Fuckin' Dreadful...

20th Dec 2008: Stranraer 0, East Fife 4 (Barrs Scottish League Division Two)

Tae think ah ended up at this shite instead of joining the rest of the faithful on their trip tae Stranraer. Marti Fuckin' Pellow shmoozin' around a stage using a violin case as a kid-on boaby and singing his way intae the pants of three ugly burds. Well, the wan playin' the Susan Sarandon part looked awright (nice tits, anyway) an' had a no' bad voice. But apart fae that... well, let's just say ah'd rather have been freezin' cauld and soakin' wet on a leaky mini-bus on a four hour journey wi' nothin' but Kenny the Polis tae cheer me up. Honest, it really was that fuckin' bad!

My day oot in Auld reekie hadnae started oot too bad, mind. Met up with ma faither-in-law, who's always good company, and his good lady wife, who's always... Promise that'll be the nearest we get tae a Les Dawson moment.

First stop was the Guildford - a great wee boozer, some decent beers and the guarantee that SKY Sports'll be on the telly. Twenty five past three and still nil-nil. No' that ah had tae check the box for that. Right on cue, just as ah was suppin' the first mouthful of ma 'Bitter & Twisted' (in tribute tae Mrs FC's mum...), beep-beep went ma phone and the first of eleven texts arrived. Starting line-up sounded promising, we were dominating early exchanges and had even come close to scoring on a couple of occasions.

Willie McCulloch, I'm reliably informed was moanin' his face off - he had so little to do, he could quite easily have stayed at home or headed off to see the "Witches of Eastwick" with me. Believe me, Willie, you may well have been as bored as fuck all afternoon but the alternative would have been so much worse... but more of that later.

On ma way back from the bar with our second beers, a quick glance towards the telly informed me that we'd somehow banged two past the Blues' keeper. Even better, as the texts piled in (some of you guys need tae remind yerselves how tae spell 'Crofort' by the way), it was apparent that, not only were we rippin' the pish out of Stranraer but, even better, Greg Tade, everyone's favourite Blues' player, had made a pig's arse of a clearance and gifted Stevie the ball before the striker rifled it through a ruck of players and into the net. Quality or what?

The goal certainly settled the Fifers' nerves (feels like the first time in ages we'd been ahead) and Shagger and the Wonderhorse then fought each other to be next on the scoresheet. As it turned out, it was an unlikely hero who ensured that this one was well tied up before the half time interval. Depending on whose text you believe, it was either young Nugent or fairly-young-but-no'-as-young-as-the-nugget McDonald. Ah didnae quite see all the action from a hundred miles away but there appears to be a solid consensus as to how (if not by whom) the ball ended up in the net.

We'd pinned the Stranraer defence back and were cruising it in the middle of the park allowing all and sundry to head forward and 'get into the action'. At the edge of the box the ball fell to (insert name here) who poked a deft strike goalwards. Failing to control it their keeper could do more than parry it back into (insert name again here)'s path and the youngster (or not quite as youngster) made no mistake with his second effort.

Ah noticed that the crowd was officially numbered at two hundred - no doubt most of them wearing black and gold. So good luck to everyone who made the arduous journey south; ah'm glad you had plenty to shout about. More importantly, thanks to all of you who took the time out tae keep me in the loop - fuckin' part-timer that I am...

By the time the second half was underway, life was headin' swiftly downhill for yours truly. The Guildford hadn't seemed to be too bad but the gals decided that what we all needed now was a walk round the Christmas market. You poor bastards who thought you were gettin' ripped off payin' two quid for a jen-yoo-wine angus burger at Stair Park should spare a thought for those of us back in the East. Hog-in-a-Bap at four quid a pop from Ye Olde Traditional Highland Wild Boar & Venison Emporium has got to be even worst value than the "aromatic" candles they were making next door (two pounds each or three for a fiver!!!).

But a buzz in ma breeks soon stole ma mind away fae such trivia (the pot-roast pig was stinkin' anyway...); there could be no doubt about the scorer of the third. Big Torro rose unmarked and met a Bobby Linn corner perfectly, sliding the ball home from a tight angle and leaving the home defence in disarray. It looked like just about everyone was heading forward for a pop at goal and the way things were going, ah was already convinced that there'd be more to come.

Meanwhile, at the other end, McCulloch, Jay Smart and big Tweedie stood around gettin' wet and listened tae stories about Steven's days in Japan. It was never this cold or wet in Osaka (yeah, ah know it was Yokohama...) might no' soud like the most interesting of tales but forty minutes standing together on the goal line must surely have given keeper and captain the opportunity to kiss and make up. Hey, by all accounts, there was fuck all else happening at that end of the park.

Comin' oot in sympathy, a miserable drizzle had started to fall in Edinburgh. Two excited wummin and two tragic men folk had, by this time, made their sorry way to the top of Leith Walk. No turning back now, I guess. Ominous looking shite in John Lewis' windows, the terrifying dullness of the OMNI Centre (even the Spoonies bar in there is crap....) and then, there it was... it really was happening. Thank fuck there was still an hour or so before the doors opened - enough time to shovel another three or four beers doon ma puss, search out a packet of Sports Mixtures (failed; we actually ended up wi' fruit pastilles) and check me phone for the full time result...

We'd only actually added one more goal but were unlucky not to score more. The Boaby was back to his reliable best and, with twenty minutes to go, looked set to add to his solitary goal this term. But despite the fact that the Blues' keeper had been nothing short of pish throughout, he still managed to make himself big (no' hard, ah s'pose, when it's Bobby Linn yer up against) and somehow saved the wee man's effort.

But just moments later Linn was to grab back the initiative. He's still waiting to score that goal but the quality of his run at Black was enough to snatch the plaudits for the assist. The keeper made another desperate save but could only fall back on his arse as his attempted clearance fell at the feet of Paul McManus. And Shagger doesn't need anything more than one chance to take advantage. From the edge of the box he blasted the ball low into the Stranraer goal and their humiliation was complete.

And that was that; the boys still rattled in the efforts against the hapless home defence but there were to be no more goals. Which was fitting indeed - I'd mentioned to the wife's dad earlier in the afternoon that the team had played so disappointingly recently that you could be sure we probably bang four past that mob. Ah don't know what the odds would have been because we were hurried past Ladbrokes' door by the womenfolk - we had nae time seein' as we had tae be in Edinburgh four hours before the show started!!!

But my time eventually ran out. In we went and we took our seats with no more than a bag a pastilles, a pregnant wife and two auld fuckers at opposite ends of the 'fair-lookin'-forward-tae-this' spectrum tae keep me company. And it was utter, utter, utter, utter shite. It took twenty scintillating minutes for Marti tae even make his appearance but he made up for the delay by making the next hour last for most of the weekend. If this is what passes for entertainment in Edinburgh, it's nae fuckin' wonder that the locals are all fuckin' junkies. At the very least, Mr Pellow wid drive ye tae drink. Oh, aye, and he's a fuckin' hun!!

Back home next week for the ongoing pantomime that is the Brechin Chronicles. Promise ah'll never complain about the quality of the fitba again...