You can have this one for free:
it is absolutely not coming home.
Not here, not to my house, at any rate. This next few weeks we’ll be saying sayonara to the kind of sofa banter we have been used to.
Because I’ll do everything it takes to ensure no Englishman sleeps soundly under my roof this summer. William Wallace facepaint, hen. Compulsory.
“We’re Scots. We don’t honk on about there being nae fish n chips, or pictures of His Maj lying about, and we don’t bring up the war.”
But enough about them, how about us?
That’s right, the Tartan Army are on the march. Kilts floating, saltires waving, bonnets perched, cans secured. And it looks like our boys are a hit with the locals already / we’re making friends already.
You see, unlike the English, we embed ourselves in the local culture, and get to know our surroundings.
We don’t honk on about there being nae fish n chips, or pictures of His Maj lying about, and we don’t bring up the war.
No. We just stick to the here, the now and readily verifiable achievements.
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Anyway, let’s face it, when it comes to a big football tournament, it’s no Scotland, no party, right?
Get into them Scotland!
