I was still watchin' Wacky Races when ah was fourteen or fifteen, adolescent hormones pumping through my veins at the mere mention of Penelope Pitstop's name. Speeding along in the Compact Pussy (think that's right), she was a sight to behold. At that time, of course, I'd had no knowledge of her three convictions for soliciting in the downtown area of Cactus Gulch so, for me, she was simply perfect; I was even willing to forgive her occasional dalliance with Peter Perfect (big poof!).

It was aye the same basic idea (an' folk say there's no thinking behind the TeleTubbies.....) - Ms Pitstop, the Poof, Professor Pat Pending (great name), the Slag Brothers and all the rest would start off in the middle of the desert and race like buggery in some marvelous contest called Fast Track To Hackensack, The Dopey Dakota Derby or something alliteratively unreasonable like that.

And every week all the good guys (even though they were all partial to a wee bit jiggery-pokery fae time tae time) would be up against the evil machinations of Dick Dastardly and his sidekick, Muttley. Not only did he have a name that rhymed (kind of...) wi' a sweary word (maybe that's where I get it from), he had the perfectly crooked nose of the ultimate baddy with the thin, peccant moustache of the truly black hearted....

If you discounted the Compact Pussy and Pierre Parfait's Todgermobile, he probably had the best car in the show (even though Mean Machine was a fuckin' shite name for it....); the most powerful, the fastest, most reliable and certainly something you'd rather have doon yer pants than that heap of shit Turbo Terrific that the jock drove.

But even so, week in, week oot, there they'd be, Dastardly and his poisonous pooch, zooming away into a seemingly unassailable lead only to stop and cheat, setting booby traps for the rest of the racers. And it aye came back to bite them on the arse.... usually limping in last (after even the Buzzwaggon for fuck sake...) with a crumpled car and dented egos. (Ah'm told that DD actually won a couple of races but ah'm sure that's just auld wives' tales tae scare the bairns....).

It was the same for Arbroath this afternoon. Doon they sped through the City of Discovery, over the bridge and doon through Fife, leaving everyone else in their wake. Just before Bayview they whizzed past the Bawbag Biker - ah saw this character masel as I headed for a quick pre-match beer. Big bruiser of a man, Honda Gold Wing motorcycle, deep throaty thrum of the engine, a small saltire pennant proudly fluttering in the breeze and.... Dreams Can Come True blaring out of his two thousand quid Blaupunkt hi-fi. Honest tae fuck! Last ah heard, he was heading off towards Buckhaven after being hoodwinked by the dastardly Arbroath bus driver....

However, it appeared that the Smokies' connivance to delay Greig McDonald (in the Road Bridge Romper) had backfired. Somehow, the big man managed tae get himself back from his pal's wedding in Linlithgow in time tae don the shirt and take his usual place in defence. If only we'd known what Arbroath did. As we kicked off in almost springlike conditions (ok, still blustery but at least is wasnae rainin'....), it took less than two minutes to realise that our visitors were using Greig as their secret weapon today.... He was fuckin' stinkin'!

It would be unfair to single him out, mind. Right from the start it was apparent that the Lichties looked altogether more interested. Hardly surprisin' I suppose; they were fighting for a guaranteed play-off place, we were simply twiddlin' our thumbs and impatiently waiting for what we were really all there for.... So, despite creating a couple of chances (and failing miserably to do anything with them), it was no great shock when Arbroath opened the scoring. Didnae see it too well but even from where I was, it looked like Paul Loonie (remember him?) caught it just perfectly; Wight had no chance!

Strangely enough, the remainder of the first half was really enjoyable. The Smokies were turnin' it on in spades while we flapped about like haddies - for once in this season's campaign we were witnessing a closely matched encounter! The Fife slowly fought their way back and, just before the interval, were awarded a penalty - looked quite soft but Robbie Raeside was definitely right up Smarty's back (nae sniggering, now....). The cheat pointed to the spot and up stepped the ever reliable Dougie Cameron to somehow contrive to scuff his effort past the post. Poor show but hardly out of tune wi' the way we'd been playing....

And then just tae rub salt intae the wound, Cazza screams out (in a way that only she can), "SCORER FOR EAST FIFE.... DOOOOOGIE CAMERON!!!!", followed seconds later by a slightly quieter, "Aw, sorry, emmm, still one nil for Arbroath....". Fuckin' priceless!! She still had a beamer when she was readin' oot the halftime scores... Superb!

If anything, our efforts at controlling the Lichties' midfield looked even more half-arsed in the opening minutes of the second half. The visitors continued to boss it all over the park. With their wee assemblage of ragamuffin fans making more noise than the thirteen hundred Fifers in the stand, you felt it was surely only a matter of time before they added another goal. But time was to prove to be their downfall.

In a Dastardlyesque tactical misjudgment, the Smokies decided that, rather than really stickin' the knife in, their cause would be better served by wasting time and holding out for one - nil. Unbelievable - we were there to be well and truly turned over but instead of going for it, their keeper thought it would be smarter to simply stand like a statue in his own box with the ball at his feet. Just in case that wasn't enough, it then looked like there was a sniper loose in the stand; every time an Arbroath player was tackled, he went down like he'd been shot!

And even playing as badly as we had been up until then, those sorts of tactics were bound to let us back into the game. The Boaby finally started to get a look in and, together with Paul McManus, appeared to have eventually kick-started our motor. Just shy of the hour mark he was unlucky not to score when he was clumsily bundled over in the Arbroath box. No foul said the ref but just moments later we were awarded another lifeline. Paul Stewart made a fantastic run into the box but appeared to be running out of options when he was scythed down by a reckless challenge by Steven Rennie (I think...).

The ref at first appeared to have pointed to the corner flag but the linescheat quickly ran on and seconds later the whistler changed his mind and awarded the penalty. Granted, ah'm probably no' the most reliable of witnesses, but ah was only yards away from the tackle and can confirm that, without question, it was a pen.... And this time Shagger stepped up and banged it away without a problem. All level and now everything to play for....

You'd have thought that might have galvanised the visitors into some sort of action but instead of pushing forward, they instead pulled out the second volume of the ACME Book of Timewasting, assuming that a point would be enough. But they hadn't bargained for the staying power of our very own Ant Hill Mob who just weren't ready to give up quite yet. Ten minutes from the end, the Boaby picked up the ball deep in his own half and headed forward before sliding a great pass through to McManus. A couple of shimmees in the box gave him just enough space for a shot and, half a second later, we'd miraculously taken the lead.

Which left just enough time for Arbroath tae realise that, if only they'd kept their foot to the pedal they've have been home and hosed by now.... They tried to come back at us (truth be known, they battered us for the last ten minutes, clattering the woodwork three times) but a combination of bad luck and desperate defending by the Fife (well done Greig; guess the wedding toast had worn off by then) gave us all a few thrills but ultimately ensured that, somehow, we'd be taking all three points.

And that, of course, guaranteed that the post match celebrations were all the sweeter. Finally getting our hands on the silverware was a perfect end to the day. It hadnae been pretty but we'd won and everybody was now focused on the real business of the day. And in any case, it was no less than we've all come to expect. After all..... THAT'S WHY WE'RE CHAMPIONS....

Or as John McGlashan and his Red Lichties team would say, "Drat, drat and double drat!!!"

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