World Cup evokes memories of ‘ 98 France experience takes some beating
Two decades ago – almost to this very day – I sat huddled in the back of an open- top tartan bus just outside the Geoffroy Guichard Stadium in the industrial French town of St Etienne.
We had arrived just a few hours earlier – with expectations as high as the price of a foamy glass of Kronenburg in one of the nearby cafes.
To progress to the next stage of the World Cup – and a mouth- watering match with Italy in Marseilles – we needed Brazil to see off the plucky Norwegians with the more goals the merrier.
All the mighty Scotland had to do was beat the sand dancers of Morocco ... we could almost taste the bouillabaisse in the harbour restaurants of the old French port.
Of course, the sand dancers weren’t reading the script. In fact, neither were Brazil or Norway.
Morocco triumphed 3– 0 – but the cheers of their supporters were quickly silenced by two late Norwegian goals giving them a shock win over Brazil. Now ... we were BOTH going home.
Our bus driver pointedly turned his French road map upside down. We were no longer heading south to the Med – but back north to Paris, the Channel and eventually home.
“Heads up guys – we’ll be doing this all over again in four more years!” someone rallied.
Little did we know it would another TWENTY FOUR years – at least – before the Tartan Army would invade another World Cup finals!
I’ve been watching Brazil, Morocco and another 30 teams battling it out in Russia all week. And if I can’t sit in Volgograd in my kilt ... at least I can sit at home and wallow in some happy World Cup nostalgia!
France in 1998 will take some beating.
Not only did I get to the matches in Paris, Bordeaux and St Etienne, but I was dispatched to Norway, Brazil and Morocco for some pretournament “advance research”.
In Oslo, I met a fitba- daft Scot who owned a shoe business. He was incensed that the Norwegian papers refused to print the Scottish football results for the city’s Scots community.
Just to annoy them, he decided to incorporate the latest scores in his shoe shop’s newspaper adverts. I bought a paper and – sure enough – beside pictures of the latest flats, pumps and espadrilles was a line of type that read ... Rangers 1 Hearts 0 ... Aberdeen 0 Celtic 0 ...
In Morocco, a Marrakesh street trader offered me a camel for my kilt. Well ... I think that’s what he offered!
And in the Casablanca Hilton, I was refused admission to their nightclub because of what I was wearing.
I demanded to see the general manager and explained that the kilt was my national dress.
How would Moroccans feel in Scotland if we banned their traditional Gandoura robes?
I threatened him with everyone from King Hussan to FIFA president Sepp Blatter.
“This time tomorrow, you’ll be out of a job and Morocco will be out the World Cup!”
All of a sudden I was being escorted to my private night club table ... with drinks on the house.
The general manager left me with the unforgettable line – “Enjoy your evening sir, but please ... no dancing with the other men!”
Two days later in Brazil, I opened the door of my taxi in Rio and almost knocked over a gentleman with a walking stick.
I was later to spend a long afternoon in the pub with him ... his name was Ronnie Biggs!
But hey – who knows where and when my World Cup diary will restart – Qatar in 2022, the USA in 2026?
In the meantime, I’ll just put my feet up and enjoy this one.
After that 6- 1 humbling of mighty Panama, the pundits are already predicting an England victory.
If that happens – I’m taking my kilt back to the Casablanca Hilton.
And dancing with every man in the room!
If England win the World Cup – I’m taking my kilt back to the Casablanca Hilton