So, the lid's finally been nailed down on the most eventful season that I could ever have hoped for. As you already know, my own epiphany manifested itself very early this term so, for me at least, it was a bitter-sweet experience this afternoon as the (smaller than usual) BURGER crew set out on one last trip to pay homage to a team that's already gone down in the annals of our club's great history.

It was (importantly!) also an opportunity tae get reekin' one last time and listen to yet more stories from the wondrous anthology of sodden fables that are the life and times of our very own Kenny the Polis - and he hardly even got started on his infamous Travels With Barry The Fanny collection. His own first taste of Buckfast (spirit of the nation??) will inevitably spawn further tales but, sadly, he's on duty now until August so I'll have to be patient and wait for next season to arrive - just ninety seven sleeps tae go....

But enough of such maudlin thoughts! In the meantime, we made our happy way tae Glasgow, met up wi' the Gusmeister and enjoyed a pleasant hour at the Standing Order. Should probably have remembered that there are no bogs on the trains tae Coatbridge (cos apparently, nae bugger pishes in Lanarkshire....) but all the folk who were sittin' cross-legged in our carriage had thoughts of such things distracted by yet another rivetting and deeply philosophical (nae, scientific) spat between the faithful (Angus) and the faithless (me....).

Inevitably, there was no winner but (never one tae let things lie...) all I ask is that if anyone has ever seen a short-necked giraffe, please email me (pictures optional but most certainly helpful....).

Half expecting to spy many such creatures in Coatbridge, it was rather a shock to the system to realise that, since I last spent much time here, it seems that human life forms have actually evolved (or been designed, eh Angus?) and now make up a considerable minority of the population of the town. At Big Owens, I'd guess that at least three quarters of the staff were people and virtually every one of them spoke English after a fashion (naturally, ah'm no' countin' the paying punters, most of whom were fae oor neck o' the woods...).

Thereafter, it was only a two minute stroll in the sunshine for the away support to get into the awsome stronghold at Cliftonhill. Blue skies, golden sun and a pleasant breeze but, come what may, it is still a piggery. However, to their credit, the Wee Rovers gave us all a welcome that was as warm as the weather and formed another guard of honour to greet the Champions onto the pitch.

That, however, was as far as their generosity stretched. When the cheat blew his whistle to start proceedings, it was quickly evident that we were in for another testing ninety minutes. And for the fans (sadly, less than four hundred turned up), that meant an enthralling encounter that turned out to be far more than we could reasonably expect from a meaningless last day clash.

Although neither of the respective keepers was troubled much in the opening scraps, it was still entertaining, end-to-end stuff with the Albion players in particular really going for it. With their small but noisy gaggle of fans cheering them on, they kept at it and started moving the ball around well. It was hardly against the run of play when the ref gave them a great chance to take the lead. Twenty minutes in, they broke forward and looked nailed on to score before Craig Wight was adjudged to have brought down Patsy Walker in the box.

Looked a bit harsh to me but only in the 'I can't believe he's no' gettin' sent off' sense of the word. But with that sort of luck going for him, it was no surprise that the big man pulled off a fine save to keep the scores level. And that should probably have been the incentive we needed to press on and take the initiative. We did make a few chances but, in reality, never came that close. A combination of warm, sunny conditions and a slight hangover from last week's celebrations may have had something to do with it; whatever the reasons, we were just a wee bit off the boil.

No' that the fans were much bothered - far more troublesome than anything happening on the field surely has to be the penchant of hairy-arsed big Fifers to dress up in their wives' clothes. Some of them appeared to me to look altogether far too comfortable in dresses, tights and high heels. Be that as it may, they looked happy enough with things at the interval and even any problems they may have encountered tottering to the pie stall and the bog (not neccessarily in that order....) seemed far from insurmountable. Am I the only one who's disturbed by that.....?

But while I dealt as best I could with that moral conundrum, the Rovers' gaffer obviously concentrated on other things. He sent out a team for the second half that was really fired up and before long they really started to boss it. In midfield especially they were in complete control and the added pressure that that forced onto the defence (missing Big Tweedie in the centre) was soon to show results.

Greig McDonald (appearing remarkably composed despite all the (reliable???) stories ah'd heard about the shaninigans at his pal's wedding last week.....) and Johnnie Smart had more than enough in their locker to deal with the big donkey in the Rovers' number nine shirt. But, with hindsight, it was probably inevitable that the Third Division Player of the Year would cock things up and hand him a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity (twice in a lifetime as it actually turned out). It looked easier simply just tae hoof the ball out the park but Smartie held onto the ball for just a moment too long.

And that allowed our hosts to pinch it and fire home from the edge of the box. It was hardly undeserved but to be scored by someone wearing horseshoes rather than fitba boots was really hard for the travelling support to take. No' that the home fans were caring. And their cheers got even louder just five minutes later when we somehow contrived to gift them a second goal; the same mistake by big Jay, only this time it was inside our box. It still ended up with the same result and with barely twenty five minutes to go, it was hard to see how we'd claw our way back into this one.

Oh ye of little faith. This might have mattered nought in the big scheme of things but, with Champions' pride at stake, we eventually started to play the kind of football that we're capable of. Both the Boaby and Paul McManus had been quiet throughout but now combined with the Wonderhorse to become the effective force that we know them to be. Templeman had worked his socks off without any kind of luck but, slowly but ever so surely, we fought our way back into this one. And with the home side showing no signs of tiring, we were in for a cracking last fifteen minutes.

On eighty minutes we made the breakthrough; the Boaby picked up the ball in midfield and headed purposefully towards the Rovers' box, weaving his skillful way past three defenders before turning swiftly on his heel to make just enough room for a shot on goal. He drilled a low, hard shot towards the left corner of the goal, leaving their keeper in no-man's-land and their defence helpless. It was a crackin' goal and bodes well for next year - get stuck in there, Boaby, there's goals a plenty to be had!

And then, just to finish off the season perfectly (yeah, ah know we didnae win.....) who should step up to the mark other than the much maligned Fozzmundo. With time running out, Albion had everyone behind the ball and appeared to be just about coping with the Fife onslaught. From one attack they desperately hoofed a clearance away from goal, only for the ball to land at Fozzie's feet. His first touch was sublime, controlling the ball like some kind of skillful ball controller. His second touch was a thirty yard lob that beat everyone and ended up making the net bulge.

Sheer, fucking genius - for half a second there was absolute silence and then the place erupted. Even the home fans had to applaud (aye, right....) and joined in with their cross dressing counterparts to enjoy the celebrations. It was a perfect way to end the season and for a guy who's had all sorts of shit hanging over him since the turn of the year, it was fitting indeed that Kevin should have the final word in this outstanding season. The cheat blew, a point was gained and the players acknowledged the acclaim that spilled onto the pitch....

And all that remained was to head home (first class all the way - thanks to everyone at First Scotrail) and say our goodbyes and farewells. To everyone that's made me feel so welcome during my first season, I thank you all. We can all head off for the close season and do whatever it is we do - for me that simply means counting down the hours until we can start all over again. As far as the Friday Club site's concerned, pop in from time to time; there may be the ocassional update.

But it's more than likely that you'll no' hear much of my sesquipedalian (ka-ching, that's a tenner you owe me, Fiona!!!) ramblings until the new season starts. Enjoy the summer and remember - this time tomorrow, there'll only be ninety six more sleeps tae go!

C'mon the Fife - WE ARE CHAMPIONS!!!!

....