Into The Three Lions’ Den – Part Seven

“All those people, all those lives, where are they now?
With the loves, and hates, and passions just like mine.
They were born and then they lived and then they died.
Seems so unfair. I want to cry.” – The Smiths, 1986 

Arriving at Camden Town for a walk and the taking of photographs, I had lunch before I thought about taking pictures in Regent’s Park. I pondered that for a moment that while I could take pictures of flowers back in Glasgow, it’s not every day that I’m down here to see something meaningful. I changed course. Unlike William Blake, I did not see a tree full of angels as I wandered through Primrose Hill. I decided to go to Highgate Cemetery where I had hoped to see trees aside followers of Engels.

Heading towards the station, a couple of lads in their matching denim jackets decided to try and impress me with their local wit. “Hey Jocko, what you got under your kilt?” the one with teeth barely in double digits enquired.

Into The Three Lions’s Den – Part Six

“The streets of Soho did reverberate
With drunken Highland men
Revenge for Culloden dead
The North had rose again” – The Fall, 1980

The decision to buy alcohol away from Trafalgar Square had proved to have been an excellent one. We followed the sounds of the noise on the street as a couple of Scots walked up to ask us where we had picked up our ‘kerry-oot’. After informing them that it was a couple of stops on the tube they were despondent. As we got closer, it was as if scenes for a future zombie apocalypse film were being filmed as the shops were being (legally) ransacked. Not for rations, but for their alcohol supplies.

There was a mixture of amused and perplexed tourists taking pictures of the Scotland fans in all their regalia, interspersed with London police officers. I received a text from a friend asking if the fountain rumour in Trafalgar was true. As we made our way into the Square, I could see the foam coming out of the fountain. Someone had poured washing up liquid or washing powder into one of the fountains to make it foam up. Classic Scottish tomfoolery.

Into The Three Lions’ Den – Part Five

“They say England shall fall when the ravens leave the tower.
I want to be there shooting the ravens.”

I awoke on the sofa in a flat in north London covered in a thin layer of sweat. It was stifling hot throughout the night and yet, in another one of those situations where I didn’t think things through properly, I failed to consider getting up and opening a window. It was possibly for the best as the windows were closer to the floor than I was used to and I would only have ended up falling out and impaling myself on the fence below, probably landing at an unfortunate angle where the spikes burst through my vital organs and my boxer shorts flap open exposing myself to unsuspecting Muswell Hill public. I’d be more upset at ruining my Camera Obscura t-shirt than my kidneys if that were to happen.

As I rolled and swung my feet to the floor, my toes caught a cable which jerked an object on the table. It was a small electric fan. I reached over and flicked it on and it worked, giving my body a gust of fresh air. Turning it off, I stumbled forward in the direction of the shower where the cool tiles were welcoming on my feet.

Into The Three Lions’ Den – Part Four

It was the summer of 1996 and the expanded European Championships were held in England, and Scotland had qualified for what was, and sadly still is, only their second appearance at these finals. As fate would have it, both were drawn in the same group alongside Switzerland and The Netherlands. It would be the first time that our nations would meet since 1989 where the regular fixture was abandoned due to too much violence. By 1996, the ‘English disease’ as it had been dubbed during the seventies and eighties had largely been repaired, although not cured entirely. The tournament would pass off relatively incident-free, aside from an organised fight in Trafalgar Square as well as a stabbing of a Russian national by an English crowd who thought he was German and, err, a bomb blast courtesy of the Provisional IRA. We were still a further year from the peace process, after all.

Looking at the fixtures, I didn’t care if we got clogged by the Dutch and rolled by the Swiss, just as long as we could beat England. Even if I had gotten that wish, Scotland would have exited at the group stage (as they do every tournament), I viewed it as more important to beat them. Looking back now, my views have changed and I would much rather progress and do well in tournaments. Because that’s what it’s all about.

Into The Three Lions’ Den – Part Three

The following year, I travelled by bus down to London. The dreaded night bus. I have a problem sleeping unless the conditions are right. Primarily, I need to be horizontal. I can’t sleep sitting or even slightly reclined unless on the very brink of comatose sleep deprivation. An eight hour bus journey leaving Glasgow at 11pm did not look appealing.

Around 2am and after trying to get comfortable in the seat to no avail, I took the decision to lie on the floor. It at least looked like it was clean. Sort of.

Putting my jumper down as a pillow, I managed to fall asleep despite the best efforts of the bus shaking it’s way down the M5. I awoke to the sounds of people stepping over my skinny body as I lay on my side trying to take up as little room as possible. We hadn’t arrived but had stopped over in Birmingham for a break. I decided against getting up and pretended to still be asleep until I did succumb for another brief period of slumber.

Into The Three Lions’ Den – Part Two

My first trip to London was only a fleeting visit as my destination was Southampton, of all places, the edge of country and rather far away from Glasgow. A journey of self-discovery that everyone should take, even if the destination is not the most striking. After arriving at Stansted, I travelled by bus to Victoria station where I wandered about and bought a ticket for the train further south.

Approaching one of the platform staff members, I asked when the next train was. Why I didn’t ask at the time of buying the actual ticket, I don’t know. He pulled out a paper timetable booklet and ran his finger along the page. “16.40”. I pulled out my phone and checked the time on it. It was an hour away.

Into The Three Lions’ Den – Part One

“The world careers like a speeding train
That never will return again
Its destination is coming fast
Its frantic journey is its last” – The Voice, 1965

I’ve never taken the train down to London before. My relationship with The City has always been a fraught and difficult one. While I’m sure that there are decent people down there, my impression of the place has always been of yuppies with pristine, angular haircuts, pressed suits and a dry-cleaning bill equivalent to what I pay in rent. I’ve never really liked the idea of dry-cleaning. What am I paying for? Someone to run a cotton bud over my clothes and spray it with an air can? Fuck that, if I want my clothes clean, I’ll stick it in the washing machine at 40 degrees. My idea of dry cleaning is picking up a shirt from the night before and wapping it downwards in the air a few times.