A text from ma auld boy, who is watching on the telly:
EASY! WATP ;-)
Auld Weedgie cunt.
— We were wrong to believe, Sick Boy groans. — I told you, it’s the lot ay Hibs tae never win that fucking thing. And they’ve still to get their obligatory late penalty. 3–1 Rangers: racing fucking cert.
— Shut the fuck up, Begbie says. — It’s our Cup.
I have tae admit tae being in the Sick Boy camp. It’s the way ay the world. We really are destined never tae lift it. I’m growing despondent as I’m flying tae Ibiza at 6 a.m. from Newcastle airport, tae meet Carl, who is doing a gig at Amnesia. At least ah’ll git some kip now as it’ll be an early night. He’ll be ripping the fucking pish oot ay us, wi mair 1902, 5–1 shite. And there it is, already on my phone:
HA HA MUPPETS! SAME OLD STORY! HHGH 5–1, 1902.
I suddenly feel very depressed. Hibs huvnae given up though. McGinn makes a couple ay tackles, playing like a man who wants tae physically drag the team back intae a contest that’s slipping away fae them. The fans aroond us are still defiant, but a little downcast. Then another chance for Stokes, but it’s saved…
— Fucking nearly men again. How many times, Sick Boy, back on his feet, despite more protests, snarls doon towards the Hibs bench, as Henderson lines up a corner. — I’m delighted that I’ve shagged loads ay women and taken tons ay drugs because if I’d relied on a poxy fucking football team to give me ma jollies in life – STOKESY!!! YA CAAAAHHHHNNNNNT!!!!!!
Again! Anthony Stokes wi a header fae Hendo’s cross! Game back on! — Right, I announce, — I’m dropping an E!
Begbie looks at ays as if I’m crazy.
— I’m doing this because I’m fucking shiteing myself, I explain. — I’ve walked oot ay this stadium a miserable cunt so many times in ma life: even if we lose I’m fucked if I’m daein that again. Anybody else in?
— Aye, says Sick Boy, and he turns round to the guys behind us. — And don’t ask me to fucking sit again because it isn’t going to happen! He pounds his chest in aggression.
— Sound wi the ecktos, echoes Spud. — Ah wish ah could stand…
— Fuck off wi that shite, says Franco. — And you, he turns tae Spud, — you must be crazy.
— Ah’m too like nervous tae git through it, Franco. Ah dinnae care if ah die… jist look eftir Toto for ays.
Three out of four ain’t bad. They go down the hatch. I’m on my feet, standing next to Sick Boy.
I don’t think I’ve ever been so tense at a game ay fitba. I’m waiting for Sick Boy’s declaration tae become manifest: the obligatory soft Rangers penalty. Although the ref has been great so far, he’ll be saving it for the dramatic last minute. These cunts are aw the fucking same…
Oooh… ya beauty…
I’m suddenly feeling a nice melting in ma guts and there’s a surge ay euphoria as ah look at Sick Boy, and in profile, his face contorts, as a weird, joyous ache ay a roar goes up and time freezes and JESUS FUCK ALMIGHTY, THE BAW IS IN THE RANGERS NET!! Hendo got another corner, whipped it ower, some cunt heidered it in, and the players are all over David Gray, and the crowd are going absolutely fucking mental!
Sick Boy’s eyes are tumescent. — DA-VIE-FUGH-KIN-GRAYYYY!
SHOOOOMMM!!!
A boy jumps on my back, a stranger, and another gadge kisses ma foreheid. Tears are streaming doon his face.
Ah grab Sick Boy, but he brushes me off in combative petulance. — How long?! he screams. — HOW LONG BEFORE THESE MUPPETS STEAL OUR FUCKING CUP?!
— It’s our Cup, Franco says again. — Settle doon, ya fuckin bams!
— Ah’m pure nervous n ah think they stitches might have burst… Spud wails, biting his nails.
The whistle goes, and astonishingly, the game is over. I hug Spud, whae is in tears, then Begbie, whae is jumping aroond in euphoria, eyes bulging, punching his ain chest, before forcing himself tae take deep breaths. We move towards Sick Boy, who again brushes off my lunging arm and jumps up and down and turns to us, the sinew straining in his neck, and goes, — FUCK EVERY CUNT!! I WON THIS FUCKING CUP! ME!! I AM HIBS!! He looks over tae the downcast opposition supporters, just a few rows away from us in the other half ay the North Stand. — I PUT A FUCKING HEX ON THOSE HUN BASTARDS!! And he surges doon the gangway towards the barrier, joining the multitude who trickle, then deluge, onto the pitch through the flimsy net of security personnel.
— Daft cunt, says Begbie.
— If ah die now, Mark, ah’m no really bothered cause ah’ve seen this n ah didnae think ah wid ever see the day, Spud sobs. Draped over his bony shoulders: a Hibs scarf dropped in the revelry.
— You’re no gaunny die, mate. But see if ye do, right, yir no wrong, it widnae matter a fuck!
Ah didnae quite mean it tae come oot like that, and poor Spud looks up at me in horror. — Ah want tae see the victory parade though, Mark… doon the Walk…
There are bodies everywhere on the Hibs half ay the field. A small number cross over intae the other half tae wind up Rangers fans, and a few of them come on tae meet the challenge. After some minor scuffles, the polis gets in between the small groups of would-be swedgers. On the Hibs half ay the pitch, the fans are joyously celebrating the end ay a 114-year-auld drought. The cops are trying to get the field cleared before the Cup presentation can be made. Nobody on the pitch is going anywhere fast, as goalposts and turf are torn down and ripped up as souvenirs. It takes ages, but it’s brilliant: the medley of euphoric Hibs songs, the hugging of total strangers and the bumping intae complete newcomers and auld friends. It’s hard tae distinguish between the two, every cunt is in a strange trance. Sick Boy returns with a big piece ay turf in his hand. — If I’d had this shit the other day, I’d have planted some inside you, mate, he says tae Spud, pointing at his gut.
It seems like an age, but eventually the team comes back out and David Gray lifts the Cup! We all erupt in song, and it’s ‘Sunshine on Leith’. I realise, that through all our years ay estrangement, this is the first time that Franco, Sick Boy, Spud and myself have actually sung this song together. Individually, it’s been staple fare for aw ay us at weddings and funerals for years. But here we are, aw belting it oot, and I feel fucking amazing!
As we stream outside the stadium, euphoric in the Glasgow sunshine, it’s obvious that Spud is totally fucked. We put him in the limo bound for Leith, Hibs scarf round his neck. As a departing shot, Sick Boy sais, — If ye gie yir other kidney, we might win the SPL!
I see Begbie register this, but he says nowt. We shuffle into a mobbed-out pub in Govanhill and manage tae get served. Everybody is in a dreamlike fugue. It’s like they’ve just had the best shag of their lives and are still spangled. Then we walk intae toon, hitting a few pubs in Glasgow city centre. It’s party time, aw the wey back through tae Edinburgh oan the train. Central Edinburgh is crazy, but when we get down tae Leith Walk, it’s just fucking unbelievable.
I have a car picking ays up at 3.30 a.m. fae my old boy’s place, tae take ays tae Newcastle for the 6.05 easyJet to Ibiza. I’m no fussed aboot leaving the party, as I have every confidence that it’ll still be on when I get back. I’ve got loads ay texts fae Carl. They chart his descent fae denial intae hostility, acceptance and finally grace, confirming the momentous nature ay the occasion.
WTF?
SPAWNY BASTARDS!
ABOUT FUCKIN TIME, YOU LEITH CUNTS!
LUCKY CUNTS, HALF OUR FUCKIN SONGBOOK DESTROYED!