls' yard was an ordered space given over to skipping, clapping games, discreet dramatic invention. The boys' yard was a turbulent melee of football. Saturday afternoons, men bellowed at the television screen in voices of barely-contained fury, and later, disputed incomprehensibly at the bar. The sexual divide starts with two anoraks dropped five feet apart on the asphalt. Boys' games. Not knowing what they're playing at.

And yet, Wembley weekend offers an unexpected truce. The boys might not be the acme of political correctness, but for once we all feel like we're on the same side.

``YOU have to understand, a draw's a moral victory for us.'' The Black Lion, Kilburn High Road, is quartering the bourgeois battalion of the Tartan Army, a cosmopolitan cast of thirtysomethings. Stephen has flown over from Australia. Davy is just in from Paris. Peter's native Achiltibuie strains through the precision mesh of a Munich accent. Gordon McC stays down the road in Middlesex, though he had to detour via Dumfries to find a babysitter for his son. There are lawyers, teachers, architects, bank managers, research chemists, big wheels in life assurance. A couple even hand out their business cards.

``In Scotland the middle class don't go to the Henley Regatta, we go to the football. What it really is is a brilliant cross-section of society.'' Mary the Glasgow management consultant delivers the first cliche of the morning. And it goes without saying that she's right.

Callum's card says ``traveller, philosopher, busker, storyteller'', though his day job is teaching at a Glasgow school. He remembers his first foray, the '74 World Cup. He teamed-up with a pair of squaddies on the train. Their suitcases contained nothing but cans of McEwan's Export. One time he woke up in a van in Genoa with somebody's false teeth stuck in his toe ..... That's another thing about following Scotland: you get to see the world, although not always that much of it. Gavin went to Moscow for a week, stayed in a hotel on the edge of Red Square, and never even made it to Lenin's tomb. Got as far as McDonald's and the Irish bar.

Time to confess to a twinge of envy, here. Outwith Scotland matches the gang may not exist - this is a six degrees of separation crowd - but right now you'd think they'd known each other forever. Mary's claim that the Sweden game was the best day of her life seems entirely reasonable. Rod Stewart's on the telly, a couple of pipers are up on the seats, the Irish barstaff are working overtime and, to borrow a word more often used than merited, the craic is brilliant. There's even a guy in an England shirt with a glass in his hand. ``It's a broad church,'' Gordon says. And it is: Mary wraps a length of Royal Stuart round my neck. It seems this football agnostic has joined the Tartan Army.

THE pipers lead the parade along Kilburn High Road towards the tube station. With temperatures nudging the nineties, those wishing to flaunt their sacrificial devotion to the team are wearing snugly-knotted 100% woollen tartan scarves. With Raybans. Some carry half-finished glasses of whisky. Towards us marches a tighter file, youths whose skinhead style does not signify admiration of Ewan McGregor. The contrast is gratifyingly obvious. Sure, we're the Tartan Army, we're mental and we're barmy, but we are not neo-fascist sociopaths.

That England fan sits on the train, perhaps over-intent on his newspaper but perfectly safe amid a trio of Scots supporters discussing parenting problems. The driver comes over the Tannoy with a chorus of Marie's Wedding. We're having a ball. Gordon has a good feeling about the game. If he's right we'll be on the pitch after the final whistle, just like '77, excising our souvenirs of turf. Legend has it that last time, some punter walked into a fish shop with his grassy memento and demanded it deep fried with chips.

Inside the stadium, we're massively outnumbered, which is perhaps the way we like it. Five-sixths of the terracing is a seething of red and white, but around us stretch the blues and yellows of the saltire and lion rampant. Words like solidarity, camaraderie, are too weak for this bond. Tribalism is not always a dirty word. God Save the Queen is received with a chorus of whistles and frantic V-signs. Then comes Flower of Scotland and the swelling power of 10,000 voices joined in song. We finish several bars ahead of Fish. Too bad he couldn't keep up.

The chanting and singing is accompanied by a repertoire of hand gestures elaborate as a tick-tack code: those double-handed V-signs, the accusing finger jab and, when the ref makes a particularly unfeasible decision, the open-palm appeal. No-one amid this crowd could doubt the oceans of testosterone behind these synchronised shows of defiance. Beside me bank managers and opticians are yelling, teeth bared, sinews taut in the rituals of masculine aggression. But oddly, unprecedentedly, the experience is not alienating. Somehow I'm included. It feels safe enough to enjoy.

