So, Tuesday 18^th November 2025. A Baltic night in Glasgow. Air so cold it was heavy. Freezing rain felt imminent, and, oh yeah, only the small matter of Scotland versus Denmark at Hampden with a guaranteed place at next summer’s World Cup on the line. I was not confident. We needed to win; they needed to avoid defeat. Falling at the last hurdle, in a manner that was omni-shambolic but simultaneously felt tragi-heroic, is Scotland’s specialty. I could picture it, as it was a movie I’d seen umpteen times, and was therefore braced for it – we take the lead, Denmark eventually assert their technical dominance, we defend doggedly, and then concede late in the cruelest way via a ghastly mistake or from a fluke deflected goal.

And we did take the lead. Scott fucking McTominay with an outrageous overhead kick. It’s easy to say in retrospect that the manner of the goal should’ve been a sign that this was going to be the start of something special. The goal did deliver one certainty – this match was going to be taxing for the nerves.

Articulate to a non-Scot that our proclivity for failure is surely mitochondrial deep and it will be met with rolled eyes or confusion. Our sense and belief that it’s innate, and that it transcends football, is entirely logical. Glorious failure is embedded throughout our history, shaping our national identity (including our national anthem) and, in its most damaging incarnation, inculcating a “woe betide us” psyche. The closest comparison is the pathos of England fans when their team is faced with the prospect of being involved in a penalty shootout. Even I’ve learned to empathise with their plight – except those who wear Sun hats or chainmail and sing about Agincourt when they’re playing Germany. Different circumstances and stakes, yes, but we share an understanding that the heart can only be broken so many times before pessimism inherently supersedes hope.

Within minutes pessimism had reasserted itself, defeating any urges to think positively and to preserve my sanity. Denmark began to dominate territory and possession. There was still seventy-five minutes to play. We’re Scotland, and there’s fucking no chance we’re holding onto this lead with Grant Hanley at centre back.

About twenty years or so ago, when Scottish football was truly at its nadir under Berti Vogts, I had firmly resigned myself to the possibility that Scotland would never qualify for a World Cup again.

The FIFA presidency seems to attract the greediest, most venal neo-liberal lizard people on planet Earth to the post. Joao Havelange, Sepp Blatter and now Gianni Infantino have never turned down a bribe or an opportunity to enrich themselves. Selling the rights to host the tournament to wealthier nations ran by despots and autocrats is despicable enough. But their greed is most apparent in the ludicrous expansion of the World Cup finals from twenty-four teams in 1994 to forty-eight in 2026. It has diluted its regal exclusivity and sense of importance and spectacle. Now it’s a bloated cash cow to be milked, with a slew of meaningless group games littered with mediocre sides (and yes, this includes Scotland). More games mean more money, via sponsorship and TV revenue, more obscenely priced tickets to gouge fans, and more games to bet on. It’s over a week later, and the euphoria has somewhat subsided, so let it be said that Scotland’s chances of qualifying have not improved with better player development or progressive tactics, but rather lamentably the insatiable avarice of the corporate, oligarchical, political and jet set class.

Depressing stuff, so was Denmark equalising, deservedly, not long after half time. And I was lamenting that we looked outclassed and completely incapable of fashioning a response. We were heading for the dreaded playoffs as things stood. Scotland in a playoff setting only appeals to the masochists.

With Scottish sporting endeavors there’s normally a but… Andy Murray aside, it’s almost always the negative kind. If there’s a way for us to fuck it up, we surely will. This fatalistic dread has been taught through repeated trauma, as we’ve witnessed the generational failures of the national football team at the group stages of finals tournaments. The greatest hits – stupidly scoring first against Brazil in 1982. Gary MacAllister’s penalty miss against England, who were playing nervously due to being under immense pressure, at Euro 1996. A preposterous sequence that saw us eliminated by losing to Peru and drawing against Iran only to beat the Dutch (which made the final) in a dead rubber in 1978. Only managing one goal and one point at Mexico 1986. Losing to Costa Rica at Italia 90.

You’ll note that these “disappointments” are from a bygone era. Never mind the seventies and eighties Scotland sides, featuring Denis Law, Billy Bremner, Graeme Souness, Alan Hansen and Kenny Dalglish. Expectations were raised by the France 1998 side of Colin Hendry, John Collins and Paul Lambert. In comparison to what we’ve had for most of the last quarter century even this period of late nineties Scottish football now seems like a golden age. Back then we were just good enough to be teased, as we usually qualified, then completely froze on the biggest stage.

