“Here’s wishing you the bluest sky, and hoping something better comes tomorrow”

I’m not going to do this issue any disservice by blaming my fluctating hormones, pre-Christmas blues or the exhaustion of being halfway through a nightshift offering advice to drunken morons.  On my happiest day, in the best moment of anything, reading this article would have reduced me to tears.  Thank God I insist on some balanced media coverage, and have gone beyond my lazy habit of getting all my news from the Guardian, or I might have missed out on reading about this year’s Sunday Times Christmas Appeal.

Many persuasive words have already been written about the need to support young carers, as you would have seen in the links above, and none moreso than those of these amazing people who provide this service in the face of continuing adversity – sacrificing their own time and money to support children who don’t deserve to have their lives be so bloody hard.  I feel for the parents too, their own frustrations and guilt about relying on their children, asking more of them than you would reasonably expect of anyone so young.    Does it resonate more because the centres and the children they discuss are mere miles from where I grew up?  For me, Kilmarnock is associated only with not going to away games in the winter due to notorious roads (the A77 I think?) and the best pies in the Premier League.   How flippant when you consider this, right?

It’s vaguely personal I suppose, although I was never a carer as such.  Living with a seriously ill parent does take a toll on the family as a whole, especially through restrictions from what all the ‘normal’ people seem to be able to do.  Can’t stay out past nine because you’ll cause a panic attack, can’t make noise in the house because you’ll cause a ‘flaky’.  I can’t imagine how much worse it would be without the other parent to bear the brunt of it, to be doing the cooking and housework far beyond what they teach at Brownies, when you’re asked to do so much more than just making a daily trip to the shops for essentials. 

These kids need and deserve support, regular breaks, a chance to be kids at all.  If you have any money to spare, or if you were thinking of getting me a card or small gift this Christmas, I would sincerely prefer if you directed the funds here.   instead. 

“Then the Neds, with their knuckles and their Burberry scarves”

What a fucking heartbreaker.

It doesn’t make it any easier, knowing beforehand.  You can see it coming days and weeks, even months before.  You cringe through the buildup, knowing it can only end one way.  Doesn’t matter how much you preach cautious optimism, telling yourself you’ll see how it goes, you’ve been wrong before.

But those Italian bastards will only go and prove you right anyway.  If Gordon Brown is any kind of Scot (and here’s me of all people, lecturing on Scottishness) he’ll give Romano Prodi the finger next time he sees him, never mind a diplomatic handshake.   Not that Scotland played brilliantly, but you can’t help hoping.  Remember after all that we were supposed to have been gubbed by almost everyone in the group by this point and out of contention before Easter.  To be up against the world champions (albeit undeserving ones as I see it) in a do or die match is nothing short of miraculous.  I might even forgive Big Eck for taking Motherwell from Europe to near-relegation before c0cking off to Hibs.

Surprisingly, I’m not bitter.  Scotland have had their Euro 2008 already.  No competition in the summer could match this qualification campaign for highs, lows and country-rocking drama.  Compare to the other Home Countries – England might scrape through on Wednesday but their sheer lack of lead in the collective pencil will make it a dire encounter regardless.  Wales and Ireland stuffed it up again without really distinguishing themselves, and Norn Ireland I think might have a chance still if David Healy, maths and the footballing Gods all stay on the same side for once.  Really though, what could Scotland have done in Austria next July that would compare to mortifying France?  (TWICE).  Scottish football has promise again, funnily enough at a time when the English Premiership is being lambasted for resembling the United Nations more than a country of Yorkshire and Merseyside and all the rest.

I was greetin’ my way through the National Anthem, and to be honest I knew then that we were doomed.  It was worth it though for those ninety minutes of thinking ‘maybe’, to hear the stadium rattling with the sheer force of singing, albeit through my telly.  ‘Mon tha Scotland, there’s still a World Cup in 2010!

(oh, and it was NOT a free kick, but what can you do?)

No, but it was a very ironic Chardonnay.

Someone just said “toodle-oo” to me without a trace of irony.  I love posh people.  Especially drunk ones.  Everyone calling us is very polite and grateful tonight.  It’s either the soothing effect of pretty firework colours, or there’s ecstasy in the drinking water again.

With that I shall retreat into my partially-Nano-caused-silence, since the world has to work a little bit harder at deserving to have me in it, quite frankly.