Paw Broon - It's all doon the hill fae here

“Ya fuckin’ beezer!” ah cried, huggin Maw Broon as the final whistle blew on whit wis in itself an atrocious game. “That’s us in the fuckin’ playoffs Maw, nae fuckin bother!”

Maw gies us one o’ her witherin looks and says “Och Paw, dae ye have tae always use the F-word when ye’re talkin’ aboot Scotland? It’s awfy crude.”

“Whit?!!” ah says tae her, utterly incredulous like. “Of course ah fuckin dae. It’s simply no possible tae talk aboot Scotland without a good smattering o’ F-words. Fuckssake Maw, get a fuckin grip.”

F is for Fletcher. Yer auld pal Paw telt ye that this boy wis class and sure enough, up he pops tae score the winner.

F is also for Future, and this laddie has a bright one.

F is for Faddy. Berti’s “cheeky boy” MacFadden wis the man o’ the match by a Royal Mile. Grows in confidence and stature wi’ every game he plays and looks sure tae be a Scotland regular fer many years.

F is for Fergie. Not Barry’s best game ever for Scotland, but ye can tell he has what it takes tae be a Scotland legend.

F is for Fans. Fully fabulously fuckin fantastic is the only way tae describe the Tartan Army. If Fletcher scored the winner, it has tae go down as an assist frae Scotland’s magnificent support. Don’t know about the Lithuanians, but they scared the fuck oot o’ me and they’re worth a goal start against ANY opposition.

F is for Falling Over. As expected, the Liths resorted tae dirty tricks and got exactly whit they deserved in return. As in, F for fuck-all.

F is for Fate. Having dragged oorsels intae the Play-Offs, we get whit might be described as an “unfavourable” draw, against Holland.

F is also for the Flatulence that was heard up and doon the Scottish countryside within minutes o’ the draw takin place as disappointed Scots started tae shite themsels.

F is for Favourites. Let’s be honest here, we have nothing tae lose. The pressure is all on the Dutch who will be expected tae win, and win easily.

F, however, is also for Fear Factor. They might be international superstars, but they dinnae like it up them and if we can rattle their cages frae the off at Hampden, ah genuinely believe we can beat these overpaid bunch o’ perennially bickering big-time Charlies. We’re always at oor best as the unfancied underdogs - so, bring on yer Rude Vain Nastyboy, bring on yer Pierre Vain Huge Dong, bring on yer Patrick Clive Farts – we’ll fuckin take ye’se all.

F is for Fuckwit. Otherwise known as Dick Advocaat, the Dutch manager. Already under immense pressure in Holland for missing out on automatic qualification, the man’s coat is on a decidedly shoogly nail. In the course o’ their section, Holland lost emphatically away to the Czech Republic, only drew with them at home and failed to impress in a narrow 2-1 win over the minnows of Moldova. Scotland have genuine cause for hope - this team, especially with Mr EggNog in charge, is eminently beatable

F is for Failure. Not an option for Dickie boy. Be in no doubt, he is pure shitin his pants.

F is for Fight. We’ll need plenty of it, tae pull off the shock result o’ the playoffs. But we CAN do it.

F is for Flights Fiasco. Within minutes o’ the playoff draw bein announced, the price o’ an Easyjet return flight tae Amsterdam fae Glasgow increased by 700%. Seven fuckin hundred per-cent!!!! Outrageous or whit?.

F is for Faro. The airport in Portugal I confidently expect tae be flyin intae next June.

F is for Finals. Come oan you Scots!!!!!!!!! You can make it. Get intae these orange-shirted poofs!