Denmark had a man sent off on the hour. Here’s where we insert the clip of Al Pacino from the suitably catastrophic Godfather Part three: “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in”. It was still 1-1, and Denmark still looked as though they were playing with eleven for a good period after the red card. We looked anemic. Then, out of fuck all, Lawrence Shankland scored. 2-1. Hampden roared, my spirit soared.

My first experience of Hampden was the polar opposite of this unfurling carnage. It was a friendly against the Dutch in March of 1994 in a half-renovated Hampden. It was laughably sold as a new dawn for Scottish football. It was the first match of the demoralizing, destructive tenure of the utterly milquetoast Craig Brown and Hampden’s first match in a couple of years. The latter akin to the lukewarm welcome an aging actress receives after reappearing with a ghoulish facelift.

And this was a Dutch team low on star-power. No Koeman, no Gullit, no Van Basten and the gate was thirty-thousand, if that. A whole empty stand constituted of cinder blocks that appeared as black as a void under the floodlights didn’t help the atmosphere. Neither did Bryan Roy scoring the winner or Scotland playing a style of football they’d have considered anachronistic in 1911. The most entertaining thing was the Dutch away support. We were sat near their section. I was mesmerised by the garish tangerine garb and by their large marching drums resting snugly on their pot bellies. The drumming was so loud and perpetual I felt as though it gave me a concussion.

2-2, in what seemed like a flash. Now I felt tempted to give myself a concussion. The familiar agony had returned, and now, instead of agonizingly slowly, the clock was running down quickly. Too quickly.

When the ball arrived at Kieran Tierney, and I saw him shape his body up to shoot, I’ll admit I muttered loudly, with teeth gritted, “don’t you fucking dare son!” Get it to the wide man and get another cross in was the percentage play. That was the Scottish football fan in me, my Inland Empire (for all Disco Elysium players out there) foreboding that he would shank or sky it.

Tierney didn’t. Elation. Relief. Disbelief. Hampden went wild at this successful exorcism. I caved too and started to picture Buckfast, Kilts and Wee Jimmy Krankie hats on the streets of Hollywood instead fentanyl, wide leg jeans, Balenciaga trainers and Starbucks. Deep fried Mars Bars being consumed in a Chicago deli. The Saltire draped over the Washington Monument. A traffic cone placed on the Statue of Liberty’s heid. The Tartan Army is coming to America to kick ICE’s arse. What do you think about that Donald “Where’s yer troosers on Epstein’s island” Trump? What a time to be alive.

But wait, as another famous Yankee once said; “it aint over till it’s over”. There was still roughly five minutes of added time left to play. We weren’t there yet. Some cunt near where I live in Knightswood started setting off fireworks before the final whistle – tempting fate, or perhaps they had plugged into the ethereal realm and achieved clairvoyance of what was to come next.

Before what was to come next was four minutes of retching, sweating and palpations. I was locked in a pose somewhere in-between standing and sitting, hands on knees, the kind of posture you assume when you’re in serious discomfort trying to bake a wickedly sulphuric curry turd in your bowel. Then came Kenny McLean, Rutherglen’s finest son, to remove all doubt and avert all scatological pratfalls, and send us orgasmic, and Hampden stratospheric, with a legendary goal from the half way line. If Leo Messi had scored that one it would go down in football folklore. Kenny will just have to settle for his place in Scottish football folklore, no small feat.

Scotland will never win the World Cup or the European Championships, or perhaps even reach the knockout phase of either. We’ll probably get knocked out straight away next year in the US. But that’s fine. Because tonight, and for one night only Matthew, we felt like winners. I did the Reeves and Mortimer George Michael dance because we rolled away the stone of bravura failure, and most essentially purged a sense that we’re cursed and always destined to faceplant in the most exasperating way imaginable.

Against Denmark something truly magic happened, we elided fate, stuck two fingers up to the heavens and gave the cosmos that’s ambivalent to our suffering one hell of a beating. Hampden was rocked by catharsis at the final whistle. Later the wee man dressed as Batman bounced outside the ground. No matter what comes next, we can finally believe that our path is mutable, not destined. That soothes the soul. A part of mine is now at peace, as finally I bore witness to it become manifest. Man, sometimes life is truly worth it.