Which is more than can be said for the football. It's a stressful business, watching Scotland play. Gordon, chin gripped anxiously in one hand, ages visibly in the course of the match, his agonised absorption occasionally punctured by selfconsciousness. ``Sad, isn't it?'' he murmurs apologetically. ``Sad but important.''

We're playing well, apparently, though the biggest cheers are still when England misses the goal. ``We've rattled them a wee bit,'' he says, pointing to the multitudes of red and white. With Scotland the poorer team on paper, we're pinning our hopes on the alchemy of the moment, lucky breaks, the hocus-pocus of crowd morale. ``At the end of the day: it just means more to us.'' By half-time, with the score 0-0, something seems to be working. The fans scent a moral victory and really let themselves go, bouncing in a writhing, air-guitaring frenzy to Rockin' All Over the World. I never thought to be seen in public singing along to Status Quo, but then it's been a day of surprises.

Such euphoria cannot last. In the second half England scores. The rest of the stadium erupts in a swarm of St George crosses while we sit, stunned, in a pocket of perfect stillness. Hopes surge again when we're awarded that penalty. McAllister misses.

``Disaster,'' Gordon chokes. ``The biggest disaster you can possibly write.'' Well, not quite. Moments later, Gazza scores. Two nil. The Scotland stand is an eerie place, its ranks so impassive, faces so grave, you'd think us trapped in another dimension. We've lost, the realisation hits us like something we've always known.

This is no-one's idea of a good time, this tearing in the chest, a feeling far beyond disappointment. Triumphalism turned to ashes, exhilaration sunk in the inevitability of defeat. So much pleasure flung back in our faces. Too much is riding on this game. The final whistle blows. The English sections empty but the Tartan Army remains behind, arms grimly folded, eyes suspiciously bright. Soon there will be singing. Another cliche is validated: nobody loses as magnificently as us.

When conversation eventually resumes, on the walk back to the tube, the real question is who's going to the Switzerland game on Tuesday. Before the match they'd been undecided, now there's no option. ``I've travelled all over the world watching Scotland find new ways of not qualifying, I'm not going to miss another one,'' Winker says, in a grim attempt at humour. Every so often someone breaks silence to shake their head in grief: ``I can't believe he missed that penalty.......''

From now on nothing goes right. The National Front have managed to close most of the bars on Kilburn High Road. Celtic solitarity forgotten, those still serving refuse entry to the fans. The Tartan Army has become a collection of stragglers, depressed, disorientated, wondering what to do. Winker says Trafalgar Square is the traditional place to head for. Even in defeat? He gives me a hard look. ``Invariably in defeat.''

Nutter has given away his ticket for the Switzerland game in disgust. ``There's only three times I've cried in my life: when Allan Wells won the hundred metres in the Olympics, when Red rum won for the third time, and today.''

What's more, the computer system he manages crashed on Friday. His firm wanted him to work over the weekend. He laughs incredulously. ``I said `you're joking, I'm going to Wembley tomorrow, I'll be pissed out of my head'.'' So he's probably out of a job as well. But let's put things into perspective. ``I'm 37 and when they scored it was the most horrible moment I've had in the last 20 years.''

In central London the atmosphere is ugly. Charing Cross Road is blocked by police vans. Riot squads are changing into boiler suits and visored helmets. Burger-fattened English youths jog urgently, looking for trouble. They can smell it in the air. Trafalgar Square is cordoned off by police. Tourists ring the perimeter wall like visitors to the zoo. A rump of 30-or-so Scotland fans are clustered at the base of Nelson's column, saltires limp, lions not so rampant, backs to the wall. Still singing, nonsensically ..... we're the famous tartan army and we're off to Wembullee......

Why do we do this to ourselves? Make it so important? Put so much energy into feeling so bad? Since this is football, why look further than the cliched explanation? You take the rough with the smooth, the bad with the good. And briefly back there, for a few doomed fleeting moments, it was the best feeling in the world.

a chorus of Marie's Wedding. We're having a ball. Gordon has a good feeling about the game. If he's right we'll be on the pitch after the final whistle, just like '77, excising our souvenirs of turf. Legend has it that last time, some punter walked into a fish shop with his grassy memento and demanded it deep fried with chips.

Inside the stadium, we're massively outnumbered, which is perhaps the way we like it. Five-sixths of the terracing is a seething of red and white, but around us stretch the blues and yellows of the saltire and lion rampant. Words like solidarity, camaraderie, are too weak for this bond. Tribalism is not always a dirty word. God Save the Queen is received with a chorus of whistles and frantic V-signs. Then comes Flower of Scotland and the swelling power of 10,000 voices joined in song. We finish several bars ahead of Fish. Too bad he couldn't keep up.

