“Peter Dwyer, my jo, Peter” as Robbie Burns would no doubt have sung if he was standing in the terraces of the mighty Recreation Park with a steaming bridie in one hand and a bottle of Buckfast in the other. Don’t Knock it, Elgar wrote the first ever football chant!
We are doing well. Top of the league in a three-horse race. Well, 2 horses and a field of cows.
First match in and it’s the mighty Glasgow Rangers. Again. In a semi-final. We don’t really do much in the whole 2 hours. Just Rangers making the headlines as we enter our second shootout of the season. Amazingly, we score all our penalties and we are through! How did we do that, Des?
The hangover subsides enough for us to hold off 10 men. Although it’s pleasing to see the opposition having a man injured. But why did so many fans stayed away?
Ken’s boys are no match for our first half slaughter. I try and save some legs in the second half. As much as you can with only two subs at your disposal.
And it’s a top of table clash next. We’re having the roll of the dice with the ref’s at the moment. How did we manage 5 (five)??
Blimey! 9 (nine) goals in 4 games for Dwyer. Give that man the freedom of Clackmannenshire! And put him as your captain in your fantasy team. It’s the big one next.
I’m sending a letter to the Scottish FA’s fixture man. The final is two days after our last match?? Anyway, forget all that. How did we manage that?? Don’t think Des would be able to explain. Does that mean we’re in Europe next year?
So, as usual, for a team who have beaten the Premier league leaders, we can only manage a drab draw. And as usual for us, a midfield injury.
I think the boys can only manage to play 45 minutes at a time. I need to convince them to put two of them together and I wouldn’t have to worry so much. That’s 13 in 7 for those still counting Dwyer’s strike rate. Willow castthe wrong spell and gives us a helping hand.
Back to playing our stalkers and we put them back into the barn. (Insert milking joke.) I wish this lot would decide which half they would play…
Is it something I’m saying? We should charge half price tickets.
Thankfully our defence is holding nicely and I’m managing to keep the vultures at bay in hunting our best players.
As usual, a repeat match and an entirely different scenario. We play the 2nd half with 10 men and just about scrape a replay.
Never mind about the vultures, our over Iron-Brued lads are doing it themselves. We send David’s boys back up the Nile.
Our discipline has gone completely to pot. We manage to injure the Queens’ goalkeeper quickly, but we can’t do anything about their reserve lad. Thankfully, he does the business for us and gets himself sent off. Which means they place a 40 year-old midfielder in between he sticks and we can’t score past him. Surely the penalty shootout is a formality. Taylor has a flash of the Waddles, but our keeper makes two saves and we’re through.
East Fife have lost their form and we sneak a narrow victory.
We’re back to the Arsenal tactics again but I suppose grinding out a 1-0 victory in the depths of a Scottish winter should be the key to promotion.
I’ve resisted for so long but now he’s over £3m, I can’t refuse. So long, Tommy!
Surely, they would have had this conversation before picking up the phone? All my plans to reinvest go back into the bottom drawer.
So, only the final third of the season to go and we look set for promotion. Only a disastrous defensive leak in Titanic style would leave us looking complete burkes. I’m refusing all radio interview offers incase I Keegan it up.
Och aye for now!