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Sunday, March 7, 2010

spanish queen born in scotland

'SO," SHE asks, pint in hand, whisky on the table, "have you been enjoying yourself, son?" Moira Brown, known as Ma Broon, is 78, a retired schoolteacher living in the Gorbals.
She has been going to see Scotland play since 1948. Never misses a game. Tonight, she is standing in a Glasgow pub, having just seen the Czech Republic lose 1-0 at Hampden, and someone has told her that I have spent the day with the Tartan Army. Lay
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ing a hand on my arm with an infinite gentleness and infinite suffering born of over 60 years of following Scotland, she leans in close and confides: "Shite football, you realise."

We are in McNeill's, a pub off Victoria Road run by Big Bill Fae Govanhill, a tall gentleman with a bonecrushing handshake. All day it's been pubs. New manager Craig Levein had imposed a booze ban on his squad, but this does not extend to the Tartan Army, Scotland's travelling supporters, who have today, through practical experimentation, attempted to arrive at a precise definition of the word "blootered". The Iron Horse on West Nile Street started serving at 8am and by lunchtime it's heaving, all kilts and karaoke – Blockbuster by The Sweet, Kenneth McKellar's Song Of The Clyde, the lot.

The Shetland Tartan Army (motto: "Every game's an away game") are drinking fruit cider the exact shade of cerise as the spectacular tartan outfit worn by Jean MacDonald, a woman in her forties who comes from Cumbernauld and is known as The Pink Lady.

"Look at their faces," she says, gesturing towards her joyful fellow fans. "They're even like this when they get beat."

Supporting Scotland is not like following Spain or Italy or any of those glamorous European teams. You have to get used to losing. Everyone here today has been to games that have left them feeling sick. The Euro 2000 qualifier, where Scotland lost 3-2 to the Czech Republic after leading 2-0. The 6-0 defeat to Holland in 2004. And, of course, the loss to end all losses – Scotland's shock exit from the 1978 World Cup in Argentina. That one really hurt because, back then, people believed Scotland could go all the way.

As William McIllvaney put it in his brilliant essay on Scottish fandom, Journeys Of The Magi, the pain they felt was like unrequited love. The frigid team couldn't give the ardent fans what they most desired: victory. Now, the Tartan Army have a more pragmatic relationship with Scotland. It's like a long and fruitless marriage. Separation is out of the question, so they make the best of it. Not that there isn't passion. There's plenty of that.

Andy McArthur, 52, a silver-haired, sad-eyed "footsoldier" in the Tartan Army, first got the bug in 1973 when he travelled to Wembley to see Scotland play England. "It was just so moving," he explains. "The football. The deafening noise. It scars your heart forever."

What's it like, though, to follow a team that often lose?

Before answering, McArthur tops up his drink. "It can be absolutely devastating for only about ten minutes. But it's the longest ten minutes of your life. When Scotland are playing a game, no matter against who, I always think we're going to win. Early on in the first half, I may have
to revise that optimism, but I always approach a game with the feeling: Yes We Can. We had it before Obama had it. Yes We Can."

McArthur is standing by the bar in The Vale, a pub next to Queen Street Station. The regulars, old men with bunnets and nips, sit round the walls on deep-red banquettes, but the place is dominated by the Tartan Army. There's Crazy Jimmy, Captain Vodka and a taxi driver known as Four Fingers. There's Big Phil and Scouse Eddie, a footsoldier from Liverpool who supports Scotland on account of his grandfather coming from East Kilbride. Scouse Eddie is wearing a black polo-shirt with a design that says, "Scouse Not English". There's also a handsome young man called Alfie Tahiraj, resplendent in Scotland top, kilt and See-You-Jimmy hat.

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