It’s the Scottish Cup this weekend. People keep speaking about the “magic of the cup” but it sounds like a load of pish to me. I hate to be a cynic and eagerly await some wisdom, if there’s any to be had here.
Hiya Gaz! Hiya pal!
It’s nae surprise that the bold cynicism rocks up tae say “hiya pal!” when the one and only time the Dee won the Scottish Cup wiz in 1910. There’s been twa world wars, men on the moon and hair on Jim McLean’s heid since we lifted the trophy. There’s fuck all magical aboot that, Gaz.
Jocky kens a boy wha wiz there when we won the cup. Fairmuir stalwart Boab Dolan wiz in attendance when Dundee beat Clyde thon historic day in 1910. Boab’s 138 years auld and still rocks up fur the Fairmuir bingo every Friday night. The cunt cannae draw breath tae call “house”, but still gets a dinghy win passed his way on occasion oot o’ respect. The man husnae managed an erection since 1972 and still gets preferential treatment at the disabled bog gloryhole. Respect yer elders, cunto. Boaby Dolan: He’s one of our own.
See if the Dees dae break their hoodoo and win the Scottish Cup anytime soon, Gaz, we’ll be hard pushed tae dae it as stylishly as Hibs did it the other year. Hibs won the cup like naebody’s fuckin’ business.
Eh wiz there that day, Gaz. Hibs v Rangers in the Scottish Cup final. A few lassies eh ken, Central European hand-shandy specialists wha run the show in the Leith Walk saunas, were in hospitality and hud a spare ticket. Jocky’s a Dundee man, nae question, but like maist right-minded cunts eh wiz bang up fur wantin’ the Hibees tae defeat the Zombies. Eh’m also right up fur getting bevvied like fuck in the Main Stand at Hampden wi’ burds wha will sook ye aff in the disabled bog if ye chuck them a Famous Fehvur. Add that tae the prospect o’ mibbe bumping intae The Proclaimers, and Jocky snapped that spare ticket up tae fuck, aye.
The Scottish Cup final is a grand occasion. Eh spent much o’ it tanning free pints, remonstrating wi’ cunts fur singing “We are Hibernian FC, we hate Jam Tarts and we hate Dundee”, and trehin’ tae convince The Proclaimers, wha were sittin’ behind iz in the hospitality, that there’s nae need tae walk 500 miles just tae fall doon at the door o’ a hooker when there’s plenty options in Leith Walk rub ‘n’ tugs at reasonable prices.
None o’ which mattered when that last minute winner went in. The gemme stood at 2-2. A corner swung in, some cunt fae Hibs headed it in the goal, and all hell broke loose. Wild scenes. Eh wiz goin’ mental, baith because the righteous team won and eh hud a 3-2 Hibs/Proclaimers sittin’ behind iz double on meh coupon.
It wiz fuckin’ chaos when the full-time whistle went. The burds fae the sauna were among the first on the pitch. Hibs taps aff, tits oot, nae fucking aboot. Thon telly cunt fur the watchin’ John Leslie fired oot the stand efter them wavin’ his scarf, which may or may no’ be a total coincidence and the boy deserves a fair trial. Aine o’ The Proclaimers whipped his breeks doon and took an excitement-shite in the aisle, which wiz funny as fuck until some cunt slipped in it and near enough got trampled tae death in the melee as half o’ Edinburgh rampaged ontae the pitch tae celebrate a glorious victory.
Scottish futba needs moments like that. Exciting finales tae a big occasion. A massive pitch invasion. A full-on square go in the middle of Hampden. Police horses on the pitch, a Proclaimer taking a shite in the stand. A tear in the eye o’ every man, woman and child proudly holding their scarf aloft and belting oot Sunshine on Leith before heading hame wi’ a memory that will fill their heart wi’ joy until it stops beating.
That’s the magic o’ the cup, Gaz. It is real, there’s nae question it exists. When the day comes fur Dundee eh’ll be the first cunt on the pitch. Eh expect you tae be right behind me, cunto.
When the Dees, go up, tae lift the Scottish Cup we’ll be there.
All the best pal.