SO, it’s Scotland v England and I'd been looking forward to it for a few weeks.

The papers had been full of hype.

The first meeting in 15 years, the Auld Enemy, all police leave cancelled, 230 arrests last time, etc etc.

We can't even play our neighbours without fear of riots - ah, it's the beautiful game.

"It's the flowers of Scotland v the Rose of England next," says commentator Clive Cliche cutting to another advert.

The Mother Superior doesn’t want to watch it. “It’s a friendly - I don’t really care about the result,” she said.

She's going to watch those appalling people from Essex, in another room.

“Friendly!” I said. “This is foot war!” I told her, stumbling over my words. (I've started doing that lot).

“I mean football!”

On TV, the camera lingers on the flinty-eyed Scotland captain in the tunnel who looks like he's just eaten the Braveheart CD.

(In a Haggis baguette.)

Rooney blinks. In a way that brings to mind certain schoolmates in 1970s classrooms with short attention spans but big on energy.

Scotland v England. The Battle O' Bannockburn! Aye, ye'll nivir forget the auld Battle of Bannockburn!

(Thick readers pay attention: England were slaughtered at the Battle of Bannockburn.)

(Checks on Google)

But is it a totally unnecessary fixture? Delaying the football calendar?

I'll wager it's organised for entirely spurious commercial reasons.

Christmas products to shift! (But actually, our Mam could really do with one of them this year.)

And an appeal to all Geordies - keep your tops on lads, please. There’s kids watching.

Ally McCoist is looking a bit pink these days. Not so young and sprightly now you’ve hit your forties mate, are you?

Gordon Strachan's responses in the pre-match interview started off comprehensible and then became progressively more Trainspotting.

I heard repeated references to “disnae,” and “gonnae.” The crood wi buzzin.”

So kick off nears and there’s kilts on the pitch.

Our crowd jeers their bagpipes, they boo our Queen - ah the touching jingoistic nature of the mob.

As the ref puts the whistle to his lips, our home phone starts to ring but I ignore it.

I hear the Mother Superior pick it up. Her Mum rings every night at exactly the same time. Usually when we've just got the kids to bed and are having something to eat. Settling down after another great day in the office.

England are looking slicker under Roy Hodgson. We pass better and are more confident.

Even Wayne's scoring.

Twenty minutes later, the Mother Superior comes downstairs upset. It's been eight weeks now since her Dad's stroke.

Her mother went to see him in hospital today and he told her that he has been 'waiting for a train to Plymouth'.

He used to live in Plymouth years ago but he hasn’t been out of the hospital for weeks.

I get the impression that some important wires in his head are disconnected now, but that's what happens during strokes, apparently.

I didn't really know what to say, so I just listened. And suddenly, I'd lost all interest in football.

--