This no football at the start of January is doing my nut right in. Can you advise on how to beat the winter break blues?
Hiya Frank! Hiya pal!
Big Jocky’s in full agreement wi’ ye, cunto. This winter break nonsense is a travesty tae the very essence o’ Scottish futba. Adverse weather conditions should bring oot the best in teams. If ye cannae play knee-deep in mud in a gale-force wind in sub-zero temperatures then it’s time tae reconsider the fact ye call yerself a futba player, ken?
Fae a managerial point o’ view, the snow piled up around the side o’ the pitch ayewiz proved maist useful fur hurling sna’ba’s at opposition wingers and helping John Lambie build a big sna’man. John Lambie loved makin’ sna’men, aye. Even if the Dundee vs Partick gemme were shite, every cunt enjoyed Lambie yaesing a carrot tae gie the sna’man a big orange cock. Which may or may no’ huv indicated which Glesga team he really supported…
So aye, the winter break iz shite. But it does hae its advantages.
Picture the scene, Frank. It wiz breakfast time last Saturday at the Fairmuir. The Friday night bingo wiz still in full swing due to a’ cunt being full o’ tenner ectos and 73 false shouts o’ “House!” delaying proceedings somewhat. When a legitimate claim wiz finally verified and Doreen McMaster claimed the Big Prehze o’ £7.50, a’cunt wiz wondering what tae dae next. Efter perty at Bert Ogilvie’s hoose? An orgy? A trip doon the toon tae spraypaint “ART CUNTS GO HOME” and “FLEET RULE” on the side o’ the V&A?
Big Doreen McMaster, the richest woman in the clubbie, kent the score.
“How aboot heading through tae Falkirk tae boo fuck oot Yenited?”
A collective gasp went up. We’d forgot that the winter break only applied tae the big league. Wee dinghy teams like United were still playin’. Falkirk played in dark blue and white, and we were melted enough tae consider that meant they were Dundee.
IF YE HATE DUNDEE YENITED, HATE DUNDEE YENITED! HATE DUNDEE YENITED CLAP YER HANDS.
Iviry cunt clapped, and with that the Fairmuir were on tour.
The logistics o’ taking 150 ecto’d pensioners tae Falkirk at a moment’s notice were easily resolved. We marched doon the Hulltoon, commandeered twa number 22 buses and telt the drehvers there wiz a hefty whip-round coming their way if they went a wee bit past the scheduled destination o’ Ninewells Hospital to Falkirk instead.
As we hit the road eh hud a teckle idea. Eh telt the drehver tae tak’ a wee diversion tae pick somebody up, a boy wha eh felt wid be an important addition tae the travelling perty.
Ten minutes later we were ootside Craig Wighton’s mum’s hoose, and eh wiz chappin’ at the door.
“Hiya Mrs Wighton! Hiya pal! Is Craig comin’ oot tae play?”
Mrs Wighton wiz like that, “Hiya Jocky! Hiya pal! Gies a second, aye.”
Mrs Wighton started bellowing “CRAIG! CRAIIIIIG! JOCKY’S ASKIN’ IF YE WANT TAE COME OOT AND PLAY!”
Mrs Wighton’s sound as fuck, and quite tidy. Jocky wiz on his best behaviour as he waited fur the Arab Slayer tae come doon the stairs fae his bedroom. He wisnae up fur an impromptu trip tae Falkirk at first, but his mither telt him she wiz seek o’ him moapin’ aboot the hoose and booted him oot. She even gave Jocky a tenner tae cover the cost o’ any crisps and juice he might want through the day ahead. Little did she ken a tenner wiz the exact amount needed fur a strong as fuck ecto.
The twa 22 buses tae Falkirk, which included Craig Wighton wha wiz aff his pus on a tenner ecto his ma paid fur by the time we passed Perth, motored all the way tae Brockville. Which is when we encountered a technical problem, namely that there’s a Morrisons whaur Brockville wiz meant tae be.
“Whaur’s the match takin’ place, cunto? We’re lookin’ fur the Falkirk end. DFC number 1 ya cunt.”
The wummin’ at the express checkoot wiz maist perplexed. Eh hud mair than ten items in meh basket as well, which only added tae the confusion.
It so happened that Brockville hud been demolished aboot 15 years previously, and the match wisnae taking place inside Morrisons. Yet another sad day fur Scottish futba.
When we finally rocked up tae the shite new ground Falkirk were playing in these days, United scored. The massive away support o’ aboot 35 east Angus teucters were goin’ wild.
Eh wiz like that, UNLEASH THE WIGHTON.
The Fairmuir held Craig Wighton aloft. We carried him shoulder-high toward away end. The Arabs cowered at the sight o’ him, fallin’ tae their knees and bursting intae tears. Credit tae the Falkirk Stadium’s Tannoy announcer fur playing Darth Vader’s theme tune as the perfect musical accompaniment tae the moment.
As the Fairmuir goaded the away support brandishing a clearly-aff-his-nut Craig Wighton, Jocky stepped intae the home dugout tae join Paul Hartley. Eh offered the boy some strategic advice (“Boot fuck out these dirty cunts, Paul. Dens Derry ya bas, you ken the score.”) Eh made a tactical suggestion (“Adopt a Flying-V formation, cunto!”) Eh wandered intae the away dugout, punched the latest human incarnation of Jim McLean’s evil spirit (“Lazlo” something-or-other) in the pus and rejoined the perty in the home end.
It’s aine o’ the funniest gemmes o’ futba eh’ve iver been at. A minute to go, 5-1 Falkirk, and we could barely sing “WE WANT SIX!” for pissing oorselves laughing. The away support o’ 35 wiz reduced tae one, the bold Lorraine Kelly, flashing her tits as she got on the phone tae her estate agent saying she wiz moving oot o’ Dundee.
Good. You’ll no’ be missed, ya fucking mink.
When Falkirk hit goal number six the place went wild. The Fairmuir, the Falkirk, Paul Hartley. It wiz aine o’ those moments that laugh in the face o’ winter fucking breaks fae futba. Doreen McMaster said it wiz the highlight o’ her weekend, and that’s fae a wummin wha won the Big Prehze at the Fairmuir Friday night bingo, a £7.50-illionaire.
Eh for one am quite prepared tae miss a few weeks o’ proper futba if the wee team in Dundee provide 6-1 levels o’ entertainment.
All the best, Frank.