When did you stop punching the air? I was still doing on Tuesday when I remembered what had happened at the weekend. We won! An actual game of football! Two fucking nil!
Viewers in the DD postcode tuned in to Sportscene for the first time in weeks. Newspapers were bought so match reports could be savoured. Social media passwords were remembered. Unless I’m very much mistaken the weather has been glorious, dogs have stopped shiteing in the street and seagulls are in retreat.
Has being bottom of the league ever felt so good?
Football is a game of fine margins and wildly oscillating emotions. If the previous seven games hadn’t been so would-John-Hughes-make-a-difference dismal then beating another below-average side wouldn’t have felt so skip-to-work fantastic. Our luck may have been ridden at times in the second half but we should have been 2-0 up before Hamilton came into the match. Dundee deserved that win and fair fucks to every player in dark blue, those in the dugout and everyone who travelled through to lend their support. Players are hitting full fitness after injuries. Kenny Miller is returning from suspension. The manager’s knitwear is suddenly fitting better again.
Yes, yes, one swallow does not a summer make, the law of averages dictates that we had to win at some point and the patient’s condition remains critical, if a little more stable. But, at the same time, if you haven’t spent the past week pushing rationality to the back of your mind as you plot our run to Hampden then you’re doing football wrong.
We’ve got at least 24 hours of our unbeaten run to go, lads and lasses. Let’s enjoy it.