ach, the bitter dregs. I suppose having survived a two and a half hour wait in torrential rain during the early hours at Drumsleet's premier taxi rank I am lucky to be alive and reporting this sentiment. My mate in the queue decided to walk to Tesco's and sleep in the toilet there but I was made of stronger stuff and waited till half two in the morning, finally clambering aboard my taxi over the prone body of an old drab from Georgetown who had tried to nick it and had to be felled with a quick karate chop.
Why did we not have two men on the posts at that final, unjust free kick? Why did the mighty James McFadden miss what amounted to a sitter? The questions go on and on. A bizarre evening of sodium lighting, knackered trains, forced revelry and girls in tartan mini-skirts. And in the middle of it all the bold Andrew McMillan and Stuart Paterson, Scotland's most lost poet.
Well there's always England screwing up to look forward to. And the World Cup.