The chanting and singing is accompanied by a repertoire of hand gestures elaborate as a tick-tack code: those double-handed V-signs, the accusing finger jab and, when the ref makes a particularly unfeasible decision, the open-palm appeal. No-one amid this crowd could doubt the oceans of testosterone behind these synchronised shows of defiance. Beside me bank managers and opticians are yelling, teeth bared, sinews taut in the rituals of masculine aggression. But oddly, unprecedentedly, the experience is not alienating. Somehow I'm included. It feels safe enough to enjoy.

Which is more than can be said for the football. It's a stressful business, watching Scotland play. Gordon, chin gripped anxiously in one hand, ages visibly in the course of the match, his agonised absorption occasionally punctured by self-consciousness. ``Sad, isn't it?'' he murmurs apologetically. ``Sad but important.''

We're playing well, apparently, though the biggest cheers are still when England misses the goal. ``We've rattled them a wee bit,'' he says, pointing to the multitudes of red and white. With Scotland the poorer team on paper, we're pinning our hopes on the alchemy of the moment, lucky breaks, the hocus-pocus of crowd morale. ``At the end of the day: it just means more to us.'' By half-time, with the score 0-0, something seems to be working. The fans scent a moral victory and really let themselves go, bouncing in a writhing, air-guitaring frenzy to Rockin' All Over the World. I never thought to be seen in public singing along to Status Quo, but then it's been a day of surprises.

Such euphoria cannot last. In the second half England scores. The rest of the stadium erupts in a swarm of St George crosses while we sit, stunned, in a pocket of perfect stillness. Hopes surge again when we're awarded that penalty. McAllister misses.

``Disaster,'' Gordon chokes. ``The biggest disaster you can possibly write.'' Well, not quite. Moments later, Gazza scores. Two nil. The Scotland stand is an eerie place, its ranks so impassive, faces so grave, you'd think us trapped in another dimension. We've lost. The realisation hits us like something we've always known.

This is no-one's idea of a good time, this tearing in the chest, a feeling far beyond disappointment. Triumphalism turned to ashes, exhilaration sunk in the inevit-ability of defeat. So much pleasure flung back in our faces. Too much is riding on this game. The final whistle blows. The English sections empty but the Tartan Army remains behind, arms grimly folded, eyes suspiciously bright. Soon there will be singing. Another cliche is validated: nobody loses as magnificently as us.

When conversation eventually resumes, on the walk back to the tube, the real question is who's going to the Switzerland game on Tuesday. Before the match they'd been undecided, now there's no option. ``I've travelled all over the world watching Scotland find new ways of not qualifying, I'm not going to miss another one,'' Winker says, in a grim attempt at humour. Every so often someone breaks silence to shake their head in grief: ``I can't believe he missed that penalty.......''

From now on nothing goes right. The National Front have managed to close most of the bars on Kilburn High Road. Celtic solidarity forgotten, those still serving refuse entry to the fans. The Tartan Army has become a collection of stragglers, depressed, disorientated, wondering what to do. Winker says Trafalgar Square is the traditional place to head for. Even in defeat? He gives me a hard look. ``Invariably in defeat.''

Nutter has given away his ticket for the Switzerland game in disgust. ``There's only three times I've cried in my life: when Allan Wells won the hundred metres in the Olympics, when Red rum won for the third time, and today.''

What's more, the computer system he manages crashed on Friday. His firm wanted him to work over the weekend. He laughs incredulously. ``I said `you're joking, I'm going to Wembley tomorrow, I'll be pissed out of my head'.'' So he's probably out of a job as well. But let's put things into perspective. ``I'm 37 and when they scored it was the most horrible moment I've had in the last 20 years.''

In central London the atmosphere is ugly. Charing Cross Road is blocked by police vans. Riot squads are changing into boiler suits and visored helmets. Burger-fattened English youths jog urgently, looking for trouble. They can smell it in the air. Trafalgar Square is cordoned off by police. Tourists ring the perimeter wall like visitors to the zoo. A rump of 30-or-so Scotland fans are clustered at the base of Nelson's column, saltires limp, lions not so rampant, backs to the wall. Still singing, nonsensically ..... we're the famous tartan army and we're off to Wembullee......

Why do we do this to ourselves? Make it so important? Put so much energy into feeling so bad? Since this is football, why look further than the cliched explanation? You take the rough with the smooth, the bad with the good. And briefly back there, for a few doomed fleeting moments, it was the best feeling in the world.